I enjoy reading good travelogues. Jim Soliski's DOES YOUR METER WORK? is a funny, interesting first-hand account of his bumming around South-East Asia after saving up money teaching English. He visits the Philippines, Cambodia, Vietnam, India, Sri Lanka, Thailand, and a few other places.

One informative chapter is entitled HAND JOB PARK.
Each day spent in present day Vietnam includes the following conversation from a cyclo driver:
You....YOU...MAN...where you go? You want cyclo?
No. Go away.
You. YOU! MASSAGE? Fucky? I take you. Where you go?
Cyclo drivers know what men want; they just lack a little diplomacy. However, native Vietnamese men generally don't have the money for the full service, so they have their own place to park.
Now, back up in history.
During the 19th and 20th centuries, the French took a crack at their own little empire, for the most part failing, but they still managed to leave behind a few reminders of their sojourns into Indochina.
Two magnificent keepsakes, a Catholic Cathedral and the Post Office styled in grandiose Old European flavor out in the center of Saigon. Behind the Cathedral is a green area two blocks square.
Back to today.
You'll find leafy old trees, weedy grass that always needs cutting, iron benches, and vendors who sell snacks, smokes, and postcards during the day. Next time you see that old footage on History Channel of North Vietnamese tanks crashing through the gates of the palace, and soldiers erecting a flag to signify the fall of Saigon, look behind the smiling victors and you'll see the park.
Beginning early evening after sundown, you'll find ladies sitting by themselves scattered about the park benches. Soon, a horny toad joins one, pulls down his pants, puts an arm around her to get real close, and she leans over. Any further movements come from the girl's arms. Facing the park with their backs to the street is their attempt at discretion. I sat waiting one night for a friend to never arrive and, upon my eyes from across the two-lane street, in less than an hour, a girl pulled four tricks.
During each trick, pedestrians passed by at a consistent canter, others slowed to a crawl for a quick peek-a-boo over a shoulder, then carried on leaving the pseudo-lovers to carry on.
The first three clients didn't last long. No sooner were they done, the girl jumped to her feet and walked to another bench with her tote bag over her shoulder and tissue paper wiping and cleaning her hand...you do the math. The men bolted equally quickly, fastening their britches as they went.
Not atypically, rain exploded with the usual marble-sized droplets. While everyone scrambled for shelter in restaurants and beneath the overhang of buildings, our little enterpriser whipped out her fluorescent yellow rain poncho and remained open for business. A young man bicycled up, peered inside her tightly drawn hood, spoke a few words, then they assumed the position. The giggling audience of vendors, women, children, and whoever found themselves staying dry, loved it.
Her little shoulders went up and down and up and down - he wouldn't pop. Twice, like a boxer sitting in her corner between rounds she stopped, then her bell would ring and she'd be back into the business at hand. Finally, she relented and they were none too happy to move on in their respective directions, soaked to the bone. The guard who I'd made friends with over the weeks reported fees for services rendered in Hand Job Park at 5,000 Vietnamese dong ($1USD = 12,5000VND). (Book was published in 2004.)