King Kong Theory

by Virginie Despentes;Stephanie Benson

  I have already stated publicly in a number of interviews that I worked as an occasional prostitute over a period of about two years. And yet I have been struggling with this chapter ever since I started writing the book. I wasn't expecting that. Various entangled things hold me back. Telling my own story. Difficult. At the time, turning tricks was much less so.

  The idea of prostitution first came to me in 1991, because of minitel, the French precursor to the internet. Developed in 1981, the monochrome teletext system, or minitel, quickly become a trusted outlet for people to conduct commerce. And since all modern communication methods are first and foremost used for selling sex, the minitel allowed a whole generation of girls to become occasional prostitutes in near-perfect conditions of anonymity, client choice, price negotiation, and independence. It was straightforward for those who wanted to buy and those who wanted to sell sex to make contact and agree on the conditions. Hotels paid for by credit card made the deal easy to close: the rooms were clean and reasonably priced, and you didn't bump into anyone in the foyer. My first minitel job, in 1989, was in fact to monitor one of the servers. I was paid to disconnect any user employing racist or anti-Semitic language, but also pedophiles and, finally, prostitutes. One had to be sure that the service wasn't being used by women who wanted to freely choose to use their bodies to make money, nor by men who could pay and ask openly for what they wanted without the obligatory preamble. Because prostitution must not become normal, or be practiced in comfortable conditions.

  1991. First Gulf war, broadcast on TV, scuds landing on Baghdad, Noir Desir's "Aux Sombres Heros" constantly on the air, Professor Griff gets kicked out of Public Enemy, Neneh Cherry in stirrup leggings and massive sneakers. As for me, I am dressed as unisex as possible, which is to say like a boy. No makeup, nothing you could call a haircut, no jewelry, no girlie shoes. I don't feel concerned about these classic feminine accessories. I've other things on my mind. I work in a supermarket, developing photos. I am twenty-two years old. I'm not exactly the sort to end up in the sex trade. To start with, I really don't have the right look. Two years before that, when I did that monitoring job on minitel and saw "generous gentlemen" offering nearly a thousand dollars a go, I thought it was a trap, that they were offering such high prices in order to lure poor girls to their apartments where they could inflict all kinds of horrors on them before chucking their naked, damned bodies into the nearest ditch. I'd read Ellroy, seen a few films, the mainstream culture passing on the message: watch out girls, we also find your corpses very hot. When I finally realized that men were actually paying almost a grand a go, I decided that the chicks in question must be the greatest lays in history.

  I hated working. I was depressed by all the time it took up, by the small amount of money I earned and the rapidity with which I spent it. I looked at older women, their whole lives spent working like this, only earning slightly more than the minimum wage and still, at fifty, getting bawled out by the floor manager for taking too many toilet breaks. I was beginning to understand, month after month, exactly what they meant by the life of an honest worker. And I couldn't see a way out. Even at the time, you were supposed to be grateful to have a job. I have never been very reasonable, I had trouble feeling grateful.

  The computer we used to create the photo wallets had minitel capability, and I often went online to chat with a lover, a blond boy from Paris who worked as a "seductress" on one of the servers. I was used to minitel conversations. I chatted with lots of people in a casual sort of way. One conversation was more arousing than the others, the guy more convincing. The first date I arranged was with him. I remember his voice, remember that it was warm and sexy, that I wanted to go and see what he looked like, that I would have gone for free, that I was freaked out by the thing. I didn't go, in the end. I'd got all ready, I was nearly there, I chickened out, right at the last minute. Too scared. Too far away from me. Not part of my life. Girls who "did that" must have received some kind of education, some message from another dimension. I thought you couldn't just improvise being a hooker, that there was a precise initiation rite that I had missed out on. But I had a thirst for money, mixed with curiosity, with the urge to find a way to afford to get sacked from that supermarket, and the feeling that checking it out would teach me something important ... I made another date a few days later, with another guy. Not so sexy this time. Just a client, a real client.

  For the first time ever I went out in a short skirt and high heels. A revolution hanging on a few accessories. My only similar experience since has been my first TV appearance on a prime-time show for Baise-Moi. You haven't changed anything and yet something out side has moved, and nothing is as it was before. Neither the women, nor the men. And you're not sure if you like this change, or if you understand all the consequences. Some American sex workers use the word empowerment" when talking about their experiences as hookers. A rise in power. I immediately loved the impact I made on the male population, with its exaggerated, almost farcical, dramatic change of status. Until then I had been an almost transparent girl, with short hair and dirty sneakers, and suddenly I had become a creature of vice. Classy. It reminded me of Wonder Woman spinning around and coming out of it as a superheroine; the whole thing was dead funny. But I was also immediately freaked out by just that importance, whichwent beyond myunderstanding or control. The effect the hooker look had on most men was almost hypnotic. Walking into shops or on the subway, crossing the road, taking a seat at a bar. Being incredibly noticed everywhere, attracting starved stares. Becoming the keeper of a desperately coveted treasure: my pussy, my tits, access to my body had acquired extreme importance. And the hooker effect was not only effective on sex maniacs. Almost everyone is fascinated by a woman who looks like a whore. I felt like a mobile Luna Porn Park. In any case one thing was for certain: I could do the job. There was actually no need to be the greatest lay in history or know all kinds of wild secrets to become a femme fatale, you just had to play the game. The femininity game. And no one could come out with "Watch out, she's a fake," because I wasn't-no more so than anyone else. Initially, I found the whole process fascinating. Having never given a damn about girls' stuff, I suddenly discovered a passion for stiletto heels, fancy underwear, and tailored suits. I remember how perplexed I was, those first few months, when I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window. It's true that it wasn't just me anymore, that tall slut with heel-lengthened legs. The shy, thickset, masculine girl had disappeared in the blink of an eye. Even the masculine parts of myself, such as my way of striding out with confidence, became hyper-feminine attributes once I was wearing the costume. To start with, I liked becoming that other girl. As if I was going on a trip somewhere. To the same place, but another dimension. There was an immediate change as soon as I put on the ultra-feminine uniform: sudden confidence, as with a line of coke. Afterwards-again, just as with coke-the whole thing became much harder to manage.

  In the meantime, I had grabbed the bull by the horns and done my first client, at his house; a guy in his sixties, who chain-smoked and talked nonstop during sex. He seemed lonely, and I found him astonishingly kind. I don't know if I come over as someone who's soft, or dull, or else intimidating, or whether I've simply been lucky, but my impression was confirmed by the other clients: in general, they were nice to me, attentive, and tender. Much more so than in real life in fact. If I remember correctly, and I think I do, it wasn't their aggressiveness that was hard to handle, or their contempt, or any of their preferences, but their individual loneliness, sadness, their pasty skin and unhappy timidity, the flaws they displayed under the mask, the weaknesses they showed. Their oldness, their desire for young flesh next to their old men's bodies. Their pot bellies, small dicks, flabby buttocks or yellow teeth. It was their fragility that made the thing difficult. The men you could despise or hate, in fact, were the ones you could do it with while remaining completely unaffected. Take as much cash as you could for as little time, and never think of it again, ever. But in my small experience th
e clients were heavy with humanity, fragility, distress. And it hung around afterwards, stuck on me like remorse.

  And so the physical aspect-touching another person's skin, puttingyour own at his disposal, openingyour thighs, your stomach, your whole body to the smell of an old stranger, surmounting the bodily distaste wasn't a big deal. It was charity, even if with a price. It was so obviously important to the client that you should pretend to be neither disgusted by his tastes nor surprised by his physical defects, that in the end it seemed a worthwhile thingto do. I was discovering an entirely newworld, where money had a different value. The world of women playing the game. What you might earn in forty hours of thankless slaving was yours in less than two. Of course you also have to count the preparation time-waxing, highlights, manicures, buying clothes and makeup, the cost of stock ings, underwear, PVC gear. But still, the work conditions were exceptional. Men who can afford it like paying for women often. That's what I came to understand. Some of them like to go to whores in a strictly ritualistic way, cash in hand and with a prearranged scenario. Others prefer it to seem more like an affair, calling themselves libertines and wanting you to provide them with bills or tell them upfront what kind of present you want. A way of playing Daddy, in fact.

  Gail Pheterson writes in The Prostitution Prism that: "Significantly, those who explicitly provide sex are defined by their activity as `prostitutes,' a stigmatized and/or criminalized status, while those who buy sex are neither defined nor branded by engagement in the same activity." To say that you have "done some hustling" is to marginalize yourself, and subject yourself to all kinds of fantasy projections. Not a small thing. Saying you visit whores is quite different. It doesn't make a man marginal, doesn't brand his sexuality, does not define him in any way. We expect prostitutes' clients to be diverse in terms of motivation and behavior, by their age and social, racial, or cultural background. The women who do the work are immediately stigmatized, they all belong to the sole category of victim. In France, most of them refuse to be openly interviewed because they know this is not something you admit to. You have to keep quiet. The same old system. These women have to be tarnished. And if they don't toe the line, if they don't protest enough about the harm done to them, if they don't cry about how they were forced into it, then you had better believe "they will be taken care of." The worry isn't that the women won't survive; quite the contrary. The worry is that they might come and say that it isn't such a dreadful job after all. And not only because all work is degrading, difficult, and demanding, but because plenty of men are never as affectionate as when they are with a whore.

  I saw about fifty different clients over those two years. Every time I needed cash I would log on to minitel, on the locally based server of my city, Lyon. It would take me about ten minutes to collect several phone numbers from men looking to score that same day. They were often men travelling on business. In Lyon there were plenty of clients, which made it easier to be selective, and made the work more pleasant. When I talked about it with those who "came" often, they said it never took long to find what they were looking for. If the clients were numerous and quickly satisfied it's because those of us offering our services were also numerous. So occasional prostitution isn't all that unusual. The only unusual thing is that I talk about it. This work, which can be done in total secrecy, is nothing more than a well-paid job for a woman with few or no skills.

  While working in "erotic" massage parlors and a few peep shows in Paris, I had time to chat with the other girls between clients. The women I met there were all very different, not at all what the collective conscious ness might expect for "that kind of work." The first time I was taken on in a massage parlor I had been hanging out in a very left-wing environment where I had always heard, and believed, that women turning tricks were victims, either reckless or manipulated but in any case up against it. The reality was very different. The black girl who opened the door to me was absolutely stunning, one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen up close. Difficult to feel sorry for or to pity a creature like that. When I got to know her better I found out she was a little younger than me, much more socially integrated, had already worked for several years as a beautician and was engaged to a man she adored. She had a great sense of humor and fantastic taste in music. I found her solid, hard-working, and determined. Clear-headed and with her feet well on the ground, compared to me or to other girls I knew. Nothing like the image I had of "pros." She was very much in demand and earned a fortune in cash every day, which she saved with care. A little brunette started at the salon at the same time as me. She was just back from six months of aid work in Yugoslavia. She was a business school graduate and had found herself a little bewildered when she started looking for a normal "job." She tried massage parlors by chance. She told her boyfriend that she was a secretary in a big company. She didn't count on doing it for long. We had long conversations on the strangeness of the job, which fascinated both of us.

  The only common ground I could find between all the girls I came across, besides of course lack of money, was that they weren't open about what they did. Sex work is a woman's secret. Not shared with friends, family, boyfriends, or husbands. I think most of them did exactly the same as me-that kind of work on and off for a while, and then something completely different.

  People like to look shocked when you tell them that you've been a prostitute, but it's just the same with rapea massive hypocrisy. If it were possible to do a census, you'd be stunned to discover the number of girls who have sold sex to strangers. Hypocritically so, because in our culture the line between seduction and prostitution is very blurred, and deep down everyone knows that.

  For the whole of the first year, I really enjoyed the work. Because it was easy money compared to anything else, but also because it allowed me to try out, without asking myself too many questions and in the absence of all moral consideration, just about everything that had intrigued, aroused, stimulated, or fascinated me. Not to mention things I would never have thought of spontaneously, and might not have appreciated being asked to do within a relationship, but which were interesting to do at least once. I didn't realize the advantages of my position until I stopped. When, once I had become Virginie Despentes, I ventured into a swingers' club, I realized how much easier it would have been to go as a whore accompanying a client. No deep questions-I'm here because it's my job, I'm doing what women aren't supposed to do and I'm getting paid for it. Punk rock. Without money as a motive it was much more complex: Was I there to accompany a film producer, or simply for my own pleasure? Was I doing things there because I was hammered, or because they turned me on? Did I have the nerve even just to find out how I would feel the next morning? Unpaid and recreational, my sexuality seemed infinitely more confusing. I am a girl, the world of sex outside the couple doesn't belong to me. Occasional prostitution, with the power to select clients and types of scenario, is also a way to dip into sex without sentiment, to try things out, without having to pretend you're doing it out of pure pleasure, and without expecting anything other than money in return. When you're a whore, you know what you've come to do and for how much, and so much the better if you also get off or satisfy your curiosity. When you're a woman with free choice, it's a much more complicated deal, heavier, in the long run.

  To start with, I enjoyed my new work all the better because everyone around me kept congratulating me and saying how great I was looking. A girl who becomes more feminine is publicly rewarded. That's the way it is. The people who asked me what was up were few and far between. As I've said before, I had never been interested in "girl stuff," but wearing these clothes gave me two or three important insights into men. When you're not expecting it, the effect produced by fetish items-sus penders, stilettos, push-up bras, or lipstick-seems like a huge joke. We pretend not to know this when we feel sorry for women as objects: boob-job remodeled bimbos or all those anorexic bionic bitches from TV. Fragility is actually on the men's side. It's as if no one has told them that Santa Claus do
esn't exist-as soon as they see a red coat, they scramble to the fireplace with their wish lists. Since that time, I particularly enjoy listening to men holding forth about the stupidity of women who love power, money, or celebrity, as if that were more idiotic than loving fishnet stockings ...

  In my case, prostitution was a crucial step in rebuilding myself after the rape. A business of dollarby-dollar compensation, for what had been taken from me by brute force. I must have kept intact whatever I could sell to each client. If I could sell it ten times in a row then it wasn't something that could be destroyed by use. My sex belonged to me only, it didn't lose value through being used, and it could be profitable. I was once again in an ultra-feminine position, but this time I was bringing in a profit.

  What remains difficult, even today, is not the fact of having done it. Focusing on my past to write this chapter has brought back pleasant memories. The adrenaline rush, just before ringing a doorbell, bigger rushes as certain sessions got underway. As far as the sex goes, I'd like to be able to say something else, since when it comes to trashiness I've nothing much left to prove-but over all I did find it exciting. Being a whore was often great the desire was gratifying. It was also the time of my first proper shopping sprees, with my own money, amounts of cash I had never dreamed of possessing, blowing it all in one day. The experience of seeing men in a childlike, fragile, vulnerable light made them seem nicer, less intimidating, more endearing. And in fact accessible. I had discovered a recipe for attracting more attention than I could manage. More than I would have thought, it lessened my aggressiveness toward men, which I consider a good thing contrary to what people seem to expect. I get furious when I am prevented from doing or being something, but that is not because of what men are or do.