On Sex Work
Feb. 27th, 2025 11:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lb_leeRogan: I performed sex for cash when I was seventeen. I did it because the food bank food was running out, because the friend who had taken me in was massively overdrawn, and because my family was squatting on my debit card in hopes of starving me back home.
I bailed my friend (and myself) out by sucking and fucking my ostensible (and reprehensible) 21-year-old boyfriend in his apartment for about $350 in total. He was as bad a customer as he was a boyfriend, constantly trying to haggle down my price or condom use, and he was absolutely taking advantage of my desperation. Nevertheless, I don’t remember finding what I did unusually painful or degrading—on the contrary, it was a step up, because for once I was getting paid in money, real honest-to-god money. That money fed me and my friend for weeks, buying us time. That money meant I didn’t have to go back to the family until I chose to.
My friend, who I suspect was no stranger to sex work (on account of the advice I was given on pricing and safety), never treated me as defiled or different. On the contrary, they treated it as neutral, just doing what we had to do.
I have never publicly discussed doing this. I didn’t know how. But sexual haggling was a part of my life from day one; I just didn’t get paid in money. I got paid in pizza bagel bites, laundry or shower privileges, or a parking spot in which to sleep. Sometimes I only got paid in vague favors. There was a reason my mother and brother’s favorite name for me was “whore,” because I became so mercenary about it, out of necessity: “If you wear a condom, I’ll do it whenever you want; if you don’t, I’ll fight and scream every time.” Sometimes, the haggling had to be all subtextual: “your mother’s very concerned; why should I take your side?” and me bending over or kneeling so he wouldn’t have to give the order and accept responsibility for the situation. The rule of the game was that you could never admit the game existed.
Any deal I struck, any favors I traded for, could be tossed out at any moment. There are only gentlemen’s agreements with gentlemen, but cash was cash regardless who it came from. Though my "boyfriend" tried, he could not renegotiate my price just because he decided after the fact that I hadn't been worth it. It was too late; the money was in my hand, and I didn't have to wait around listening to him complain.
I support full legalization and sex workers’ right to unionize and demand better treatment, in part because nobody should be treated like shit at work, and also because of basic self-interest. As someone who now makes queer erotic art and multi sex ed stuff, the people who come for other sex industry workers will come (are already coming) for me too. Queer people, trans people, women, poor people, immigrants, people with health conditions that bar them from the traditional job market, all do sex or sex industry work. These people are my friends and colleagues, people I love and play DnD with. They aren’t points to be scored in some political game. They, WE, are not scapegoats for other people’s desires and fears.
That's why I've chosen to make this post and go public about this. A lot of you reading this blog may not realize you know sex workers. You may not see sex work as relevant to you. But if you are queer, or trans, or female, or poor, or disabled, or an immigrant, then sex work is about you. It affects you. Sex workers act as the canary in the coal mine, because they are among the easiest targets, with the least protection. It behooves us to step up and recognize them, respect them. Because I can afford to tell people that I did this, I am choosing to, because it took me far too long to have words to describe what I did, how I felt about it, and why it mattered. With the regime change, it feels urgent to be as honest as I can, while I can.
There are sex workers who are treated well, who love or at least are satisfied by their jobs. Reading about them is healing for me. I cannot do vessel sex for money anymore, nor do I desire to, but making erotic art and sex ed stuff brings me delight as well as income. It has been profoundly soul-nourishing to get paid for talking, drawing, writing the sex that, when growing up, was never allowed to be spoken... except by whores, who were punished for it. How dare they/we break the taboo? How dare we/they demand payment, rather than let others set the unspoken terms all in their own favor? How dare we call it what it is?
If you read this and choose to comment, please do not say you are sorry this happened to me. My amateur foray into paid full-service sex work did not HAPPEN to me. I did it. It was my idea, my decision—not a free choice, but a decision, and I was the one who made it. My family happened to me. My “boyfriend” happened to me. But those two times I said, “do you want this or not?” and took the money, those two times I got to slap him or laugh at him when he insulted me afterward... that didn’t just happen to me. I did it, I am not anyone's pet tragedy, and I am not sorry.
Eight years after I got rid of that "boyfriend," he tracked me down online and upon discovering I was homeless, he drizzled me with syrupy sympathy (poor, broken bird!) and offered me a place to sleep, just like he had when I was a teenager. The nature of how I'd repay him was of course left unspoken--a mask of charity over the obvious fact that he once again hoped to take advantage of my desperation. After all, it'd worked before. Why wouldn't it work again?
I told him to go fuck himself.
These are some things I read that helped me be able to make this post:
I would also like to give special thanks to the Boston Sex Workers and Allies Collective (BSWAC) for first giving me the information and words to say all this, to that friend who insured I got paid what I was worth as a teenager, and to Biff for being the first person I dared talk about it with as an adult. I love you, angel.
I bailed my friend (and myself) out by sucking and fucking my ostensible (and reprehensible) 21-year-old boyfriend in his apartment for about $350 in total. He was as bad a customer as he was a boyfriend, constantly trying to haggle down my price or condom use, and he was absolutely taking advantage of my desperation. Nevertheless, I don’t remember finding what I did unusually painful or degrading—on the contrary, it was a step up, because for once I was getting paid in money, real honest-to-god money. That money fed me and my friend for weeks, buying us time. That money meant I didn’t have to go back to the family until I chose to.
My friend, who I suspect was no stranger to sex work (on account of the advice I was given on pricing and safety), never treated me as defiled or different. On the contrary, they treated it as neutral, just doing what we had to do.
I have never publicly discussed doing this. I didn’t know how. But sexual haggling was a part of my life from day one; I just didn’t get paid in money. I got paid in pizza bagel bites, laundry or shower privileges, or a parking spot in which to sleep. Sometimes I only got paid in vague favors. There was a reason my mother and brother’s favorite name for me was “whore,” because I became so mercenary about it, out of necessity: “If you wear a condom, I’ll do it whenever you want; if you don’t, I’ll fight and scream every time.” Sometimes, the haggling had to be all subtextual: “your mother’s very concerned; why should I take your side?” and me bending over or kneeling so he wouldn’t have to give the order and accept responsibility for the situation. The rule of the game was that you could never admit the game existed.
Any deal I struck, any favors I traded for, could be tossed out at any moment. There are only gentlemen’s agreements with gentlemen, but cash was cash regardless who it came from. Though my "boyfriend" tried, he could not renegotiate my price just because he decided after the fact that I hadn't been worth it. It was too late; the money was in my hand, and I didn't have to wait around listening to him complain.
I support full legalization and sex workers’ right to unionize and demand better treatment, in part because nobody should be treated like shit at work, and also because of basic self-interest. As someone who now makes queer erotic art and multi sex ed stuff, the people who come for other sex industry workers will come (are already coming) for me too. Queer people, trans people, women, poor people, immigrants, people with health conditions that bar them from the traditional job market, all do sex or sex industry work. These people are my friends and colleagues, people I love and play DnD with. They aren’t points to be scored in some political game. They, WE, are not scapegoats for other people’s desires and fears.
That's why I've chosen to make this post and go public about this. A lot of you reading this blog may not realize you know sex workers. You may not see sex work as relevant to you. But if you are queer, or trans, or female, or poor, or disabled, or an immigrant, then sex work is about you. It affects you. Sex workers act as the canary in the coal mine, because they are among the easiest targets, with the least protection. It behooves us to step up and recognize them, respect them. Because I can afford to tell people that I did this, I am choosing to, because it took me far too long to have words to describe what I did, how I felt about it, and why it mattered. With the regime change, it feels urgent to be as honest as I can, while I can.
There are sex workers who are treated well, who love or at least are satisfied by their jobs. Reading about them is healing for me. I cannot do vessel sex for money anymore, nor do I desire to, but making erotic art and sex ed stuff brings me delight as well as income. It has been profoundly soul-nourishing to get paid for talking, drawing, writing the sex that, when growing up, was never allowed to be spoken... except by whores, who were punished for it. How dare they/we break the taboo? How dare we/they demand payment, rather than let others set the unspoken terms all in their own favor? How dare we call it what it is?
If you read this and choose to comment, please do not say you are sorry this happened to me. My amateur foray into paid full-service sex work did not HAPPEN to me. I did it. It was my idea, my decision—not a free choice, but a decision, and I was the one who made it. My family happened to me. My “boyfriend” happened to me. But those two times I said, “do you want this or not?” and took the money, those two times I got to slap him or laugh at him when he insulted me afterward... that didn’t just happen to me. I did it, I am not anyone's pet tragedy, and I am not sorry.
Eight years after I got rid of that "boyfriend," he tracked me down online and upon discovering I was homeless, he drizzled me with syrupy sympathy (poor, broken bird!) and offered me a place to sleep, just like he had when I was a teenager. The nature of how I'd repay him was of course left unspoken--a mask of charity over the obvious fact that he once again hoped to take advantage of my desperation. After all, it'd worked before. Why wouldn't it work again?
I told him to go fuck himself.
These are some things I read that helped me be able to make this post:
- Amber Hollibaugh’s “Sex Work Notes: Some Tensions of a Former Whore and a Practicing Feminist,” available in her book My Dangerous Desires: a queer girl dreaming her way home. 2000, Duke University Press.
- Joan Nestle’s “My History With Censorship” and “Lesbians and Prostitutes: An Historical Sisterhood” from 1987’s A Restricted Country
- Trans Rent Boys: Love Don’t Pay the Rent, from Red Umbrella in 2019.
- Surviving the Streets of New York: Experiences of LGBTQ Youth, YMSM, and YWSW Engaged in Survival Sex, by the Urban Institute in 2015.
- SFSX, a comic about sex workers fighting dystopia by Tina Horn and various artists
I would also like to give special thanks to the Boston Sex Workers and Allies Collective (BSWAC) for first giving me the information and words to say all this, to that friend who insured I got paid what I was worth as a teenager, and to Biff for being the first person I dared talk about it with as an adult. I love you, angel.
no subject
Date: 2025-02-28 05:23 pm (UTC)You are so amazing and I am honored to know you.
no subject
Date: 2025-02-28 09:33 pm (UTC)Another book recommendation to add to the pile: Revolting Prostitutes, by Juno Mac and Molly Smith. Very straightforwardly written book describing the social forces at play that oppress sex workers (did you know sex worker advocacy is also tied to immigration advocacy?), the ways in which ostensible advocates or protective laws end up fucking them over (per the interests of hegemony), and what full service sex workers need in order to protect themselves and meet their needs. If nothing else, learning how to Be Normal about sex workers will make you more wise to the tricks of the powers that be, and a better neighbor to people who are Already in your life.
no subject
Date: 2025-03-01 10:54 pm (UTC)Gah, can't believe I forgot to mention it's an immigrant concern, because you're right, it totally is!
no subject
Date: 2025-03-01 08:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-03-11 03:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-03-01 11:18 pm (UTC)I was reminded of Lime Jello's essay "A Tunnel, Not A Door: Exiting Conditioned, Generational Sex Work":
Also, you might like We Too: Essays on Sex Work and Survival.
no subject
Date: 2025-03-04 10:36 pm (UTC)