When I love it the most

Over a year ago, I went to Sydney Australia in part to see how it would feel to work in a decriminalized environment. What would freedom taste like? Here’s what I wrote about it on May 9, 2009:

It feels like mad power, like bliss, greed, glee, defiance, strength, skill and pride. Like the nervous giggling when I first stripped that turned into calm assuredness when I saw my first client’s mouth fall open in awe. Gotcha.

That’s the fun thing about sex work. It’s a power game and I’m always perfecting my skill, working on my game. The goal is to be able to create just about any effect I want — from lust and trust to generosity and deference. Whatever. I want to the one that comes out on top. I love sex work because I love power. I love the way it tastes, smells, looks, feels, sounds.

The Taste: his cigarettes at the end of the booking. He’s offered repeatedly during the call but I only accept at the end and I know he’s grateful to share this with me.

The Smell: Of cash money. Crisp new bills have their own scent. Stale cigarette smoke and perfume in the girls’ room.

The Look: It’s one that never lets go. The look that says I Want You. That says fuck. That laughs and winks and sparkles.

The Sound: “Hi handsome, what’s your name?” The soft burn of his cigarettes as I look at him across the bed. “Oh my god you’re beautiful” or, anxiously “how was I?“. Katy Perry and MGMT on the client lounge speakers (a godsend for flagging energy at 5 am).

The Feel: When I run my fingers over his chest, down his thigh, kiss his cheek and then — only then — ask for more money. Of squeaky-clean skin from showering up to 10 times in a night. Relief that there is somewhere I can fully express my lust for power and money. The sweetest laughter, sharing stories about the night before with other queer hookers.

A few notes on anti-racist sex work organizing and the prison industrial complex

On December 12 2009 I graduated from the Anne Braden Anti-Racism Training for White Social Justice Activists in the San Francisco Bay Area, California. It has been an unbelievably valuable experience, heart wrenching, incredibly inspiring, just one of the best damn things I’ve ever done. The program consists of weekly classes, a placement with an organization working for racial and economic justice as well as a mentorship from another white anti-racist organizer (mine was the inimitable Amy Sonnie). At the closing ceremony, I gave this speech on what I learned about anti-racism and sex work organizing from being placed with Critical Resistance, Oakland. There is so much more to be said about this, but this is what I did with my five minutes. Feedback warmly welcomed.

A few notes on anti-racist sex work organizing and the prison industrial complex

Hello everyone, my name is Juliet November and I am a sex worker and sex work organizer from Toronto Canada and as of a today a very proud graduate of the Anne Braden Program.

I’d like to begin by recognizing that we are gathering on Ohlone territory and extend a special welcome to my friends and family who’ve come from Canada to be here today and to my sex worker comrades in the audience.

I chose the Anne Braden Program because I wanted to deal with the the ways that I have seen racism and white supremacy divide and destroy our movements and squander our ability to work together eye-to-eye and arm-in-arm. In short, I watched racism painfully and repeatedly fuck things up and completely frustrate my desire to see justice, kindness and peace in my lifetime.

I became a sex work organizer about five years ago when I found out about the mass murder of dozens of sex workers in Vancouver, Canada where my family lives. All were poor and street-based workers, most were aboriginal. I am here today fueled by a very specific goal: to see sex workers stay alive.

So I came to the Anne Braden Program to find out more about what it would take to create safety, justice and self-determination for sex workers who were made disposable through systems of colonialism, white supremacy, capitalism and patriarchy.

I grew up poor but spent six years in university and this really only went so far in helping me learn about white anti-racist organizing (ha!). I wanted access to the theory, ideas and histories of anti-racist organizing, but I also wanted to go do it by learning from organizers working primarily in communities of colour.

One of the very unique things about the Braden program is that it includes a placement in an organization working for racial and economic justice. I asked to be placed with a prison organization because of how criminalization affects every aspect of sex worker’s lives–but in particular sex workers of colour–and I wanted to better understand how i could support and build a kick-ass powerful movement with sex workers of colour.

Catalyst staff matched me up with Critical Resistance, an 8 year old national organization committed to ending society’s use of prisons and police as a solution to social problems. CR challenges the belief that caging and controlling people makes us safe and instead, believes that basic necessities such as food, shelter, and self-determination are what really make our communities safe and healthy.

Critical Resistance has 6 chapters across the country and the Oakland chapter’s work includes working to stop prison expansion, to end discrimination and provide re-entry services for those returning home from prison, advocate for government investment in communities not prisons, to produce a bilingual newspaper called The Abolitionist written by prisoners, former prisoners and community advocates and to correspond with hundreds of prisoners who write in each month to CR, seeking support, resources, connection and hope.

And that’s where I began. Every Wednesday, I would go into the CR Oakland office to read and respond to prisoner mail. Sometimes I would provide information about legal services or pen pals, I would send out copies of The Abolitionist or books. Through this, I helped build relationships with those most directly affected by punishment and prisons, inviting them and their families to become part of the movement to end what we call the Prison Industrial Complex. Mostly I offered hope that there were those of us working to transform the systems that led to their criminalization and imprisonment.

For those who are new to this concept of the Prison Industrial Complex–or PIC–it refers to a system situated at the intersection of governmental and private interests that uses policing, surveillance and prisons as a solution to social, political, and economic problems. It depends upon the oppressive systems of racism, classism, sexism, homophobia and transphobia.

I remember my first day at CR, sitting down at a little desk with prisoner letters in front of me. I didn’t know anyone in the CR office yet and I was a bit nervous. What would I learn? Would I do a good job and be useful? would people like me?

Despite my nerves I showed up every week and offered to help. Slowly the CR staff began to connect to me into other projects and rely on me for other help and support as needed. If i came in and the development director needed signs for the fundraiser, I made some signs. Or called the phone repair guy. Or typed up the notes from the town hall. Or talked about relationship dramas over lunch. I just did what was needed to the best of my ability. It wasn’t very fancy and it was fabulous.

Because actually this is the work. And in doing so, in just showing up and offering to help, I learned critical lessons that have already changed the way I organize.

First, I learned about hope and vision–my heart was so unburdened when I first understood that the tragedy of the PIC, the violence, labour exploitation, isolation and white supremacist capitalism underlying our prisons and policing are not necessary and not inevitable. That what we know in our gut and hearts is true: punishing people does not keep any of us safe, or heal us when we’ve been harmed, prevent harm or hold the those who’ve harmed us accountable.

AND THEN–this is the really exciting part– through the course of my placement, through conversations I had with CR staff and other volunteers over morning coffees, through the  Town Hall and chapter meetings, it finally got through to me that we already have the tools we need to creatively respond to harm together, to heal, to transform and to prevent violence. We. You and me. The folks in this room and the folks currently locked up. I really didn’t know this: we can do it!

If I am taking anything away from my 4 months working with CR it is in the astonishing power of vision. Critical Resistance is rooted in a big bold vision of a fair and just society, and in practice what that looks like is concrete grassroots community organizing where we are always learning from each other by working together on the immediate problems our communities face. I realized that it is vision that keeps us going and sustains us through the hard times, that brings us back to working together when we are angry, demoralized, when we totally mess up and when we want to give up on each other.

Like most folks, I saw the criminal legal system as a necessary evil. When someone hurts us, what else are we gonna do? What other choice do we have? I needed to see how communities, primarily communities of colour who are the most negatively affected by the PIC were coming together to find solutions to harm and violence that don’t do even more damage. Because as Audre Lorde put it, the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.

So as an organizer, I’ve gone from feeling bitter resignation about the inevitability of policing, prisons and punishment to feeling totally inspired that we can definitely develop the solutions we need to keep ourselves safe without relying on the very systems that criminalized and endangered us in the first goddamned place.

How could we not search for alternatives when aboriginal women in Canada represent 3% of the population and 29% of the prison population? When 25-30% of sexual assaults on sex workers are committed by police? When a serial killer could hunt women for over 20 years until he had killed up to 59 of them while the police did nothing as our sisters disappeared year after year after year?

To quote Rachel Herzing of Critical Resistance: Shit is complicated. I learned that if we want sex workers to stay alive, we have to actively confront the ALL systems that oppress and endanger sex workers lives: colonialism, white supremacy, capitalism and transphobic patriarchy and how those lead to a lack of housing, economic opportunities, health services and so and on.

And because what endangers our lives are broad systems, we have to form broad alliances with allies working across multiple issues. Seeing how Critical Resistance works in coalition with dozens of organizations helped give me a vision of safety, justice and self-determination for all that includes those who’ve done us harm or that we’re in conflict with. From corresponding with prisoners I learned how we box people into this category of “criminal” and from there, no longer consider them worthy of human consideration, of value, of love or of hope for transformation. In short, disposable.

But we’re all in this.

And it is in that sense that I feel most connected to the sacredness of this work, this very ordinary work of making signs or meeting with a new volunteer or answering a prisoner’s letter. This is sacred work because it binds us to each other’s humanity, in resistance to the ways that white supremacy has ruptured our deepest desires for connection and dignity. We are all in because we are all worth our lives. All of us or none.

I want to finish by thanking Catalyst for the incredible work they have done to create the relationships with the organizations we partnered with and to the Braden Leadership Team who supported our work at each step of the way, and finally the folks of Critical Resistance, who taught me so much, who blew my mind, and who so warmly welcomed me in.

in love and solidarity, thank you.

Gifts

Tonight’s gifts–a pomegranate and a ONEHUNDREDANDTWENTYDOLLARTIP after very genderqueer sex with a man who REMEMBERS (and can discuss) the founding of Israel.

Past gifts: an organic tomato, an eyeglass cleaner, a backpack full of sex toys I couldn’t use (they weren’t sterilizable), massages, IT help, political analysis and history, cocaine, laughter, orgasms, power and deference, the sound of adrienne rich reading her own poetry, a refuge from queer drama and heartbreak, adoration, a lift across the country, moments of remarkable intimacy and cigarettes.

Post script, Dec 18/09. An update on gifts from my regular: the Communist Manifesto (for real), a cherry pie and a bottle of organic lube.

I mean, that’s kinda all you need right?

p.p.s. Again with the fucking crazy gifts! Tonight: a certificate for a 3 hour segway tour of San Francisco. For serious! Plus, a little more tradition: a box of chocolates and (it’s never *really* normal) a bag of peanuts and 2/3 of a pie.

Gold Plated Ho (from July 2008)

This is a piece I wrote just over a year ago when i had just started working in Australian brothels and the money was plentiful, partly because i had the energy to work 12 hour shifts that ended at 9 am and pre-recession!

Gold Plated Ho

I am one godamned successful prostitute. In only 3 weeks i’ve hauled in over $5000 cash. That’s big money. It’s so much money in fact that it requires a serious re-think on my priorities. I’ve had to ask myself questions like: how much money do I WANT to make? In an economy of such plenty, how much is “enough”? Are there dreams that previously seemed out of reach?

My goal was to raise another $3000 in Oz–enough to keep me traveling for a many more months. I blew past that goal after 2 weeks and I’m now considering my next steps. It’s strange to face the decision about whether to just keep milking this cash cow or get out of Sydney and actually travel. y’know, the great barrier reef! The outback! Melbourne night life!

Imagine asking yourself “Hm, is this queer dance party worth a thousand dollars to me?” because that’s what it costs me not to work on a Saturday  night. I’m going on a 3 day buddhist retreat this weekend and will be trading off about $2000 to do it. That’s bizarre. TWO THOUSAND. I can’t think about it too much or i’ll never leave the house again except to work. Instead, i need to focus on the other things i like about life. I will likely go to Melbourne early next week but i’m certain to come back for one last go at the Sydney brothels before i leave Australia. Money isn’t the only thing—but it sure is nice to have the luxury to decide that.

Did i mention that this is SLOW SEASON? Mother of god! it’s raining $50 bills! Lady friends, should you decide that you’d like to take care of that student loan of yours or finance the vegan bakery you’ve always wanted to open, they’re hiring. I’m not kidding. I’ll help you find a place to stay and give  you the name and number of the owner at my brothel. I have never had to show ID or be registered in any manner. Just get on a plane and come cash in. A tattooed, pierced mohawked dyke friend of mine dropped by to pick me up yesterday and the receptionist said to her “just let me know if you want to work!” Much can be accomplished with a wig and a tube of mascara.

At about 4 am on my last shift, the brothel owner Johnnie jokingly called me ”the mercenary” and said i was his perfect employee. And i am. I’m friendly with everyone, create no trouble, follow the rules and simply do my best to make heaps of money for both myself and the house. Clients love me. If the brothel is busy and i’m feeling “on”, I’m a stone cold money maker wrapped up in an $8 second-hand babydoll slip. The blonde highlights, heels, nails, tan, friendly smile and “cute canadian accent” are all carefully designed to extract the maximum amount of money possible while still providing a friendly and competent service with a smile. It’s a winning combination and as the receptionist put it: “there’s no way for you NOT to make money tonight is there?” Nope.

But it’s all about finding the right brothel where i feel comfortable, relaxed and supported by the staff and other girls. Then all I have to do is show up, smile and make heaps of money. One night I tried another brothel in ”the entertainment district” and hated it, making only $500 in a place that was all bad vibes. But at this one, I’m on fire. This kind of money won’t last because eventually I will not be The New Girl and new girls always make the most money. Still, it’s amazing to be able to experience access to this kind of wealth.

I love sex work. Specifically I love being a prostitute. I don’t know if there’s any other form of sex work i’d enjoy as much as this one. Sometimes I’ll catch myself in the mirror while some guy is sniffing coke off my ass and smile. It can be such a riot, especially for someone like me who isn’t even remotely tempted by the drugs and alcohol on offer and enjoys the adventure. Every single booking is different and because i need to stay on my toes and “manage” the experience, I’m forced out of my head and into the moment—unlike much other work i’ve done where I might be planning, researching, writing or ruminating on something for weeks or months. When i just stay present and ride it, i find there are so many unexpected moments of humour, tenderness and always, always learning.

In general, clients are agreeable and a bit nervous. Sometimes they’re excruciatingly polite and usually they need to be reigned in at least a bit. Working with other women—which is illegal in canada—makes it all so much easier. If the guy is known to be a bit pushy, they’ll tell you. If he’s an easy and generous client, they’ll tell you that as well so you know that you can let down your guard a bit and offer him perks. The women i’ve worked with have been nurses, grandmothers, single moms (lots), students, activists and addicts. They come from Britain, Japan, Malaysia, Thailand, India, Jamaica, Canada, Vietnam, Samoa, are Maori New Zealanders and of course, rural Australia. Some of them are keen to befriend me and show me the ropes and some just want to watch Big Brother and smoke.

Drew

Every shift surprises me in the most delightful ways. Often it’s the last booking. I think it has something to do with the night—as it gets later, the world gets a bit less predictable. As with the experience i wrote about in my first post, I had decided that it was time to call it a night but figured i’d squeeze in just one last booking. It was after 5 am but the brothel still had plenty of clients and at that point only two of us were still working. I’m guaranteed to keep making money but more than that, I’d be doing the house a favour. “Only a half hour booking” i told the receptionist.

A skinny, white indie-rock bike courier named Drew booked me immediately. With his thick beard and chunky black glasses, he was the kinda guy you’d see at your local independent coffee shop smoking cigarettes and talking bike shit with other dudes. He asked for an hour and the receptionist glanced at me. Sure, i shrugged. What’s the difference between going to bed at 7 am or 8 am after all?

I was quietly warned that Drew could be a bit obnoxious so as we got to the room, I addressed and corrected any attempts he made to subtly exert dominance. With a guy like that you have to let them know who wears the pants straight away—even if your “pants” are lacy undies from the Victoria’s Secret sale bin. I’ve become a pro at retaining all my fierceness while naked. It seems to have worked for Drew because the poor guy fell in love.

After or first hour he said “i really like you!” We had just discovered a mutual love for Elliot Smith’s music while lying in bed after having sex. He actually grabbed me to his chest in a big hug though i didn’t yet understand why. We spent the second hour listening to songs on his ipod and talking about bands, at which point he said “shit, i adore you”. In the third hour, we talked about bikes and cycling and he cursed his misfortune at having met me at a brothel.

“I’m a bit heartbroken” he said as he went to light another cigarette. Why? i asked. “Because i know I’ll never see you again.”
I didn’t know what to say. I liked Drew well enough and could see us hanging out in his apartment, listening to vinyl and talking about movies. I thought about giving him my number but then imagined the moment where i’d have to remind him that there was no way I’d sleep with him (or even kiss him. That’s $50 on TOP of my hourly fee) unless he came to visit me at work and paid for it. And that would be weird. So I said “i’m sorry hon, but you fell for a hooker.”

“yeah. I know” And he sat on the edge of the bed with this smoke. “Why can’t more girls be like you?!” he moaned. I smiled and shrugged. It reminded me that to some folks, i’m a serious catch.

All told he spent nearly a thousand dollars to hang out with me for 3 hours.We had sex once. How a courier can afford that, I don’t know. We lay in bed talking about love and friendship till he fell into a deep vodka-enhanced sleep. I showered, gathered my stuff and left a note buried in his messenger bag. I can’t entirely remember what i wrote—after that long without sleep my
memory goes and i was trying to write fast so Johnnie wouldn’t see me and  think i was making a private booking with a client — but i wrote something about how much i’d enjoyed hanging out with him and how while he was more than just a client, i never date clients. I told him that if i saw him in the hood (he lives near the brothel) i’d be sure to give him a hug.

Then I went downstairs to collect my end-of-night bonuses. Johnnie counted out my money and and we chatted about how i had managed to do so well: “it’s because you communicate with the clients!” he’d say over and over. This turned into an hour long conversation about why he opened the brothel, creating your own reality, about emptiness, death and drugs. Standing around in a towel at 10 am with a fistful of fifties, eating chocolate and chatting with a Chinese-Australian brothel owner—it’s these moments i love. The slightly surreal ones where I’m learning about someone i’d never otherwise never meet in a situation i never could have predicted. One of my favourite things about sex work was also my favourite thing about being a therapist—you never know what’s going to happen and if you are attentive and aware, the most amazing things can and will happen. That’s why i never touch any kind of substance while working. I want to be there for every minute of it.

I left to find a room to sleep in and a little while later I overheard Johnnie rousing Drew out of bed and getting him out of the brothel and into the chilly Saturday morning sunshine. I half hope i run into him so i can ask him if he’s listened to the bands i suggested.

It’s not entirely accurate to say that i don’t see clients. It’s that this kind of high-volume prostitution (5-8 on a busy night) renders me deeply uninterested in sleeping with cisgendered straight men, clients or not. Not because i dislike like them but because it would seem like a donation to the Dude Fund and i can think of plenty better places for my generosity. The chef does not want to cook on her day off, so to speak. So I’m straight-for-pay at this point. I’ve gotten crushes on a couple of Sydney girls recently but my sexuality is in some kind of limbo where I rarely feel lust. Strangely, I have felt celibate for months and that didn’t change when i started working here in Oz. All i seem to want to do with these crushes of mine is be near and hold hands. I haven’t gotten that close as of yet and it remains to be seen if I’ll want to take things to second base should i get the chance! Funny eh? here i am, a pro who hasn’t even managed to get a girl to hold my hand in months. I don’t see that changing anytime soon either. I expect to remain celibate-in-my-heart for a while. If I imagine my “main” crush right now, I can see her dimples perfectly and i feel a sort of sad-wrenching-happiness. She has a monogamous girlfriend. I haven’t asked her to hang out again because i couldn’t stand to be alone with her and not tell her how lovely and wonderful she is. Lovely and wonderful.

Okay friends, there ya have it. I spent the whole day in bed with my PJ’s on, writing this. I can’t resist pointing out that unlike sex work, writing on a laptop wrecks my body. I’m sore everywhere and in desperate need of a massage! Gee, how come when i tell folks i’m a writer they never worry about my health? Computer use is injurious and in fact, I’ll spend the rest of my life dealing with injuries i’ve acquired from it starting from my undergrad and continuing today. For some reason i’m much more careful about my health and my body while doing sex work.

I hadn’t thought about this until right now but I think I’ve internalized some judgments about sex work and feel a responsibility to be a ”good hooker” who is scrupulously careful with my body, my money and a perfectly cheerful and responsible employee. I.e. a good girl. I’ll have to  think about that.

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this or other stuff. Y’know. just how you’re doing and your thoughts n stuff.

in love,

Born Whore

ps undying love to Scarlet Alliance, the aussie sex workers association. The prez E totally hooked me up with work here in Sydney including explaining my rights in the workplace and how to maximize my earning potential. Go solidarity go!!

pps. About a month after I wrote this, someone finally told me that “prostitute” was unacceptable to the sex working community of australia. Slowly the word has faded from my vocabulary.

Pussy addicted

Last night a client told me that he has an addictive personality and that he’s worried he is “pussy addicted” right now. “Which after cocaine is the second most expensive addiction”. I could see he felt some concern about it. He’s older and needs a new bed but says it’s “really expensive” though he’s blown $1400 USD on me in the last month ($1750 in total including the money he paid to another woman the time we had a threesome).

It’s such a strange life. I want his money obviously and it’s his prerogative to spend on me how he likes but it’s standard for me to to stoke the fires of my client’s desire with flirty texts after the booking that remind him of me and make him feel connected to me. I actually do have quite a nice time with him and feel lucky to have him as a regular. But we both know that without the money, I will disappear.

From the McDonald’s worker who saves up for months to the exec who uses his company’s gold card, guys will spend mind-boggling amounts on sex. Money is a tangible form of tribute and kindness and I’m reminded everytime how important I am to them. So what are my responsibilities? What does it mean to be an ethical hooker?

Other workers out there: would you ever, have you ever minimized your earning on behalf of a client?

How do you feel about being so worshipped that guys will spend money on your service before paying for their own essentials?

Is it a sign of internalized patriarchy that I’m even asking this question? As though I don’t just deserve the balancing out going on here (the client I’m talking about was a powerful (though staunchly left wing) politician who reaped the benefits of his white maleness over the course of his life).

Good morning from San Francisco.

Juliet

ps thx Auletride for your comments on NYC Tricks. Using the term “masseuse” sounds like a genius strategy for communicating to those in the know and staying stealth to those who aren’t. I will most definitely be trying that one out.

Starting here: the abuses of the anti-trafficking movement

The final count on “Sex Workers Against the Media” is in–we raised $733. Awesome–that money is going to these fierce ladies!

One of the things I am most passionate about but haven’t yet addressed at length in this blog is solidarity between Western sex workers and those from the global south. These are workers who are defined in Western media, in the (Western) public imagination and by (Western) NGO’s as all being actual or potential “victims of trafficking”. Not surprisingly, organizations comprised of sex workers themselves see things very differently but their voices are incredibly marginalized in the debates here in Canada and the US. Goddamned everyone thinks they can speak for sex workers, especially if they are poor women of colour.

I haven’t written here about solidarity with sex workers of colour from the global south because, like the issue of “safety”, the “anti-trafficking” discourse is so loaded that when I try to, I just end up furious and upset and ranting. Equally, I worry that I’ll fuck up and end up reproducing the patronizing attitude of westerners “rescuers”.

I have to start somewhere though! I will start by saying that I’m committed to supporting the autonomous organizing and leadership of sex workers from the global south (or poor nations, or “developing world” (eck) as it is sometimes called)–and mostly what they’re saying is that yo! the anti-trafficking “rescues” by the state and by Christian orgs have led to violence against sex workers, criminalization, arrests, deportations, deaths in custody and all sorts of havoc (like making it harder and harder to cross borders). Check out this video on SexWorkersPresent about the impact in Cambodia.

I’m thrilled to have just started a four month training in San Francisco called the Anne Braden anti-racism program for white social justice activists. Amazing eh? One of the things I hope to get out of the ABP is to further develop my ability to be a principled and effective ally to sex workers of colour, internationally. Already, after only one orientation weekend, my perspective is shifting, ideas are firing wildly and my heart is throbbing with the sadness that underlies all of my fury.

“The Beat: On the pain of lust”–reading this Sunday in SF!

I just arrived in San Francisco tonight and am so excited to be doing my first reading in this town on Sunday at the Centre for Sex and Culture. I’ll be reading “The Beat: On the pain of lust” from Hos, Hookers, Call Girls and Rent Boys with the ho literati of SF.

I’m psyched because in the piece I talk through some ethical issues I’m still really in the process of working out. The piece isn’t about sex work at all. I haven’t seen it in months but from I remember (!) it’s about a dance-floor spanking after a day at the Scarlet Alliance conference that sparked my thinking about desire, clinging and um, meditation. God that feels weird to say.

I’ll also be reading in LA in early September (at either a book store or the Hustler store in Hollywood). I’m looking forward to being on the same bill as supa-star Nina Hartley because Nina penned the only other essay I’ve ever read on buddhism and sex work by an actual sex worker and not some non-ho punk dude. It’s called Bodhisattvas Among Us and when I stumbled on it in SIN Magazine in Australia, I slurped it up quickly, mentally underlining passages that were particularly mind-blowing to me. (You can find the essay where it was originally published, in Tricks Or Treats).

If you are in either city, please come and say hello. Or just send some buddhist hos my way dammit!

Sex Workers Vs. The Media, Redux

I’m leaving Toronto for Vangroovy and San Francisco in like 4 hours! I will post a longer review of Sex Workers Vs. The Media here later (uh, maybe not while I’m staying at my grandmother’s house?) but wanted to quickly say that it went wonderfully! There are things I’d change, expand and improve upon but I was pleased with the packed house, the post-screening discussion, the high sex worker turnout (and that so many SW’s felt comfortable identifying themself in the discussion), the absence of technical disasters and the presence of amazing, competent and supportive volunteers. Folks I had never met before (and some of my best friends) turned up early to tape things, sign things, stack chairs, count things, plug things in and just generally be incredibly helpful. One dearest even pulled a homemade pizza in a ziplock bag out of his backpack, saying “I knew you wouldn’t have had time to eat”. AWWW!

I’ve seen the films 100 fucking times so it’s hard for me really feel affected by them but I’ve heard some really interesting stuff from folks who were there about how they felt about them. An audience favourite seems to have been Zinda Laash and I’m going to provide some links so you can see it yourself!

Zinda Laash (on Sex Workers Present TV)

The org we were fundraising for: Women’s Network for Unity

I really want to encourage folks to contact me with their feedback! What felt right? What felt weird? What would you have loved more of?

As for how I feel about it, I need some time for it to settle in. At every event I organize, my initial terror is “will anyone come?” So I spend the first week after an event just reeling from the relief that PEOPLE SHOWED UP. Beyond that, I think what I’ve realized is that my greatest pleasure came from creating a space that centred the voices of sex workers. A space where we (some? not all?) felt entitled to be celebrated, to use our language and references, to connect to other sex workers, to educate, challenge and support each other. I’m really just a total sucker for community solidarity. A domme who was new to town said to me “I just want to do whatever I can to empower this community!” Later I smiled to myself when I saw her exchanging contact info with various sex work orgs in town. I want to bring out the strength, love and PRIDE we have in our own amazingness! To the extent that I have done that–and will be sending heaps of cash to WNU–I have succeeded. More later!

NYC Tricks and SF Flicks

It was after dark and I was standing on the sidewalk sharing a smoke with the manager of the NYC hostel I was staying in (Marlborough menthols. God, the depths of debauchery). He’d been sneaking furtive glances at my cleavage for days and had all the markings of what a fellow whore and I term a “Total Client”. A TC is a guy you spot a mile away as

1. interested, and if he’s older, just a bit desperate

2. willing and eager to pay

Obviously, we really like TCs.They are hungry and old enough to be whore-broken, that is: polite, enthusiastic and agreeable about money. George was a perfect TC– Fifty and going through his second divorce. I’d gleaned from our sidewalk smoke conversations over the past three nights though that he was broke, what with the five kids and two ex-wives. 

As he walked back into the hostel to start his graveyard shift, a group of four gay men approached me. “Nice RED DRESS you SEXY BITCH!” one screamed. I smirked “And don’t I know it!” We high-fived as they passed me by. I looked down at my low cut red dress and how it fit snugly over my black lacy camisole. He had a point. It was all workin’ tonight. Hm. Now how to profit off this sexiness?

I got the idea to write George a note propositioning him. But what if he reacted badly and tried to have me busted? Or I intimidated him because I was too explicit? What if there was a knock on the door and he was telling me that they don’t like “my kind” here? Would he really be able to get away from reception to see me?

I sat on the tiny bed in my tiny hostel room with my heart racing. I decided these were all very unlikely scenarios and considered what I would do in the event that any one of them occured nevertheless. Then I had the thought that got me into this business and keeps me here still: What the fuck? It’s all about the adventure.

So, hands shaking, I wrote this note: “Hey handsome, I think you’re kinda sexy and sweet…and I’m kinda broke. If you’re interested in sneaking away for a little fun, I’d make it worth your while. Simple and fun, no? Come up to my room and we can talk… xx J.

I looked at my note and beamed with pride. I had flirted and flattered him, implied finances without incriminating myself, was sexually suggestive without being too overt and appealed to his desire for sex that didn’t come attached with custody agreements. Plus… lots of…ellipses=HOT SEX, RIGHT? Genius.

I went downstairs and passed the note to him over the counter with a wink before returning to my room. I didn’t hear anything from him for over an hour so I concluded that it had been worth a try and began to get ready for bed. I was standing in my room naked when there was a soft knock at the door. I smiled to myself and threw on a black vintage slip. “Well helloooo there George!” Bashfully, he whispered hello, telling me he only had half an hour but he really wanted to come see me. Delighted, I let him in. It’s so easy for me to be really nice to my clients. The fact that they are about to pay me for being a babe makes me really, sincerely, completely happy.

We began our negotiations. I could tell he was a regular client because he was the first to bring up money, knew he wouldn’t be kissing me and asked politely if he was allowed to touch me. Definitely whore-broken. As I suspected, he had very little money–only $100. Damn. I thought about whether to bother going ahead at all but then realized that while it may only be $100, it was still $100 that I’d rather have in my pocket. I proposed a hand job with above-the-waist-only touching. He nodded and handed over the twenties. We sat on the bed and as I got going, he chatted (more) about his ex-wives. Finally he closed his eyes, leaned back and moaned “God it’s nice to be touched again. It’s been so long.” It wasn’t the first time I’ve felt like the Florence Nightingale of handjobs.

He kept promising me that he’d save up so he could have a proper booking with me when I next return to NYC. We’ll see. Dudes like to promise things so you’ll like them more but I never count my twenties till they’re in my palm. We were done in ten minutes, all cleaned up and I sent him out the door with a big smile on both our faces. Nice way to make my ticket home!

San Francisco flicks

Days before, I had arrived in San Francisco and spent my first day in North America doing a Ho Marathon. I watched 10 HOURS of films at the SF sex worker art and film fest. I got to see some films I’m going to show here in Toronto next week at Sex Workers Vs. The Media (thanks to Carol-leigh, the fest organizer who generously loaned me her films and made curatorial suggestions). 

My favourite program was the one organized by Sins Invalid called Krip Sex! Krip Sex Work! Sins Invalid are “a performance project on disability and sexuality that incubates and celebrates artists with disabilities, centralizing artists of color and queer and gender-variant artists as communities who have been historically marginalized from social discourse”. OMG, they’re like everything I love in one slut-tastic package and I want them to rule the world.

I was especially excited about the work of Krip Hop artist Leroy Moore Jr. His films pulled no punches politically but while still being remarkably sexy. (One of the films depicts a performance where Leroy is doing a puppy scene. Hot…under…collar. I took very careful mental notes).

During the panel afterward, I was riffling through my purse for something when one of the SI organizers was talking about common experiences between sex workers and people with disabilities (who are themselves also sex workers). I stopped cold when she said “It’s as if both of us live with a permanent DNR (Do Not Ressucitate) above our heads”. 

Who…me? Us?

As much as I can, I try to protect my happiness by keeping the whore-hatred around me to a mininum. So I’m shocked when someone reminds me that yes, Pollyanna, some folks (many folks!) think my little Handjobs for Humanity gig makes me less than human, less valuable, less precious. How bizarre! Don’t they realize that I’m amazing? That we’re all amazing?

But I’m touched when that reminder comes from another who faces some of the same (and some verrrrry different) struggles to change how our lives are valued and who gets to make those value judgments. In that moment I felt like someone else had my back, that I’m not alone in this fight.

Now here I am in Toronto, enjoying my friends and trying to work (with okaaaay success). A BIG! LUSCIOUS! shout-out to my friend D who is letting me use her apartment for incalls and to T for the same. I’m so grateful to have the opportunity to work in way that is, for me, far and away the safest and comfy-est way to work outside of a brothel. Big hugs and sparkles from the Ho In The Sky Who Loves Us All.

Sex Workers Vs. The Media! July 15 Screenings in Toronto

Sex Workers Vs. The Media: Short films by sex workers about media

Wednesday July 15, 7 pm screening

The 519 Community Centre, main floor (click here for map)

Tickets $8-12 sliding scale (available at the door)

Free for sex workers

Wheelchair accessible. ASL Interpretation

The drug addicted street worker, the high class escort, the trafficked thai woman…

The media is always telling stories about sex workers–but what do sex workers think about the media? More and more sex workers both in Canada and abroad are creating media that reflects the realities, joys, complexities, humour and pathos of this incredibly diverse industry–and rejecting or satirizing the stereotypes we’re abundantly familiar with. Come here the stories sex workers flip the lens to reflect on themselves and the media itself.

This evening of short films from the US, Cambodia, India and Canada includes the Canadian premiere of In Our Image, a short documentary about the making of the sex worker run $pread magazine. These screenings will be followed by an audience discussion moderated by Kara Gilles, sex worker, activist and organizer of nearly 20 years.

Curatorial assistance provided by the San Francisco Sex Worker Film, Art and Music Festival

Sponsored by Maggie’s, $pread Magazine, Good for Her

FUNDRAISER FOR WOMEN’S NETWORK FOR UNITY, A COLLECTIVE OF SEX WORKERS IN PHNOM PENH, CAMBODIA

Information: Juliet November, julietnovember845@gmail.com,

 

Ho: Trans sex workers who make me squirm

“Oh my god, look at those hips. And lips like…candied apples. So…gorgeous”

And suddenly I stop myself, mid-reverie. I’m standing in a little student gallery looking (ok, gaping) at pictures that my friend Warren is exhibiting as part of a piece they’re working on called Ho: Trans SexWorker Photographic Project.

I’m confused partly because the subjects are my friends and suddenly witnessing their sexiness is a little unsettling. More importantly, I stop because these are folks whose trans masculinity I ordinarily find wonderful and delicious. Would they want me drooling over the femininity of their appearances (glossy lips, curvy hips and breasts)? Do I risk massively misrecognizing them in ways that reproduce the way that they (and transfolk in general) are misrecognized every day?

(but those lipsssss….)

I like the way that this project instantly forces me to confront my desire. I’m interested in the ways that desire is produced and when/if it can be politically liberatory. Actually, I’m completely obsessed with these questions and have spent the last ten years investigating them, both theoretically and with my body.

From a purely discursive perspective, “Ho” raises really exciting questions about the relationship between recognition, gender identity, performance, class and sex work.  And at a gut level, what excites me about Ho is how it instantly places me in the humbling role of “client”, just another punter, weak at the knees over a naked “lady”. I like being shifted into a slightly uncomfortable subject position–especially when it reminds me of how powerful I am when, with relief, I get to return to the other side. The ho. The naked lady with the ace (tattooed on) her sleeve.

What excites me even more about Ho is how it complicates and politicizes my lust. Can I judge some of my desires as politically oppressive and therefore unjust, wrong or unfair? And if so, then what?  What do we do with lust when it reinforces unethical, unjust social arrangements? (I haven’t concluded that my reaction to Ho does this, only that it serves to raise the question). Are clients wrong for the ways that they desire us? (e.g. the desire for whiteness, thinness, gender normativity, able-bodiedness?).  Am I wrong for seeing a babelicious lady instead of the transboy I know that person to be?

And if that is the case, what are we saying about the nature of desire? I don’t believe desire simply arises sui generis but nor do I think it’s forced onto us by the Invisible Hand of Power. The best ideas I’ve heard for working with desires is to experiment with them, at a body level. For me, that means less grad school wankery, more dressing up and fucking around. (thanks for the tip Foucault!)

I don’t have any conclusions about my desire for the hos in “Ho”. It has, however, made me curious about what it means to desire femininity and how in experimenting with this desire, I might get insight into the power of feminine genders. As a queer femme, I’m allllll over that.

So to take my own advice, this means I need to explore my desire for femininity more and admit that I think it’s fucking hot. As someone who’s lusted after queer masculinity for like, ever, this is a pretty exciting. If I’m gonna experiment with desire, I’m gonna do it responsibly (not tokenistically) and in my book, there is no more ethical way to explore desire than by paying for it

I’ll let you know how this develops.

It’s a fucking great project and Warren is still soliciting submissions. If you’re a trans sex worker who works in a gender you no longer identify with and wanna be an art star (you can remain anonymous as well), contact them via their blog.

These jugs just got alot more expensive

I’m working in Brisbane and it just keeps getting better and better. Kicking off at about 8 am this morning, I asked another worker at the brothel what she offered as “extras” and she told me that she gets $50 to let the clients TOUCH HER BOOBS. What? My face fell open. “That’s not included in your service*?”. I have a range of extras as well, the most popular being kissing. These are things I get paid for in addition to my hourly rate–but it had never occurred to me to charge extra for boob-access.

“Hell no. Also if he wants to see me come, he can pay $100 to go down on me. It’s the only way I orgasm.”
“And you use a dam?”
“Of course. It’s the law here”
“Huh…I charge $50 but you can get $100?”
“Absolutely. I used to give it away free but then I realized that if they want to see me genuinely orgasm, they can pay for it. And they do.” Looking resolute, she went back to brushing her hair in the vanity mirror.

Wow. Well that explains why so many of my Brisbane clients have asked if they’re allowed to touch my  breasts. Hallelujah for workers who are in a position to negotiate for EVERYTHING! Love it! The nice thing is that we keep all that cash ourselves–no splitting it with the house. Hell yeah! I should start charging them to smile: $50 for a polite one, $100 for the killer one they saw when I first hustled them in the client lounge.

(*we are paid to offer three things in a service: massage (we’re not talking swedish deep tissue here), oral sex and “sex” (by which they mean intercourse or as Andrea Dworkin was fond of calling it “coitus”, as in “all coitus is punishment”. Yeah, but for whom Andrea) .

Introducing Juliet November

I’ve started publishing under the name Juliet November and here is my debut piece in this month’s issue of The Walrus, (Canada’s national arts, politics and culture mag) about working in Australia. It’s short and a bit plain (unlike me!) but it’s also exciting to be talking to mainstream Canada about ho’ing.

It’s You I’m Afraid Of

 

“Aren’t you afraid of running into your clients?”

 

I hear some variation on “clients are scary dangerous creeps, you are always at risk of victimization” from just about everyone. It’s a wholly inaccurate but nevertheless totally pervasive stereotype. Stereotypes about my safety and the (completely misperceived) risks of my job are my #1 pet peeve about being a sex worker. In fact this drives me so crazy that I haven’t been able to publish anything about it until now. When I first tried, I came up with a furious 8 page manifesto. I’m gonna make that rant into a zine and in the meantime, here is the more mellow version of it—now only three pages and minus the analysis of the discursive construction of risk. (sounds exciting though eh?)

 

Meet My Client

He is a walk in the park. I’m a woman providing a hands-on service so yes, they’re sometimes annoying or demanding but mostly I have fun with guys who are sweet and amusingly different than anyone else in my life. What’s so scary about giving a handjob to a 22 year old virgin while talking about the economic theories of Milton Friedman? (That was Jonathan, client #2 last Friday night).

 

Clients are usually intimidated or at least polite and friendly. Some are outright worshipful. It can be a relief to spend time with someone who just hands their power over to me. I have something they want and can refuse to provide it. Perhaps unlike their wives or girlfriends, I set limits, refuse requests, make demands or sweetly manipulate the bill$ right out of them. Afraid of clients? Please. These dudes have just put down somewhere between $150-1000 in the hopes of having a nice time. At least they know that they can kiss their girlfriends. Whereas with us hos, ya never know. Some will break your heart with their beauty and tenderness, some will tell you to go fuck yourself for thinking you could touch their breasts. More than anything, clients desperately want you to sincerely like and desire them. For that and a host of other reasons, they are a bit (or very) afraid of us. I monitor and manage my client’s behaviour and I have no fear of them whatsoever. 

 

When I worked in Canada, I was definitely more nervous about doing outcalls where I couldn’t control or predict the environment. Because I knew sex workers who’d been assaulted, I was aware of the risk of violence—but I also knew it was a small risk. When I work in Canada again, I’ll likely do incalls as I know the risks are smaller. Here in Australia, I just don’t give it a second thought. I feel safe. I know that at some point I might have a physically coercive experience but my chances are much lower than if I were in nursing or home care—or married.

 

But no matter how many times I say “actually, clients are nice”, there remains this fundamental misunderstanding of who is a danger to me and other sex workers. It’s everyone but my clients that I fear. There is nothing intrinsically exploitative about sex when it’s paid and nothing intrinsically dangerous about our clients. I can’t believe I once bought into these bullshit myths! Good thing I started whoring anyways and found out for myself.

 

Meet The Rest Of The World

I come out to folks all the time. It’s one of the advantages of being a migrant worker—no one from home to deal with so more freedom. I love how coming out instantly and massively transforms the person’s ideas about sex workers—but it’s a seriously emotionally confronting experience. I couldn’t even begin to describe the shock people go through on finding out. Everything screeches to a halt. They don’t believe me, their eyes bug out and their mouths fall open, they can’t speak. It’s full on. The stronger their stereotypes about sex workers, the more intense the shock and disbelief. The funniest part is when I have to convince people. (“No, I’m serious. I really am a hooker.”)  Then the questions come…or worse, sudden silence. I’ve had people walk away.

 

So as far as “risk” goes, my non sex-working friends, lovers, activist communities, colleagues, doctors, journalists, and strangers I’ve just come out to are the real danger to me. It’s cops, government, whore-hatin’ abolitionist feminists and policy makers. It’s academics who think it appropriate to speak on our behalf, racist immigration officials who conduct raids to “rescue” (aka arrest) Asian women only, children’s “protection” agencies who take the kids of sex workers, public health officials who patronize us even though we practice safer sex than non-sex workers, it’s the dangerous benevolence of aid agencies like the UN who claim that migrant sex workers are incapable of consenting to sex work (!!!)

 

My friends, family and lovers—you are the most important people to me. It’s precisely because I feel so connected to you, because I value our relationships so much that this is where the real risk lies for me. If a client kind of annoys me, I forget about it minutes later. But what you think, say and do matters to me. A client has never refused to share a spoon with me because I might be contagious-dirty-ho or asked me if I find my work disgusting or degrading. Friends have. A radio interview once took me days to recover from. I’m still a bit irritated by comments that lovers made nearly two years ago and if my dad doesn’t email me back quickly enough I worry that he’s avoiding me because he disapproves (I came out to him last year).

 

Most of the time I feel amazingly supported and understood by the folks around me. I am so grateful that my friends get it (or want to get it) and I can relax and forget about how weird and alien I am to everyone else. How many hookers get to come out to their dad?! And queer sex workers—yesssss! I can come home and talk about work. I can make jokes about brothel “towel art” or scoring money for extras. It’s part the luck of being queer and part that I have crafted this community around me.

 

It’s You I’m Afraid Of

Folks want to be supportive but sometimes they don’t get it and that’s OK. I don’t expect people to know everything—I’m still learning too! But you should know that when you don’t get it, it can really sting or, I’ll be honest, irritate the shit out of me.

 

So it’s you that I sometimes protect myself from. It’s you who I will avoid or go silent with because I just don’t want to deal with how disappointed I feel. It’s you that I write for and to. It’s you that I want on my side. You are the ones who’s judgments, stereotypes, awkward silences and ill-informed questions I watch out for. It’s you I’m afraid of. 

 

On Being Safe 

I know you want me to be safe because you care about me. But when you say “be safe”, who do you think we sex workers need to protect ourselves from? Were you thinking about all the times we’re tokenized, treated like a pariahs, refused visas, criminalized, researched like a bug, had others speak for us, caricatured in the media, asked totally offensive invasive questions, had our sanity and humanity questioned, our skills erased and ridiculed, risked arrest, deportation, eviction and (in my family) the threat of losing child custody? Were you thinking about the burden of secrecy from my family, or how many times I’ve tried to refute the same stereotypes over and over, and what it’s like to be told by a friend that I’m damaged? Is that what you meant?

 

The Imaginary Victimized Sex Worker

Everyone (in particular people who see themselves as sex work allies) wants to find the Imaginary Victimized Sex Worker. If it isn’t me, it must be street workers or the underage or the addicted or the so-called “trafficked”. It isn’t. Think of the manufacturing or hospitality industry: some settings are good and respectful, some are shitty and abusive. But the concept of victims in need of rescue is never helpful. There are workers who might want better rights or conditions, on their own terms. The idea that sex workers are victims is the exactly how some of the worst abuses of sex worker rights—usually as perpetrated by that state—are justified and for that reason, talking about safety and danger is really loaded. Approach it thoughtfully.

 

I’m guilty of this too. When a sex work organizer told me about the brothels where mainly Thai and Chinese women work for much discounted rates, I immediately responded negatively. “oh, that sucks for them!”. “No, actually they do fine because at those rates, more clients come in”. And in that instant I could see how my racism and whore-phobia intertwined. Here they were—the Imaginary Victimized Sex Workers! And of course, they’re not white or western! Do I think the Chinese woman who offers cheaper pedicures in my neighborhood is victimized? No. I think that patriarchal racism plays a role in her skills being less valued than the expensive white-owned salons but I don’t erase her agency in choosing the best work for herself. I’m a privileged worker. This does not make me the only worker who fully consents to my work and is not victimized by my clients. In capitalist economies we all work within the limits on our consent.

 

High Risk Lifestyles of the Married and Cohabitating

What is demonstrably more dangerous than sex work is intimate partnership. Domestic violence is the number one cause of death and permanent disability to Australian women. So when your sister tells you that she’s moving in with her boyfriend, do you tell her to “be safe”? Would you refuse to have your friend’s wedding at your home given how you know domestic partnership to be a proven “high-risk lifestyle”? Would you let me work out of your guest room? Would you drive me to a call? Would you be my security back up without assuming I’m about to go see an axe-murderer? Would you be comfortable if my clients knew where you lived? If not, why not? If I could do any of this with a new lover but not a client, why do you think that only money makes these men dangerous? I’d like to hear your explanation.

 

I don’t love my clients but they’re fine. (Actually, the question of love is a complicated one but for now, we’ll keep it simple). They’re just like every other dude, except that they consider my time and sexual skill worth hundreds of dollars—making them in fact better than your average guy. Non sex workers sometimes insist that their brother/friend/teacher/boss would never be a client. They’re dreaming. That’s precisely who my clients are. So if you don’t fear them then you’ll understand why I don’t either.

 

Cunt at Rest: On Being A (mostly) Celibate Whore

This piece was written as a performance for Sharing Subversions/Unleashing the Beast, the opening party of Resurgence 2009 in Sydney, Australia.

Cunt at Rest:On being a (mostly) celibate whore

“So how does it affect your personal relationships?” she asks me on the car ride home from the meditation retreat. I’ve just come out to her as a sex worker and I take a deep breath before giving her my pat answer, an evasion I’ve been developing for years.

I can’t explain how I feel when I notice your smile and the way you laugh, how I steal glimpses of your lips while trying to pay attention to what you’re saying. How I silently observe the curve of your back when you walk out of the room.

And how when you ask me on a date or your hand comes too close to my waist, I think: above the waist! and squirm away.

******************

(phone rings)

“Hi Robert, have you seen a mistress before? Ok, well, I offer services ranging from tie and tease where we focus on light sensations, erotic role play, bondage and discipline, fantasy transformation as well as full service. What kind of session were you interested in booking?”

*******************

On our “we are so not crushing out on each other” cuddle date, my lips find the forest of baby fine hairs on your back. From where I’m spooned behind you (I’m always the big spoon) I sigh into the nape of your neck and taste the smell of your hair.

********************

I position myself at the end of the brothel bed between Andrew’s legs where he can’t touch me but I can use my hands on him. “Holy shit, I’ve never been done like this!” he says over and over. “Yeah well, that’s what you get when you come to a professional!” I laugh. Five clients tonight and three that I finish off without having to fuck.

******************

You lean into me and nuzzle into my neck. I kiss, stroke, cuddle and adore. Then wonder what are we “doing”?

*******************

Yoshi is shaking like a leaf, lying naked on the bed. I don’t undress but lie beside him and gently caress his chest with my fingernails. “I’m so Nervous!” he giggles. “ It’s ok. We can just lie here together.” He smiles and for the first time lets his shoulders sink into the pillow.

********************

One night she walks by and I nearly put my neck out checking out her ass. Later when she dances up all over me and I freeze and recoil from my desire for her.

********************

We’re snuggling on the bed—my bed—and you tell me how you have this strange feeling…”it’s like…” and as you struggle to find the right words, I think I know what you’re going to say…”it’s like there’s no expectation”. Or it’s like you feel validated by my desire. Or it’s like you finally got what you wanted without having to explain it all. Or occasionally, “it’s like sex with you feels healing” or ”liberating”. I know what you’re going to say because quietly, I’ve been paying attention to you. It’s not magic or an accident or just part of my personality. It was my intention.

Work traditionally provided by women is always made natural and invisible. Everything from knowing how to care for kids and tend a garden to how to hypnotize with fabric and liquid eyeliner is seen as normal, easy and natural for us women—not hard-earned and precious. Over the years, friends and lovers have taught me how to create intimacy, make space for love, counsel, seduce, flirt, reassure, orchestrate pleasure, be accepting, flexible, intuitive, read body language, open up, negotiate, communicate, validate desires and bodies, be knowledgeable about sexual technique, health and safety, maintain boundaries and turn on.

These are my skills-whether I’m with a client or with a lover. They don’t go away when I’m not being paid. I became a whore because meeting people’s sexual and intimate needs is my calling. Now that I do it professionally, I don’t need to be slutting my skills around every queer party, wondering who’s going to let me fuck them till they cry. The more I get paid for my services, the more valuable I realize they are and how for years I’ve put others sexual needs before my own.

Now I know that my sexuality is beautifully, expensively mine, our culture wants you to believe that the key to my mental health is fucking for free and that if I’d rather hold hands and kiss than than fist, it’s because sex work has damaged me, left me incapable of the full range of emotion, just a burned out shell of myself, too brittle to feel anything anymore, “addicted to money” and degraded because I “sell my body”.

My sensuality, my tenderness, my lust and my power are all still with me—but between those and you are these: 100% cotton, full brief, high waisted nana knickers. You want sexy little panties? You can pay for those! Today I am OFF DUTY. And “off duty” means no lacy black panties, no seductive smile, flirty giggle and my hand accidentally grazing your thigh. It means when I ask if you wanna hang out, I mean “little h” let’s have tea and actually hang out. It means I ain’t seducing you and I don’t care if you think I’m hot. I put on this dress, these heels, this lipgloss, for me. So I can walk past the mirror and mutter to myself “shit, I’m hot”.

And if I don’t believe me, if I start to doubt and wonder who I’m putting first, when I get tempted because you are so fucking cute, my reminder is always wrapped softly around my hips. Pastel, floral elastic waistbanded bundles of comfort. Not a border so much as a warm jumper on a cold day.

I think you’re delicious and lovable and adorable and wonderful. But sex is my service and I need time when I stop providing for others. I need time when sex becomes a completely personal relationship with myself. I need time when I rest—and this cunt is at rest.

(thx to pk for the phrase “cunt at rest”)

I’m lovin’ it

I’m at a new brothel *right now* borrowing the computer of this lovely young kenyan woman beside me. I just met one of the most mind blowing
clients ever. Y’know why? Because he’s a friendly young migrant to Australia (he’s Indian Sikh) who loves his job at mcDonalds. Seriously. I asked why and he raved about how much he loved the friendly competition between the two food prep teams and frying burgers. Like, the guy actually really loves to fry and prep burgers for $16/hour. Amazing. And people can’t believe I like *my* job!

I dedicate my heart: on violence against sex workers and privilege

(This was written for and read at an event my friend K and I organized to mark International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers in Sydney, Australia)

I wanted to mark International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers because late one night about two months ago I was in a bathroom in Newcastle and something reminded me of how I’d become a sex work activist.Sitting on the toilet seat, in the very still of the night after all the parties had ended, I began cry quietly so I wouldn’t wake the folks sleeping outside in the living room. My crying turned into sobbing. What made me a sex work activist are the 59 victims of serial sex work killer Robert Pickton.

I was walking down the street in Vancouver’s downtown east side one night. It was late summer, early fall and I had flown across the country for my yearly visit with my family. At that point my sister had been stripping and doing a bit of porn for about 6 or 7 years, ever since shortly after she’d given birth to her son. As I walked through the neighborhood notorious for having the highest rates of violence, poverty, needle use and HIV in Canada, I spotted a poster on a telephone pole with the pictures of dozens of women on it. It read: 32 Missing Women.

I stopped in shock. 32?! How had I not heard about this mass disappearance? I read the poster more carefully. The women were all from Vancouver’s downtown eastside. They were described as sex workers and drug users and many were first nations women. And they were all gone.

I looked at the dates when they were last seen. They’d been disappearing for years–over a decade.The poster had not been created by a special task force or the police. It was a home made poster made by a grassroots community group trying to find out where or what happened to these women.

Three thoughts raced across my mind:

1.Why hadn’t the media informed us that this was happening?

2. Why were the police not involved in the community appeal to find these women?

3. If this could happen to these women and no one noticed, what could happen to my sister?

I felt a shiver of terror run thru my veins. If she disappeared from the club on the way home one night, would anyone but us notice or care because she is just another single mom stripper with a mixed race kid?

Because these women—poor, sex workers, first nations women and drug users–were not reported on and their lives were not deemed worthy of police attention, and because maybe no one would care if my sister disappeared one night, i became a sex work activist that day. At the end of my visit, I flew back to Toronto, found a sex work advocacy group and promptly joined.

I joined because in that moment I realized that those in power don’t fucking care about us, about the women in my family. I knew they didn’t care about us when we were on welfare and couldn’t always afford to keep the heat on, had to move every year and I couldn’t afford lunch some days. When my mother was sexually harassed at work and my friends and I were violently sexually harassed in school. But that day I realized that with one false move, people might stop even caring if we lived or died. Because we are whores.

I am the second in 3 generations (that I know of) to have been born out of wedlock—a bastard. Of those 3 generations of fallen women, I was the first not to have a kid by 19. Whether we do sex work or not, we are whores, women with a lot of explaining to do. Women who’s sexuality is used against us every day in housing, policy decisions, on playgrounds and in schools. I remember how fellow passengers would frown at my 17 year old sister as she defiantly dragged her stroller on the bus. When i was a kid, that had been my mother.

I’m here because those women, the 31 which became over 50 and then it’s believed 59, (possibly over 60) before he was finally stopped, could be my family too. Because I think their lives were worth something. Because I can’t stop thinking about the fact that for at least a decade women were shot in the head or injected with windshield washer fluid, dismembered and their bodies fed to pigs on Pickton’s farm.

When the disappearances of these women were finally noted, they were invariably described as living “high-risk lifestyles which included prostitution” This concept of our work as “high risk” has always irritated the fuck out of me. It’s why until recently I felt some ambivalence toward this day because talking about violence against sex workers encourages people to think that i’m crazy to work in such a high risk profession and to completely stereotype my clients, none of whom have ever harmed me. I always cringed when sex work activists condemned the rapes, assaults, robberies and murders of street workers, thinking “but that’s not me. That’s not my experience at all.”

But over dinner one night at the Scarlet Alliance national Forum, an american sex work activist said to me “Dec 17 is where whores up privilege stand up and speak out against violence against those without”.

Suddenly I got it. I am a whore of privilege. Not everyone has my economic and racial privilege, my community support, my citizenship, my access to health care, education and housing, the connections to tell my story to friends, community and even some of my family and be listened to. Those women of Vancouver’s East Side are not here to tell you their stories. I can’t tell them either. But I can rage against their deaths, I can work to create change, I can work to keep it from ever happening again. I can be out, I can tell my story and provide a platform for others.

Sex workers die for our work. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be doing sex work. Out of the tragedy in Vancouver, came a strong movement to “rescue” women from the streets. I hate that i have to clarify this but because sex work can be dangerous (as can nursing or mining or being an athlete), we do NOT need help exiting or retraining or with our self esteem. We need solidarity and support achieving our own goals of continuing to work how and where and why we want, safely and happily, whether that’s to pay for a habit, rent or college.

It’s for the women who aren’t here today that I’m here. I wanted a space to mourn and to say to each one of those women: You mattered. I care that you disappeared. I think you were worth more than what happened to you. And it’s in your memory that I work. So I dedicate this night, I dedicate my heart my lungs my hands my feet, my brain my eyes my lips my ears to the murdered women of the Downtown Eastside:

To Marlene, Sharon, Angela, Elaine, Sherry, Cindy, Yvonne, Andrea, Heather, Nancy, Wendy, Marcella, Dawn, Sarah, Sheryl, Tiffany, Elaine, Sheila, Cara, Gloria, Cynthia, Jennifer, heather, Catherine, Rebecca, Michelle, Inga, Helen, Ruby, Janet, Tanya, Sherry, Angela, Patricia, Debra, Catherine, Kerry, Marie, Stephanie, Laura, Kellie, Jacqueline, Dianah, Leigh, Jacqueline, Lillian, Tanya, Sherry, Diane, Elsie, Ingrid, Dorothy, Theresa, Sharon, Kathleen, Olivia, Taressa, Frances and Julie.

With love, rage and respect.

–Born Whore