Sex Work

by Frédérique Delacoste

been there.

  This nauseating monkey/factory hands/half his fingers missin’/

  Cadillac/whiskey drinkin’/talkin’ bout is it good?/

  u got some good pussy girl/tight stuff/lemme rub it/

  lemme suck it good

  for you baby/lemme grab some of that tittie/lemme rub — I’m not

  gonna put it back in — come on now I’m gonna give you two

  twenty dollar bills/

  do you suck?/Aw honey u sumptin’ else/I sho likes u/yo skin

  smooth as butter/come to daddy lemme suck some of dat tittie

  It was makin’ me wanna die vomit but the rent/tokens/dance classes/food/

  taxis/clothes/telephone/gas/lites/books/food/rent/

  entertainment made me bite my lip an’ say Oh baby/it feels so good/

  Ahhh/oh yeah honey/do it daddy

  7.

  I feel empty

  unfinished like

  this poem

  which has

  no appropriate

  end.

  Good Girls Go to Heaven, Bad Girls Go Everywhere

  Aline

  I’m an American who was bred and raised in Colorado. I’m of English, Welsh, Scot and Massachusetts Indian ancestry. I’m a woman who chose not to have children in this lifetime.

  I’m a direct descendant of one of the women who lived in early white-America and was burned at the stake in Salem, Massachusetts, after being persecuted and accused of being a “witch,” along with numerous other women and men who were murdered in the name of God.

  No doubt I’d be labeled a witch if I lived during that weird, proudless time in history. Why? I’ve rejected motherhood, though I continue to nurture and “mother” other human beings, and look forward to doing so throughout my life. I’ve enjoyed a career for over a decade nurturing and entertaining adult males.

  No, I hardly fit the stereotypical image of a lady of the night. I’ve never “prowled,” and over half my “business” has been conducted in glorious sunlight. I contemptuously reject marriage, which is all too often a form of unpaid, or indirectly paid, licensed, sanctioned, prostitution. Am I bound to become some kind of quasi-quaint old maid? Hardly. I’d rather suck cock than kiss ass!

  I am the eldest of four children and helped look after the youngest two, a girl and a boy. I was what is described in psycho babble as a deputy mother within a dysfunctional family. My parents would have been better off without kids.

  In 1970, I happily experienced being paid for performing a form of legal prostitution — the ageless sex work known as strip tease, or erotic dancing. To be more precise, I worked as a topless dancer.

  It was fun at the time and the wage and tips were good. I much preferred exhibiting myself, flirting, showing off my body than working at some shit-job cleaning somebody else’s toilet for a poverty level income.

  The tips often totaled more than the fixed three dollars and fifty cents an hour payment, which back then was good pay. The money flowed freely from the mostly-married, bored, horny, over-worked, middle aged, male executives and their male flunkies. There were always a few Air Force men frequenting the tacky, nightclub-bar-restaurant.

  I didn’t much relate to the other “girls.” They were a bit older, and they reminded me of the hoody-looking, so-called low class girls in my high school. You know, the stereotype that existed in most all high schools in the sixties. Now they’re “punks” and they’re from all levels of social classes. They’d hang out in the bathroom constantly, through breaks between classes, and throughout lunch period. They didn’t eat anything. They just smoked. And smoked. I remember them laughing at me because I didn’t know how to inhale. I remember their gobs of make-up and black mascara, and the ugly, ratted hair all piled up on their heads, making them appear five inches taller than they were. They looked — well, evil. They looked threatening. They were threatening. Of course they learned their hostile attitude from their idiot parents who had brutal, idiot parents, who had — and so on. To society at large, they looked like “whores,” right?

  In fact, they ended up becoming very conforming women who got married, believed in “God,” went to church, had virginal or near-virginal weddings, and most likely became over-breeders. Some are still married to the same guys. Others had violent divorces and re-married a second or third time. When I went to my high school fifteenth year reunion, the “whore-y” women had turned out no different as adults than most of the Suzy-co-ed-white-middle-class women who had not dropped out or gotten pregnant before graduation. They all had followed the yellow brick road to find a prince charming, get stud-service, make babies, play house, and hopefully live happily ever after. I was the only one, in my autobiographical note, to mention that I was a prostitute. Out of my fifty or sixty graduating classmates, I was, by far, the most “deviant” of all.

  Back at the club — we were all sex workers, exhibiting our nearly nude bodies, erotically moving our torsos, hips, pelvises. From the stage, we literally looked down upon the men, with their beaming, grinning faces. Their howls, horny male barks, whistles and cat calls made them look like a pack of dogs or wolves, all waiting to get at some fresh meat or to get it on with a “bitch in heat.” We felt as if we were above it all, because we were sexy, desirable, young, gorgeous, confident, and proud to be female. Knowing their eyes were all on me, I was empowered, in control. I soon realized that they were playing a social game, pretending to be ready to mount any of us if we had asked them to do so. It was part of the ritual. In the nightclub and at “stag parties,” booze, grass or whatever it took to shut off the real world was always available. I was another diversion, an erotic intoxican’t that pulled them from reality for awhile.

  A few times, in the course of a one-to-one private session, I was paid for masturbating in the privacy of my own home, on my own bed, with a man happily and quietly watching while I brought myself to orgasm. No, I never faked it, but I was somewhat quiet about it and always worried about what the neighbors might think. You see, of course, that was illegal, a social no-no! I could be a “nasty” girl in a “nasty” nightclub run by “nasty” men. But I couldn’t be a “nasty” or “bad” girl having fun with herself with a gentleman willing to give me money directly, as opposed to indirectly, through a cover charge, drinks, in a male-owned enterprise.

  I did not stay at the nightclub long. I was ready for new adventures and couldn’t see myself forever undulating in front of a pack of wolves. I couldn’t happily endure the mind-games, greed, drunkenness, loaded words. It was draining me of my own energy and creativity. It was time to clean toilets for a while. I now do occasional massages for seniors of both sexes, and once in a while genital-gratification work on men of various ages. I also do chore-work and odd jobs for old folks, very often women, sometimes men. I love them all. I have been politically and socially active around various issues, including prostitution, for over a decade. The most meaningful work I have done has been, with few exceptions, all volunteer, unfortunately. Not so ironically, considering our culture, the best money I’ve earned has been through sexual services.

  When I think back on my work at the topless club, I realize that I was probably hired because of my youth and my small bosoms. I was only twenty-one, younger than the other dancers. I could have looked even younger — eighteen, sixteen or even fourteen to some of the customers, according to their fantasies. I may have been masturbation material for some men lusting after teenaged women and girls. I regret this possibility. As a woman now in my thirties, I realize I may have projected or unknowingly portrayed an image which reflects a sick societal fact. Although I did not experience incest in my family, I know that it has been and still is a traumatic reality for a great number of women. Some became sex workers and some did not. However, it is absurd to generalize, as has been done in fiction, television and movies, that all, or nearly all sex workers are victims of incest or have been sexually molested as children.

  There is a belief that sex workers spread sexually transmitte
d diseases, AIDS, herpes and crabs. I, for one, never contracted a bug from a customer, nor did I ever pass one to a customer.

  There is a belief that most “whores” are addicted to drugs, dope and booze. I don’t do any narcotics. I’m not even addicted to coffee. That shit causes heart attacks and strokes, but it’s oh-so-legal. I quit smoking cigarettes. Once in a while, I’ll lust over chocolate and French pastries. I drink beer and wine socially and infrequently. I’m dead set against cocaine use and abuse. In my twenties, I experimented with LSD and mescaline. Now I’m a member of Smokers Anonymous. No kidding.

  There is a belief that sex workers hate all men. I don’t hate men, not even Prez Reagan. I can feel disgust, repulsion, impatience, alarm, dismay, pity, horror, disapproval or frustration toward other human beings, but I don’t feel hatred. I am not hostile by nature. Honesty, openness, sensitivity, are qualities I seek in others. They are qualities much needed in the work/employment known as prostitution, which is not unlike being a counselor, a pyschologist, a good listener. Like doctors or nurses, we try to be sensitive to the men who come to us, and also remain emotionally detached.

  To think of us as thriving on lust is another myth created by men and perpetuated by horny priests, ministers, two-faced religious enthusiasts and Bible-beaters. By the way, there is plenty of sex and violence in the Bible, may I remind you.

  I firmly believe that all human beings are primarily bisexual. We are all sexual creatures, period. This damn country is touch deprived. Unfortunately, our sexual behaviors and beliefs are being dictated by peer pressure, media and religion. The word “whore” expressed as an insult, a put down, a cut, is a broad floating term used to perpetuate social myths and hatred and fear of women.

  I don’t like labels, really. I’m getting tired of tags, categories, slots. I have always been curious and willing to share sexual intimacy for fun and socializing with people of different races and classes. Does this mean my life is a parade of sexual encounters with no meaningful relationships? Not at all.

  I will continue to be fascinated by the opposite sex as much as I am by my own. I will probably never marry, and I made sure I would not reproduce by getting a tubal ligation a few years back. I will continue to love and be loved as much as I am able, and with whom I choose. I’m talking about love, not sex. I am a woman who knows the difference between the sweet, heavenly passion shared with another person, and the simple, uncomplicated get-laid genital exchange.

  Making Movies

  Jane Smith

  When I saw the call for writing by women who have worked in the sex industry, I thought, “Great!” Here was the spur I needed to write about my movie experience. Then I started wondering. Would it be fair? With my education and upper middle class Jewish background, I couldn’t possibly be typical of women in the sex industry.

  I argued it out with myself. No one’s typical, I thought. Women come to the sex business from all kinds of backgrounds, and for all kinds of reasons. I bet we’re as diverse as women in society at large.

  I wrote a first draft and showed it to some writer friends. They liked it, but advised me to cut out the parts where I tried to excuse myself, to justify. “Just tell your story as honestly as you can,” they said. “You don’t have to keep insisting that pornography is evil. Who you are will come through. Trust yourself.” Truth is made of many voices, they said, and my voice is as valid as anyone else’s.

  So I feel free to say that although pimps, kidnapings, and beatings may be part of other women’s stories, no one forced, tricked, or addicted me into the business. No one owned me, took my profits, or beat me when I tried to leave. I was not hurt or raped by the filmmakers. I got into the business as a sort of lark, to try something different and make some quick, easy money. And I was lucky. I got out.

  It was 1967. I was a hippie, an on-and-off drug user, a nineteen-year-old college dropout from New York. Having read the Beat writers in high school, I was drawn to San Francisco, so when I left college, that’s where I headed.

  I found what I was looking for. People smoking pot, taking psychedelics, and spreading the word that careers, jobs and the rat race were irrelevant and poisonous; that love for people and respect for the natural world were basic; that straight people should be turned on so they’d understand too. Today I realize that the vision I thought one hundred thousand people shared was different for each one. I see the white, North American, middle class arrogance of those days. I also realize that in Haight-Ashbury, as in suburbia, the women did the cooking, laundry, and typing — and also often earned the money so men could live a free life. But that’s another story.

  My friends and I agreed that regular jobs were stultifying and, in most cases, helped the enemy. Besides, what would we do with all that money? We lived communally. Our food came from the dented-can store, and our clothes from Goodwill. San Francisco General provided free medical care. Our cars needed little maintenance. I remember one baby blue 1954 Chevy, a communal car, unregistered, uninsured. It had no key. You started it by inserting a spoon in the ignition and twisting a certain way. The spoon was kept on the dash-board; we figured no car thief would be oddball enough to figure out what it was for.

  I got money by stringing beads and selling them at hippie shops, and sometimes by working as a temporary secretary. For three months, I earned two dollars and eighty cents an hour working at the post office during the Christmas rush, which made me a plutocrat in hippie circles.

  My friend Ruby told me about the movies. “They’re always looking for new chicks,” she said. “You get twenty-five dollars, and they pay you right on the spot.” Twenty-five dollars was a lot of money in 1967. Hamburger was three pounds for a dollar; a loaf of bread was a quarter. Minimum wage was a dollar and forty cents an hour.

  “I’m not pretty enough,” I told blonde, blue-eyed Ruby.

  “Nah, you’re fine.” She appraised me. “Your tits are bigger than mine — Joe likes that.”

  “Do they take out social security and everything?” I asked.

  “No, it’s cash — under the table.”

  “You don’t have to fuck anyone?”

  She laughed. “For that, you get a lot more money. These are just girlie shows.”

  Did it bother me that strangers, men I wouldn’t like or respect if I knew them, were going to ogle my naked body? As far as I can remember, it didn’t, but even if I had felt squeamish, I wouldn’t have let on. No hippie chick wanted to be thought of as hung up. No hippie chick wanted to be hung up. I figured that sex with strangers, whether real or celluloid, couldn’t hurt me, the real, essential, me, unless I let it.

  Ruby and I rode the bus to the Tenderloin. I expected the theatre to be decorated with garish posters, but the facade was understated: a name, a ticket window, and a door. Ruby told the expressionless ticket taker that we were looking for Joe, and he gestured at the door. Inside, light streamed into the dark lobby from a side office. We waited outside the door; Joe was on the phone.

  Are these details accurate? I don’t know. I’ve tried to bring back the physical surroundings, but in those days, my focus was on the inner light, the Tao, or something like that. I thought I should be above the physical world. External things were just trappings. Anyway, Ruby handed me over to Joe and said she’d be back in an hour.

  Joe was completely impersonal. I felt no fear or concern as I took off everything but my underpants. The movie was to represent what a man might see as he watched a girl get ready for bed, supposing she’d left the shade up and the light on in her apartment. So I walked around in bikini panties, bending over, stretching, reaching for things, turning, lying down on the couch in a splay of abandon, getting up again, bending over. . .all with the lights hot on my bare breasts, the camera running and Joe directing me.

  “Okay, now stand up. .You dropped something on the floor, bend down and get it. Reach up to your right for something on the shelf. Now take off your panties. . slowly. Walk toward the camera, you’re going to pull down the sha
de — no, you changed your mind. Go back to the couch. Kneel on the couch. . spread your heels. Lie on your back. Dangle one leg over the side. Okay, now turn on your front. Look at the camera. Open you mouth. Lick your lips. On your side now, away from me. . put your right knee up. That’s it; show some crotch. Now move your butt from side to side, like that, that’s good. . .”

  After an hour, Joe said it was enough. He handed me twenty-five dollars, saying, “Tell your friends, and if you find anyone else, give me a call and you’ll get five bucks.” I hadn’t known that.

  When Ruby came, I didn’t tell her I’d enjoyed the session. The proper attitude seemed to be, “Oh, it’s awful, and you wouldn’t want anyone in your home town to see you, but it’s good money.” I didn’t think it was so awful. I thought it was rather fun. I had always believed I was ugly, and too fat, and it seemed wondrous that anyone would actually pay me money to look at my body. It gave me a new confidence. Also, this seamy movie world was one place where my big breasts were an asset.

  I passed the word to Kate, a mother of three, whose artist husband was always unemployed. “I’ve heard about those movies,” she said. “Do you think we could make one together?” I called Joe. He said to bring her down the next morning. Kate and I dressed in our matching velveteen minidresses — hers blue, mine red — and took the bus downtown in high spirits, pleased to be able to have an outing together, without her kids. Joe agreed to pay us fifty dollars for a double, and we took off our clothes.

  While we waited for the camera, we agreed to try to make this movie a little special, a little artsy, with movements that were vaguely Indian, vaguely yogic, vaguely ballet-like. “Our bodies are beautiful,” Kate said. “We shouldn’t be ashamed of them.” She said as much to Joe, who agreed, as long as we were undressed. Kate knelt and I danced before her; I sat cross-legged and she danced for me. Joe made an occasional suggestion. When we were done, Kate said, “Maybe we’ll turn on some guys. Maybe they’ll see the light.” We always wondered what the finished show looked like, but we never returned to see it.