AMA: What was the worst date you ever went on?
Why? Was it because of where you went, what you saw or ate or what you did, what he or she did?
There is something explicitly punk about sex work. If being a punk is subverting social values and turning your nose at traditional expectations for behavior, than sex work is one of the most punk things out there. There’s a reason that Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren’s famous punk clothing store was named Sex. There’s a reason why all of the best punk and rock songs are about sex, and about the girls who sometimes traded it to get what they wanted. In a system that only succeeds by systematically disempowering women and queer folk, selling sex is fucking cool.
It can be a magical and mysterious world, too. We have exotic names and faceless, provocative photos. Dirty magazines are still sold inside blacked out plastic sleeves. When you exit the street and the busy monotony of daily life into the lair of a sex worker, there is something wonderfully enchanting about it. It’s stepping through the looking glass, and all of a sudden, you can become someone different too; the sex panther inside of you reawakens, and maybe you leave standing up a little bit taller, a little bit more manly. The playing out of the fantasy lets us realize that its a role we don’t necessarily need to shed; that the magical creature we were in the confines of a pretty girls bedroom need not be the last of it.
In the same way, we love to fantasize about what sex workers do when they aren’t working. Social media would have us lounging around drinking champagne every morning and having caviar as a midday snack; or going to expensive workout classes or on fancy vacations all of the time. We create a fantasy so that it’s easier for you to insert yourself into it, and of course it’s good branding to assert ‘we are a luxury experience, and therefore you’re going to pay the luxury price tag.’ I’ve talked before about sitting down to my laptop to write my blog posts in cashmere (this is actually a reality now due to a generous and lovely friend), but just as often, I’m in a crowded cafe wearing an old sweatshirt and torn jeans, jostling for elbow room and a charging port with summer interns and tourists trying to look up directions to the Bronx zoo.
The stories about the best dates we’ve ever been on are rarely asked for. Why remind ourselves of the bigger fish in the pond, the ones who can outspend us or out-love our favorite lady friend. While marketing can be flashy, the truth of it is that the vast majority of our dates are low-key; in a hotel room or with a drink at the bar before heading upstairs. We love the vacations and the shopping sprees, but overwhelmingly, when I’m in someone’s arms that’s not what they ask about. The question is always ‘What is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you during work?’
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