Co-conspirator Lusty Day and I will be co-facilitating a workshop called Building Sexual Consent From the Ground Up on Saturday June 12, 4-6 pm as part of the Trigger Festival in Toronto. You should come! It’s free, accessible and childcare is provided all day. Rad! More info on Trigger and the day-long workshops being offered.

Day and I are doing this workshop for a couple of reasons…first because both of us have been really affected by violence within the queer community. I am sure you have too, either as a survivor as the friend of one. From times we’ve listened to our friends work through the shame and self-hatred of a drunken encounter that wasn’t entirely consensual, to not feeling like we could say No to sex with a partner indefinitely, to having nowhere to turn to get protection from a violent partner because they’d risk deportation. Don’t we love each other enough to do something about this?

Second because we believe in developing non-state community responses to this violence. We believe in taking care of each other, reducing violence and holding people who’ve caused harm accountable–without inviting in the racist, homophobic, capitalist, sexist, ableist police or social services, for example. Our foundational vision is one where queers and trans people rely on each other–not state systems of control, containment and exploitation–to develop solutions to the problem of violence, understanding that violence as part of, and intimately connected to state and international violence.

Third, we are sex workers and know that our skills and strategies around establishing consent (individually, collectively, verbally, non-verbally) are diverse and fierce. We want to share them with our community!

Building Sexual Consent from the Ground Up
Learn from skilled sex workers how to better negotiate sexual consent and make great sex happen. This no-touch workshop will provide an opportunity for participants to gain practical skills in negotiating sex and help us uncover our individual and collective strengths and styles around sexual negotiation. We will talk about how to get the love, sex and intimacy we want, resist stigmas against sex and whores and how to end partner/date violence in our communities! All are welcome!

Saturday June 12, 2010 / 4-6 PM / The Raging Spoon, 761 Queen st West (near Bathurst) / Free!

Huh. Since when is forced removal a good thing for kids? I wondered.

Answer: when the mom is a hooker and the kid–no, the daughter– is fat.

Turns out this article is about a sex worker who’s had her “obese” “unhygenic” daughter removed from her. Nothing triggered this article. It was written just to demonstrate how “prostitutes” make fucked up, unfit mothers who let their kids get fat and obviously don’t know how to raise proper little middle class white girls who eat “healthy” and play sports.

There is mention that the woman exposed her daughter to “inappropriate sexual issues”. What the fuck does that mean? That the daughter knew she worked? That mom didn’t enforce middle-class white norms around sexuality?

There is reference to the mom possibly having mental health issues. Y’know what? I’m the daughter of a single mom and a fuck of alot of them have mental health issues because it’s BRUTALLY HARD TO BE A SINGLE MOM. Instead of punishing mothers for failing to be perfectly happy robo-women, how about providing support and self-determination so they don’t drown? And by support, I’m talking decent wages, culturally appropriate childcare, educational opportunities and respect. And as for sex working moms? DECRIMINALIZE AND DESTIGMATIZE.

But mostly the author delights in sharing how the girl had “turned her life around” with, among other things, a “less sedentary lifestyle” and substantial weight loss. Wow. I feel confident that this removal would not have happened if the child had been a boy because a girl child is much more likely to be seen as emotionally unwell due to fatness. This is specifically the policing and punishment of working class femininity–both the mom’s and the daughter’s.

This removal, this violation of a mother’s right to raise her own child, is the perfect example of how fatphobia can be used to legitimize state violence against poor and working class women sex workers– in some incredibly vicious ways, up to and including stealing their own children.

smacks and soothes,

Juliet

SPANKING: MORE THAN PALM TO ASS

Anyone can strike an ass. But how do you whip your bottom into butter till they come back begging for more, kneeling with gratitude? This fun, playful and HANDS-ON workshop facilitated by Juliet November will give you the chance to practice heaps of techniques, learn more about your own style/incorporating spanking into roleplay, the sweet spot, toys, communication and negotiating consent. Ask questions and get feedback from the actual bums in the air. Come alone or with a friend–demo bottoms will be provided!

Folks of all genders and orientations all are welcome to this workshop. Please note that it is a safer space for queers, women, Aboriginal people, people of colour and trans people. That means fairness and respect. If you have any questions about this policy or the workshop, please feel free to ask.

Juliet November is a queer femme top, professional whore, mistress, sex educator, writer and activist. Normally Toronto-based, she has worked in most aspects of the sex industry in the US, Canada and Australia and formerly penned a national sex column for middle class Canadian ladies. She has never met an upturned bottom she didn’t want to hit, slap, torment, tease, tickle or kick.

$12-25 sliding scale

If you’d like to bring a (labelled) snack to share that would be lovely. BDSM takes energy!

The workshop space is wheelchair accessible. Please contact us if you have any other accessibility requirements including ASL interpretation.

As I walked out of the kitchen, I casually made a whore joke (about how I still practice therapy, only now it comes with a happy ending). Stepmom added: “yes, except now you get paid better!” and we all chuckled.

Remember I was talking to my friend’s parents. The PARENTS laughed about the parallels between their current (and my former) profession and sex work. This was certainly a first, especially with class-privileged white folks since privilege and prejudice tend to go together.

Welcome to New Zealand, home of full decriminalization. Isn’t it amazing what basic human rights can do?

So love and respect on this day to the sex workers of New Zealand (like Catherine Healy) who made this little moment of respect possible.

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

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 6 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.

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

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.

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.

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.