Big Australian Horse

Tags

asian brothels, brothels, clients, discrimination, personal stories, sex industry, Sex Work, south australia, the boss, trafficking

I used to work in a ‘Asian’ brothel.  It was owned and run by Maya, a Chinese woman in her fifties. Maya had migrated to Australia with her husband more than 20 years ago. She opened her own business after separating from her husband 10 years later. Maya had dabbled in sex work in China but only took it up full time in Australia after she was made redundant from her bank job. Opening her own brothel seemed a natural progression for Maya and even though business was successful she still continued to ‘jump the desk’ so to speak, servicing her clients,  sucking cock for cash like the rest of us, even after 10 years. Maya was a business woman. She worked very hard and was was proud of her success.

Maya was being extorted by her landlord. He charged her excessive rent for the commercial premises he leased her, smug in the power he had against her. He knew that stigma, discrimination and racism would stop Maya finding another premises to run her business from and he was right. But Maya was no push over, she was was always wheeling and dealing with the landlord, negotiating  improvements and additional inclusions to make up for the extra rent she was paying.

Mayas business was promoted in all the places adult services are advertised, alphabetically listed among other adverts that began with ‘Asian’, which comprises approximately one third of adult services adds in total. Maya and her workers knew their market well and worked it. I was the only white sex worker there, the others] workers came from a diverse range of backgrounds and Maya marketed them all expertly playing on a range of stereotypes that are usually applied to Asian women. Workers convincingly dropped their age by more than two decades when clients wanted younger workers, went from speaking English fluently to using broken English when clients wanted someone new to Australia, they softened their voice for clients that wanted someone submissive and gave each other crash courses in massage techniques to satisfy requests for an authentic Thai masseuse.  Googling countries, cultures and conversation language to assist them in playing the role requested by the client is all part of the service at Mayas.

Id started working at Mayas  after a friend introduced us and she offered me a room rental option It was a great deal, I ran my own advertisements, answered my own phone and paid a small fee per job for use of the work room, clean linen, use of the bathroom, and the staff room. The set up suited me perfectly.

Mayas business was similar to other brothels that id worked at. it was a discreet, converted house with 3 or 4 work rooms (bedrooms) and a separate staff room (kitchen/meals/lounge room)  which offered  the workers privacy from clients between jobs. There were 2 or 3 workers on shift at any time and the routine of meeting the clients and doing the booking was no different than anywhere else. The work was the same, the way we stayed safe from police and the authorities was the same and there was equal attention to hygiene as any other brothel Id worked in. This brothel traded on stereotypes, exploited fetishes, marketed itself in a way that ensured it was able to meet the expectations of the clients and at the same time encouraged potential workers to select it accordingly.Just like any other brothel.

I enjoyed the company of the other workers, like i always have. The staff room of a brothel is a special and unique place. it has the potential to produce moments of intimate connections and friendships with people whose real name you don’t even know. The experience of the work and the stigma associated with it helps to equalise us, our shared rejection of social expectations gives us the courage and ability to be open minded and non judgmental and the individual control over our own privacy allows us a rare degree of honesty and anonymity. This results in things being shared in staff rooms of brothels that may never be shared anywhere else. In Mayas staff room, just as always, we joked about the clients, shared tips and tricks, talked about the stigma and the laws we deal with and a range of other things in between.

But here i had the bonus of fresh home cooked food too! Because Mayas was just like any other brothel I’d worked at but it had some beautiful differences. It was so much more cozy than the often sterile brothels i had been used to. It always had the smell of home cooking, because someone was always cooking and the work rooms doubled as bedrooms for the travelling workers who were staying on premises and the decor had a personal touch. It felt homely because it was a home. The atmosphere was relaxed, workers chose when they worked, when they rested, and when they participated in the sense of community that was always present in the kitchen and dining room also known as the staff room.

Lots of sex workers are concerned about their privacy, and worry about being outed to their friends and family and It was no different in this brothel. Many of the workers i met at Mayas had chosen to maintain anonymity by travelling for work. Different workers came and went and came back and stayed or didn’t. The routine and rotation was different for each worker, depending on their lives and situations, their wants and needs.  Some had a regular circuit from state to state, some worked at Mayas around their study and uni holidays, some came to make a lump some for a specific purpose and had no intentions to continue after that, and some of us had our regular shifts each week. Some of us were local, some from interstate, or overseas. Workers were referred to Mayas by friends, other employers or via the very healthy grape vine that i became aware of.

Even though there were many languages being spoken, and the workforce was transient i quickly learnt that the majority of workers I met at Mayas were connected to a tightnit community of migrant workers that shared information, referrals, contacts and recommendations, that helped and cared for each other as a matter of responsibility beyond the context the work. There was a fully functioning network that spans the seas allowing workers to share important information with their colleagues, for example, the laws in each state or the best places to go for sexual health check ups or free condoms. It was impressive to see it in action. And places to work was just one of the types of information you could get from the network.

Id been working there a few weeks, and was happy with how it was going, but was trying to build my business up. So when Maya asked me if I wanted to pick up more clients i jumped at the chance. She suggested she could advertise me in the Chinese paper and market me to her clients along with the other workers. She proposed I would benefit from increased business and could repay the cost of the advertising from my first job. At first i was unsure if my tall buxom frame and blonde  bombshell image would be profitable with Mayas usual clientele who came to a place that carefully marketed a different stereotype. It felt like a risk to outlay money for the advertisement when i was unsure if would result in more business. But Maya explained that many Chinese clients visit her business because it has been recommended to them, or they don’t speak English or only read the Chinese news paper, these clients  have a variety of requests and fantasies, including buxom blondes. It made sense, so i agreed and Maya went ahead and ran an add in the Chinese newspaper for me.

I normally insist on having control over how I’m advertised, promoted and described to potential clients. I want to be comfortable with the way I’m marketed and i don’t want to deal with disappointed clients who had expected something different, but this time i decided to just let Maya do her thing. Business boomed and surprisingly Maya’s promotion generated a considerable increase in clients for me. The majority of my new clients were Chinese speaking men responding to the add in the Chinese paper that Maya had placed. I needant have doubted her astute sense of business and her knowledge of her market because despite my initial uncertainty her predictions were accurate. She continued to run my add in the Chinese newspaper regularly and I provided her clients the best service I could.

It was a few weeks later when i was chatting to the friend that had introduced me to Maya. I was full of gratitude for the introduction, expressing my satisfaction at how well business had been going. I told my friend how happy i was with the arrangement, and about all the extra business i was getting from the new add. I praised Mayas marketing techniques, explaining how I had initially thought Mayas clients wouldn’t be interested in seeing me, but thanks to Mayas skills and initiative, i had been very successful. My friend told me she had seen my add, and asked who wrote it. I told her i had left all that to Maya, because she knows her market so well. I hadn’t really even bothered to ask what it said. My friend laughed and agreed, Maya really did know her market. My friend told me the the add Maya was running for me that had resulted in so much unexpected work roughly translated into ‘big Australian horse has arrived, looking for many riders’ which she giggled and explained is similar to the ‘town bike’ analogy.

I blushed and we both laughed!  I was glad I let Maya have control over how she promoted me because its not an add i would have written. But if i had have written the add it may not have been so successful with Mayas clients. She really did know her market.

I continued seeing clients who were responding to the add and providing the best service I could with a deeper understanding of what they were expecting. To this day I still have clients who come to ride the big Australian horse and my friend still teases me about it.

The Madame of the house

Tags

brothels, clients, decriminalisation, feminism, law reform, laws, madames, Melbourne, money, personal stories, pimps, Relationships, sex industry, Sex Work, south australia, stigma, the boss, Victoria, worker rights

This is a story about the time I jumped the desk to become the Madame of the house. Its about running a business in the South Australian sex industry, about who has control over who and about the myth of easy money. I wrote this for the feminists who believe our industry is dominated by male bosses that make big bucks by controlling female workers. I wrote it for every 5^th client I see who has multiplied the money he spends on sex by the hours in a day and the number of rooms in a house and thinks he has hit jackpot. I wrote it for the politicians who worry about organised crime taking over the sex industry. For the wanna be bikies n thugs that fancy playing boss man to some ladies of the night, for the desperado that thinks owning the business will control the girl and for the saviours that honestly believe they would treat their ‘girls’ differently to how we are treated anywhere else. And I wrote it for the sex workers that don’t like their boss, or are sick of having a boss, or think they could do it better, or just feel like trying something different.

This story is from many years ago, sometime after my second brush with law and before my forced break from the sex industry. I was between jobs when a friend of a friend introduced me to Neil who apparently had an interesting proposition for me. I had heard about Neil the wanna be pimp before. I use the word pimp flippantly, I’m not sure Australia has pimps, but if we do, Neil would probably LIKE to be one. He definitely had the sleaze factor to fit the stereotype but lacked the backbone. Neil had a reputation in the industry as a slimy sucker, with more money than sense and a boner for big talking. Needless to say I was curious about his proposal, but wasn’t surprised when he told me he was having another go at opening a brothel. I say another go because, as legend had it, he had tried to open a number of brothels in the past and had failed.

One of the difficulties Neil had always encountered was that he was a man. There is not much of a role for a man in a South Australian brothel, other than client. A lot of female sex workers aren’t that keen on having men hanging around on premises and the cops generally aren’t that thrilled with it either. So Neil had decided he needed to pay a female manager. In addition to that, clients are generally put off if their phone calls or door bells are answered by a man, so Neil would also need to employ a female receptionist. It struck me as ironic that in order to brag about being a big brothel boss, he had to remove himself from any actual brothel bossing. He was forced to downplay his involvement in the brothel, hand over control of the brothel, stay away from the brothel, and give up a decent amount of profit from the brothel, in order for him own a brothel.

But Neil must have been impressing someone with his brothel bragging because he was determined to try his hand at the game again. When he met me, he already had the lease on a town house in the city and had furnished it simply and adequately. He knew a few workers from other brothels who were ready to jump ship and take advantage of the new businesses honeymoon period, one of which was the friend that had introduced him to me. At the time I was in a relationship with one of those partners that made it difficult for me to do sex work, and I had been missing the industry. So when Neil asked me to manage his new business, I was excited about the opportunity to be involved in the industry in a role that I hoped my partner would find more palatable. I accepted the offer immediately.

From the beginning Neil and I disagreed about everything right down to the goofy name he had given the business. I fought for what I considered to be fair pay for all the workers of the business, I pushed for flexible conditions and I advocated for an increased budget for advertising. But Neil was stubborn or stupid and wouldn’t give. He had a bottom line that wouldn’t budge. So for those first few weeks, we did it his way. But it didn’t take long before Neil was again learning that the sex industry is not easy money and opening a brothel is not a get rich quick scheme.

Business was up and down and Neil was becoming anxious. After paying the manager a cut, the receptionist her wage, the rent, the overpriced advertising, the utilities and essential supplies for the business, Neil quickly discovered 50% of a coupla jobs a day doesn’t go far. He responded to his anxiety by reducing the advertising budget further, cutting receptionist wages and introducing ‘shift fees’ for the workers.

But it’s a vicious cycle. Without enough advertising, business became even quieter and without clients bringing in the money, the workers became unhappy. When Neil introduced the shift fee, the workers felt disrespected. Who would be happy about coming to work, sitting around all day for minimal pay with the risk being caught up in a raid AND then being forced to pay an illegal shift fee!??! They began to resent working there and those that stayed were unreliable.

Anyone who fantasises about making easy money off the backs of hookers is going to struggle. Hookers are not that easy. Many of us chose sex work for the flexibility it offers us, so we expect a flexible work place. Many of us chose it for the money we can make, so we expect to make money. Many of us chose sex work because we are good at it, so we expect to be appreciated by our employers. Neil offered his workers none of that.

But an empowered hooker is a powerful force. A hooker that knows there are ten other businesses in the vicinity that need staff (and there usually is) will not settle for anything less than what she expects. A hooker that knows its OUR service that makes the money will expect respect. And if that hooker works for a boss that disrespects her, she will disrespect them right back.

None of Neil’s workers respected him, and the business suffered because of it. One typically quiet Saturday I caught out the receptionist and worker on shift doing something dodgy. I knew they had done two jobs, but the bookwork indicated only one. They had decided to not record the second job, splitting the business’s 50% cut between them. I couldn’t blame them. They were making next to nothing and Neil’s decisions were only making it worse.

I was frustrated. I knew Neil was not meeting his target, or even covering costs, but less advertising and unhappy, unreliable and resentful workers was not helping to bring in the clients or the cash. And the expenses were still mounting.

That’s when I decided to go around him and do what needed to be done. I started taking the money from one job a day off the books and used the money to pay for more advertising. I also introduced a small retainer for the staff to cover lunch and maybe a cabfare, on those occasions when they didn’t do any jobs. And when no workers showed up to shift, I did the jobs.

At the same time Neil seemed to have an epiphany. If he wanted money he needed clients, if he wanted clients he needed workers, and if he wanted to keep the workers, he would have to loosen his rules. Since he couldn’t work himself, he was on his knees. He had no choice but to give the workers the flexibility and work conditions they were demanding. Its not unusual for sex industry employers to take advantage of the criminalised setting by attempting to control us like they would an employee but only giving us the pay and conditions of a contract worker. But in a situation where there was little money to be made, not many would accept a bad boss.

So Neil began to back off and let me take a bigger role in managing the rosters and staffing. Sneaking around behind Neils back doing jobs myself and advertising more, started to pay off and I managed to keep the business afloat a little longer. The staff appreciated the token retainer and the more flexible conditions and when I abolished the shift fee that Neil had introduced the mood shifted.

The flexible, fair and friendly work environment resulted in word of mouth reaching the workers of a brothel that had been closed down recently. It was early one quiet weekend when Winnie, an unremarkable woman in her mid 30’s came in for an interview. Looking like a proper house wife dressed in ladies floral and a perfect perm, Winnie was an unlikely looking hooker, but she bought a huge loyal and very regular client base with her. And the good fortune Winnie bought us did not stop there. She immediately sent for her two friends who she had worked with at the previous brothel. They were impressed by the guaranteed retainer our business offered and were keen to start work straight away. So at that moment, our luck had changed and business looked up. Winnie had swept in with a hoard of clients and a couple of fresh faced workers under wing and saved the day, and the business.

And so it was, that due to the decision to treat our workers well, my ability to perform ALL the duties necessary, and a little bit of good luck, business began to boom. And Neil didn’t know the half of it. His pressure was gone and he was making enough to cover his costs as well as a reasonable profit for doing nothing. He could finaly hold his head up high while he bragged round town about his latest business venture. I kept lying to him about how many jobs we were doing so I could use the extra money to continue paying the staff well, stock the business with nice things, pay for adequate advertising and offcourse I gave myself a bonus.

Everyone was happy, business was flourishing under my management, the workers were all content and making money and even Neil was satisfied. Everyone was happy except my partner. The generous pay packet I was bringing home did not sweeten the deal for them. Running any business is hard work, and clearly a sex industry business is no exception. I was on call 24/7, I was stressed about the threat of police, and I was doing lots of unrostered work relieving staff when needed. Stopping sex work and taking up this new role as manager was meant to appease my partner who was uncomfortable about sex work, but instead I had succeeded in making the sex industry a bigger part of my life than it had ever been before. My partner didn’t know about the occasions when Id provided the service myself in order to keep the doors open, but that didn’t matter. They didn’t want me involved in the industry at all.

My job was beginning to cause problems for my relationship which was probably a good thing. Looking back on this time of my life I’m glad my controlling and jealous partner made my life hell to the point I ended up walking away from the business all together. Because I nearly did something that coulda been mighta not ended well.

Neil was a shmuck. Worse than a shmuck. He was a sleazy roadblock to our success and he made me cringe. I was sick of answering to him, lying to him, even seeing him. Basically, I was sick of having him on the pay role. He was the ‘owner’ of the business, sure, but what exactly did he own? The workers? No, certainly not, most of them at this point had never even met him, and would never work for him under the conditions he wanted me to apply. Did he own the clientele? Definitely not, some clients will perhaps follow a worker from location to location, but generally clients go everywhere and belong to noone. And the clients we got came from the advertising I DID, and it was the happy skilled workers that kept them coming back. Did he own the business name? well, sure, he owned a ridiculous goofy name he chose, but that wasn’t the name that I used in our advertising, or the name that the clients had come to know, or the name that the staff and I used. The name we used, was the name I chose. Did he own premises? Well sure, he had the lease on the townhouse we operated from, but, after being there for 8 months and with a steady stream of business coming and going, it would be time to move on soon before we attracted police attention anyways. So what did he own? Some of the furniture was his, but I had also bought a lot of newer pieces for the business since we opened. And he owned the phone number.

The workers and I began talking about ditching Neil and taking complete control of his business by simply shifting the location to a new premises that was in my name. We even joked about diverting business phone to our newly connected number until Neil noticed and got round to disconnecting it.

A sex industry business, in an illegal setting, is nothing. In an environment where businesses have to move regularly, operate discreetly out of residential properties or under the masquerade of health clinics or massage parlours, a reputation or a name, an address or even a permanent phone number is not something any brothel in South Australia has. Places and faces pop up and get shut down all over town all the time, and while certain individuals may have a reputation in the industry, finding a brothel you like, is largely a case of trial and error for both sex workers and clients. So when people talk about buying a business in our industry, I always wonder what they think they are buying, and when I thought about leaving Neil and setting up shop elsewhere, I didn’t feel guilty.

I started looking for a new place to operate from and found a perfect house. It was fully furnished, in a central location and it oozed executive luxury, which was a long way from the plain and simple townhouse Neil had rented. The landlord approved my application and I was excited, nervous and determined to break away from Neil. But the night before I was due to sign the lease, my partner gave me an ultimatum. My relationship or the sex industry.

To be honest, I didn’t think too long about it. I was so sick of fighting about this, and the stress at home combined with the stress of running a business was getting too much. I allowed my partner to believe that our relationship won and the sex industry lost the competition for my loyalty. In reality, I knew I wasn’t leaving the sex industry, just leaving this role in the industry.

I suddenly realised that while there was some satisfaction and profit in successfully running my own business, it was also hard work, with big legal and financial risks. I reminisced about how easy life was when I just had to suck cocks and count cash. That night spurred on by my partner’s ultimatum, I did a 180. The next day I left the business, its workers and Neil to fend for themselves. And the next week I left my partner and went back to fending for myself.

Soon after I heard that Neil’s business had been visited by police and had been closed down. I felt a mixture of regret and relief about what was and what could have been.

Now when I reflect on the business owners and employers I have known in our industry I notice that those that have survived in the industry the longest are current or ex workers themselves, and I think that’s due to the fact that they willing and able to jump back over the desk and into the bed, in order to keep the doors open when business is tough.

The South Australian sex industry is also made up of lots of collectives of workers and private and independent workers. Having these choices easily available to us is an important aspect in ensuring we have the power to negotiate pay and conditions that suit us.

However, the fear of the police and the law does mean many workers are reluctant to work for themselves, as part of a collective or open their own business. Criminalisation does mean that many workers will not be willing to risk taking out a lease on a property in their own name and instead will opt for working anonymously for a boss. We NEED law reform urgently in this state, but any new laws we consider must support our choice to work in a variety of ways. We do not want laws like those in Victoria that favour big business and make it impossible for the average worker to try out other roles in the industry, or to work for themselves, or that stops a group of sex workers from working together. Any new laws must not take away the power we DO have. That’s one of the reasons I advocate for decriminalisation. It is the only model of law reform that protects and empowers sex workers allowing us to work for ourself, in collectives, or even to open our own small business. It’s the only model that supports our cottage industry here in SA.

But until we get decriminalisation I will continue to giggle and enjoy the stories I hear about bosses who attempt to rip off workers but end up getting ripped off themselves. Because its true that the most successful businesses are those where the workers are happy and respected.

Once a client

Tags

clients, friends and family, Love, money, personal stories, Relationships, sex industry, Sex Work, south australia, stigma

This piece is an original and true story written by me and recently published in ‘Johns, Marks, Tricks and Chickenhawks: Professionals & Their Clients Writing about Each Other’ Edited by David Henry Sterry and R.J. Martin Jnr. Which is the sequal to the equally as awesome ‘Hos Hookers, Call Girls and Rent Boys: Professionals Writing on Love, Money and Sex’. Do yourself a favour!

I met Barry during the time I was working at 333, which was both the name and street number of a typical suburban brothel in Adelaide Australia. 4 bedrooms, one bathroom, client waiting room, ‘girls’ (staff) room, receptionist and us sex workers. It was clean, safe, sparse and far from high class. I was a 25 year old single mother and uni student with average looks and average attitude, dressed in a wig, a hooker dress and trashy stay up stockings. I was half way through a fourteen hour shift one Sunday evening when Barry rung the brothel doorbell. Brushing our hair and applying another layer of lipstick the three workers on shift clip clopped in our high heels one at a time into the waiting room where Barry sat. We introduced ourselves, smiled, sussed him out, did our best to impress and then clip clopped back to the staff room. It is impossible to predict which worker a client will choose so I always got a bit of a thrill when the receptionist called my name, especially when it was a slow night.

Barry booked me for an hour and I provided my service in one of the dimly lit, no frills brothel rooms. An hour can be a long time to spend shut away with a stranger in four small walls especially if you don’t get along. Fitted out with nothing but a double ensemble bed, a bedside table, a clock radio and a wooden chair time could drag and those rooms could end up feeling claustrophobic. But Barry and I clicked and the hour passed quickly. The sex was over early in session and we spent the rest of the hour lying around naked telling silly stories. Just before the hour was up Barry got aroused again and he happily offered to extend the booking. During the second hour I got to hear Barry’s story; he worked out at the mines in central Australia and had a fly in/ fly out contract working solidly for two and a half weeks and then having ten days off. He came to Adelaide during his downtime and spent all his money on 5 star accommodation and partying.

Still in the tiny room the second hour went by quickly and easily. We were having fun and Barry didn’t want to say goodbye, so with only 3 more hours left until I finished work he decided to pay the fee to book me out for the rest of my shift. We spent the whole night in that room fucking, laughing and talking. I can’t deny I was attracted to Barry’s obvious disposable income, and I was flattered that he was willing to spend so much of it on time with me. I also enjoyed his company and his sense of humour so at the end of the 5 hours I agreed to meet him after work and hang out in the bar of his hotel – for free.

Mixing business with pleasure is widely warned against in many businesses and the sex industry is no different. Infact in the circles I mixed and worked in it was considered a big no no. My friends would have called me crazy and my boss would have sacked me, so I kept it to myself.  I was crossing a lot of lines. I might have spent hours alone naked in a room with this guy but he didn’t know my real name and he hadn’t seen the real me or even my real hair! I surprised myself when without too much thought I agreed to meet him in the lobby of his hotel. Nothing but the time and place had been confirmed or negotiated and I felt vulnerable but excited.

After spending five hours with me, Barry left the brothel and went back to his hotel while I packed up my work gear, collected my pay and headed home. Once home I had about half an hour to pretty myself up before calling a taxi into town. I noted in my head that the taxi was was going to be at my expense and I felt a bit annoyed with myself for not only agreeing to give away my time for free but also spending my own money in order to do it. Then I consoled myself with the knowledge that I had made good money on this night, largely because of Barry.

I let the butterflies take over. What will I wear? He only knows me as the hooker in a trashy short dress and too much cleavage. What I choose to wear will represent the real me, and what about my hair! He only knew me with the sexy sleek stylish wig hairdo, but my real hair underneath was more like pink rock chick. I was all nervous and excited. I showered, put on my expensive perfume and my matching girly undies and bra, the ones I kept only for my personal life. Then I put on my jeans, sneakers and hoodie. I looked in the mirror and tried to see myself through his eyes. I looked like a more wholesome version of the person he met in the brothel hours before, more like the girl next door than sultry sex kitten. With just a brush of mascara and lip gloss, my crazy hair looking cute and my clothes comfortable, I still felt sexy with my favourite underwear and scent on my skin.

I hoped Barry appreciated that he was getting the real me, in my real clothes. I hope he knew that he was lucky. I wanted him to understand the significance. But when I met up with him he didn’t seem concerned with my changed appearance one way or the other.

That night was fun; we partied with his money until it was time for me to return to my child and real life. We made plans to catch up next time he was in town, and then the time after that. This hotel room romance continued for only a few weeks before Barry made me an offer. He wanted commitment, he wanted me to stop working and he was prepared to put his money where his mouth was. I didn’t want to give up sex work but if he was prepared to financially support me I would consider it, who wouldn’t be tempted by not having to go to work right? He told me he was sick of hotel rooms and after working hard all month he wanted to come back to a home. He offered to rent a nice house for me and my son so that he could stay there during his downtime. It sounded perfect to me, ten days of fun while he was in party mode followed by twenty days of the house to myself while he went back to work 400 km away.  I jumped at the offer.

For the first time our fling shifted from hotel rooms and bars into the public and domestic domain. We looked at houses together and visited friends, he spent time with my son and he met my mum. Everything went well and our new home was gorgeous. He was happily paying all the rent because it was still cheaper than the expensive hotels he used to pay for and I got to live somewhere beautiful rent free. We spent his first visit home playing house; I cooked, he bought me flowers, we cuddled on the sofa and watched movies. It was fun. His second time home was less enchanting. He was less appreciative and I was less excited by cooking. We bickered for the first time but when we kissed each other goodbye I had hope that next time would be better.

While he was gone things were good. We talked on the phone and sent emails, he paid my bills and we missed each other. But when he returned it didn’t seem so much fun anymore. Real life got in the way of the sex, romance and indulgence that had bought us together. We did dishes instead of ordering room service. We sat on the couch and read the paper instead of rolling around on the crisp white sheets of hotel beds. We talked about bills and shopping lists instead of fantasies and fears. Once domesticity set in our true colours began to shine. I had thought that all those hours spent alone together surrounded by four walls would have given us an opportunity to really get to know each other.  I thought all that talking and laughing and exploring and confessing would have meant I understood what I was getting myself into.  But it was the outside world, the real life pressures and the daily distractions that really tested our compatibility, or lack of.

We continued our relationship together for about six months but it felt like 6 years. By the end of it I was bored and he was demanding. I was broke and he was sick of paying for my expensive phone bills. We still had fun but the shine had worn off and there were lots of times when we would argue or just ignore each other.

Instead of missing him I was happy when it was time for him to go, but we both pretended to be sad. We had settled into the house, my son and I were happy in our new home and there was no way I could afford the rent by myself. I had a part time job but Barry had made me give up sex work so my income was small. I wanted to go back. I missed the money, the independence of making my own money, the other workers, the attention from clients and the excuse to wear trashy dresses and high heels. I wanted out of this deal with Barry and sex work was going to be my way out. I fantasised about returning to work for a few weeks but I didn’t take it any further initially because I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea and I didn’t want to hurt Barry. During his next visit home I tried to reconnect with him but he seemed so distant. Then he bluntly told me he wanted me to ‘make my hair normal’ and I knew for sure that we were not suited. I liked my cute pink hair and if there is one thing being a hooker has taught me, it’s that everyone is someone’s type. I didn’t want to stick around with Barry if I wasn’t his type. And then when I thought about it I realised he wasn’t really my type either, he had a temper and he was often quite chauvinistic. We spent the rest of his stay going through the motions until he left early. He always left at 4pm after making a big song and dance about how much he was going to miss me and he always wanted sex before he left because it was a while in between. But this time he left at 2pm with barely a kiss goodbye saying that he was tired and wanted to get back in time for an early night.

Now it was obvious to me that leaving early wasn’t about him needing sleep.  He was always tired when he headed back to work but that had never stopped him from dragging the process out as long as possible. I didn’t know why he was leaving early this time, I just presumed he had come to the same conclusions about our relationship as I had, but I didn’t dwell on it. I didn’t really care what his reasons were I was just relieved to get my house back two hours earlier than expected so I could plot my escape.

I had made my mind up, it was over. I still didn’t know how I was going to tell Barry but first things first, I needed to make some money. I was going to go back to sex work and pay my own rent and then I would call Barry and tell him of my decision. Sometime before his next visit.

When Barry had been reading the paper earlier that day I had noticed the sex industry add pages in the classifieds section.  As soon as he walked out the door I poured myself a wine, grabbed the paper and sat down ready to find myself a job in a brothel. I flicked through looking for the ‘adult relaxation’ section. I knew there would be plenty of ‘looking for staff’ adds amongst the columns and columns of names, numbers and promises of a good time. I looked through the paper three times, but I couldn’t find the page with the adds. They had been there before, I had seen them. I found the section and page number listed in the contents table…. Page 16. I turned the pages but page 16 was not there. On further inspection I realised that page 16 had been removed. Presumably by Barry. Barry who had left my house two hours earlier than necessary, without hassling me for sex, with a list of local hookers and their phone numbers.

The penny drops, but I am not mad, instead I see my out. The irony of catching my boyfriend sneaking around with hookers only because I was trying to sneak around and be a hooker myself was not lost on me. I was just annoyed with myself for crossing the line with a client in the first place. I should have known better. I am payed to be the professional. My client should be able to fall in love all they want, safe in the knowledge that their sex worker will not let them take it any further. But I let us both down.  If I had have maintained my professional boundaries Barry could still be paying me by the hour instead of sneaking round paying someone else by the hour – and we would all be happy.

A journey out of town

Tags

clients, discrimination, escort, friends and family, laws, Love, money, personal stories, Relationships, sex industry, Sex Work, south australia, stigma, the boss

After writing about the time I was dramatically evicted from the country town I was working in, I wanted to write more about my regular trips out of town. For a few years that was the way I worked. I would travel to some rural location, work solidly  for a couple days and return home cashed up. Sometimes I would go to different places but mostly I worked in the same town. It started with an agreement I made with my partner of the time. The only way he was going to be ok with me doing sex work is if I left town to do it.

So when a friend in the industry gave me a tip that there was decent cash to be made in a town few hours drive away, i decided to give it a go. I discussed it with my partner, chose a date and started making plans. As the time got closer, I became more nervous for different many reasons; was I going to make money? What if I lost money? Would it be worth the time it was taking from my busy life? Will I feel differently about the work after not having worked for a while?  Would I hate this particular way of working? Am I going to hate being stuck with a driver in a country town, miles from home? Will my partner act weird towards me when i got home? Would he think the money was worth it? Would there be any trouble from the police in town, or the hotel management or clients or the locals? I had all this on my mind as I planned my trip. All my decisions were based on attempting to minimise my financial and personal risk.

I ran an advert in the personals section of the local town paper the week before I was going to be there asking people to book in advance, as well as for the week that I was there. I never count the money before it’s in my hand but I was hoping to get an idea as to whether it was going to be worth my while or not by asking for advance bookings and i figured that giving the potential clients early notice of my trip couldn’t be a bad thing either. When planning future trips I decided to make it a rule that unless I had 10 confirmed bookings, I wouldn’t go. Often one or two would  cancel when I was already in town but I could usually pick a few new ones up too.

For this first trip I decided to use a driver. For the following trips I ditched the driver in favour of going with another worker, or even by myself but this time I wanted the security of having someone with me and I wasnt sure if business was going to be good enough to take another worker.

The day came, my driver arrived and we hit the road. I had my two phones, one for work, one for personal, a piece of paper with the details of the 12 confirmed bookings I had for the weekend, my little handbag with condoms, lube, massage oil, and a mini vibrator, a backpack with a little black dress, heels, stockings, trackies, a T shirt, make up, and toiletries. We drove for hours, telling each other stories and listening to music.

My driver was a friend of a friends, he had a nice car and he turned out to be very efficient and useful. He drove me all the way there and back, ran my errands, provided my security and even answered my phone and took bookings while i was busy. In return I paid him a flat fee plus expenses. It felt very luxurious having my own employee.

In trying to reduce the likelihood of contact with the police or being kicked out of my hotel, I decided to do mostly escort bookings where i visited the clients and only had the occasional client visiting me in my hotel. This is not my proffered way of working and in this town it was worse than usual. The town had had a big influx of workers and not enough accommodation to keep up so as a result I was visiting clients in caravan parks, share houses and on mattresses on the floor. I would have much preferred the clients visit me where I was in control of my surroundings but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself and I didn’t want my first trip to end disastrously. I kept discreet, had security measures in place and charged $50 more than I normally did.

I arrived in town at around 2pm and had 2 clients booked in straight up. As we got into town, I called my first client to let him know I was close and my driver pulled into a petrol station so I could use the bathroom and freshen up. It was going to be my first client in a while, I was in a new town, visiting them at their house. I didn’t know what to expect. As I knocked on his door and introduced myself, it all came back to me, like riding a bike. I took the cash and did my thing, in and out and on to the next one. They were not easy but not difficult either. I spent the full hour massaging, talking, sucking, fucking, washing and dressing. No early minutes for me. But I jumped into the car at the end of the second job happy that I had already made enough money to cover my expenses and I was ready to work hard and go home with a fortune.

My driver had taken a booking for me while I was in the second job, this time the client was going to come to my hotel room. I had an hour to spare so I relaxed and showered in my room. All the money I made from here on in was profit and it was only 4pm. I had shaken off the nerves of seeing my first client and my phone was ringing hot. I was trying not to get too excited about money i hadn’t even made yet.

I set my room up and got myself ready for my client. My driver was waiting to make sure i was ok, and then he was going to get me dinner. While waiting for my client to arrive I answered my phone and filled up my booking sheet between 8pm and midnight. I was feeling good that i was going to make money and I still had a couple of hours free straight after the next client.

The 6 – 8pm time slot stayed empty and i remembered it’s always quiet during that time wherever you are, it’s dinner time. It didn’t matter though because I was busy the rest of the evening, finishing up at 1am, exhausted and cashed up. I soaked myself in a hot steamy shower, put on my trackies and then rolled around in my money. I am not even joking. When i publish my book, you will see the photos of me rolling in $50 notes.

I had two bookings for first thing in the morning, one with a client from the night before and the other one was in the cabin of a truck. The client was too nervous to come to my hotel because he thought that people would see him and know he was visiting a hooker which is a common concern in a small town. I often wondered when i went out for food or through the drive through, if people knew i was the hooker that was advertising in their paper. Especially after i had been to the same town a few times.

By the time I had finished the truck job it was nearing check out time and i had to make a decision. I still had bookings for the next night but only a couple, and nothing during the day. Over breakfast I considered my options, should I  to stay on for another night or call it quits and head home. I had made nearly 2 grand and I was exhausted. I decided to leave on a high. I checked out of the hotel and did one last escort job on the way out of town.

The drive home felt so amazing. A renewed feeling of whore power! After 2 years of struggling on part time minimum wage, all  I had done was outlay $50 in advertising plus a spare sim card and i was able to make 2 grand in just over 24 hours with very little planning.

I was tired all over but i felt satisfied. I rewarded myself with a facial, massage and manicure and pedicure when I got home.

Over the coming years I got to know the town, the clients, the hotels, the take away shops, the bars, the pay weeks, and the routine. It wasnt always as financially rewarding as the first time, but it was successful for many years. It was always hard work but it was always the same amazing feeling on the drive home. Feeling powerful, feeling satisfied, feeling the big wad of cash..

So you’ve met a hooker…

Tags

discrimination, friends and family, Love, mother blame, personal stories, rants, Relationships, safe sex, sex industry, Sex Work, stigma, whore shame

So you’ve met a sex worker. Maybe someone has recently “come out” to you, maybe you met a sex worker at a party, maybe a friend or lover has just told you about their sex work or maybe you’re a social worker and one of your clients is a sex worker. You might not be sure how to react, you might have some questions or concerns or you might not have an issue and want to let the person know. Maybe you have seen the Shit they say to sex workers video and the Shit they say to strippers video and you don’t want to be a cliché. This post will help guide you through those first few moments after someone tells you they are a sex worker. Take note because you never know when you are talking to a hooker.

First of all, stay calm. If the idea of sex work shocks, excites or upsets you, just relax. Don’t say something dumb in the heat of the moment. Give yourself a moment to compose yourself and  consider this post before you open your mouth. If you are not at all shocked or concerned either way, then feel free to act normally.

Take a moment now to think about every stereo type you can imagine relating to sex workers. Think of the pretty woman, and the bodies in dumpsters on Law and Order, of high-class call girls, and desperate drug dependant street workers, about sex slaves, pimps and dangerous clients about sex workers childhoods, their reasons for working, their lifestyle. Every stereotypical image you can think of and then some.

I want you to understand that every single time we tell someone that we are a sex worker, we do so knowing the person we tell may have one or all of these assumptions about sex workers. When we tell someone we are a sex worker we risk having  them instantly apply and compare any or all of those stereotypes to us. Imagine how we might feel when we disclose our job to you, or anyone. If its hard for you, it’s hard for us.

Its important that we see that our job doesn’t change anything for you. That you don’t presume anything about us just because we are sex workers. That you don’t judge us. If you want to respond in ways that demonstrate this, here are some hints from my personal perspective:

1. Just because I tell you about my job, doesn’t mean I have told everyone else. Please don’t parade me around the party expecting me to play the role of happy hooker for the amusement of all your friends.

2. Our job is not inherently violent, it is not an accepted part of our job, and many of us work our entire careers without experiencing workplace violence. Some of us have experienced violence at work, but it’s polite to wait for appropriate safe and supportive spaces before bringing up sensitive past events. What I’m trying to say is when I tell you I am a sex worker, don’t let the first or second or even third question be ‘so, how often do you get hit’.

3. Sex work doesn’t always include penis and vagina penetration. Sex work can be anythingand everything related to sex. Massage with a happy ending, stripping, bondage and discipline services or any number of things. Dont presume you know about the service I provide unless I tell you.

4. Don’t presume anything about my sexuality, my sexual boundaries, my sex drive or my sexual preferences. The sex I do for work is work and is not necessarily related to the sex I do for pleasure. Me being a sex worker doesn’t preclude me from also being in a monogamous relationship, or being celibate, or dating, or being fussy, or being promiscuous or being gay, or being sexually adventurous or being shy in the bedroom. All on my own terms. And just because I sell sex at work, doesn’t mean I’m always working or that I will sell it outside of work, and it doesn’t mean I’ll fuck you. But it doesn’t mean I wont either.

5. No it’s not OK to ask me if I was abused as a child, If my dad loved me, if I have any self-esteem, or what I spend my money on. All I did is tell what job I do, not ask for a psychological/financial assessment. My relationship with my parents is hardly relevant, I can bore you with my childhood stories some other time when we all start talking about childhood and daddy issues. My bills and finances are none of your business and my personal stuff is my personal stuff. Right now I’m trying to tell you about my job, and I am judging your reaction. These questions show me you are looking for reasons and needing an explanation or excuse. Your questions may seem innocent and harmless but have a look at your assumptions behind them or  at the  least remember the stereotypes that i deal with and  understand how it makes me feel when you respond to my disclosure with questions like that.

6. If you have known other sex workers, feel free to tell me about it, particularly if you hold those sex workers in high regard. I don’t need to hear about your ex who was a hooker who you hate or about some hooker you saw in a movie who was hot. Dont bunch us together or pretend you know anything about me just because you once knew a hooker. If you are telling me about another sex worker you know, make sure its because it is ether relevant to the conversation in some other way or because you are trying to reassure me that my job is no issue and I am welcome in your group. But don’t break someone’s confidentiality. Dont point out the other hooker at the party or tell me that Dave’s girlfriend is a stripper. That’s not cool and you just made me wish I never told you.

7. Dont feel sorry for me, ask me about other jobs I could be doing, ask me what my goals are in life, offer to help me with a resume or lecture me about my future. If I need help in career planning or employment pathways I will ask. If, by the way, I do want to consider other options outside the sex industry, dont presume it’s because I hate the sex industry and am ready to repent.

8. Dont tell me if you think its hot that I’m a hooker or I’ll charge you by the hour. Its my job, I’m not at work. If you were talking to me as a hooker, you’d be paying me by the hour.  In my personal life I like people who like me even when I’m not a hooker.

9. Dont compare me to other sex workers, either positively or negatively. You don’t make me feel good by telling me I’m smarter than other hookers, or that at least I don’t work off the street. You might think you are giving me a compliment, but it’s very backhanded. Not to mention, what if I do work from the street, or have worked from the street. Your judgements are showing again.

10. Dont ask me about the intricacies of my work unless its necessary or I give you permission to ask. It’s like a doctor doesn’t want to start looking at everyone’s skin irritations and swollen glands when they are at a BBQ. Also when you ask me if my clients are gross or dirty, or if I kiss, or how often I get tested, or how many clients i fuck in a shift, I know your making those judgements about me. Why else do you want to know about the attractiveness of my clients or how many of them I have sex with? You’re being grossed out and it’s offensive.

11. Dont tell me you couldn’t do it. Yes you could, you just choose not too. I’m not superhuman, I wasnt born with a whore gene. I find it insulting when someone thinks there is something inherently different about me. I would rather not work as a plumber cleaning shitty sewage pipes, but I COULD do it. Obviously.

Now, obviously there will be times when some of these questions feel relevent to you. For example if you are in a sexual monogamous relationship with someone, their sexual practices at work, especially their safe sex practices, may be important to you. I am not saying you have no rights to ask those questions, I am saying it’s probably not a good time to ask those questions at the time of disclosure. I am suggesting that you listen, trust, show your non judgement first. Then at a different time when you have had time to consider what you really need to know and for what reasons you can have that conversation. Be clear though, that your insecurities or concerns or lack of awareness are usually your issues. We may be willing to help you work through them, but it’s important you own it.

If you want to ensure that people feel comfortable and safe enough around you to disclose their sex work status, or share stories or information about their work, there are some things you can do to help make that more possible.

1. When you hear stories about sex workers anywhere ever, speak up! Show your support. You never know who around you might do or might have done sex work. Maybe it’s them telling you the story, testing the waters, checking your reaction before telling you about their own sex work.

2. When someone discloses let them know that you are cool about their job and then follow their lead. How you do this will depend on your relationship if you just met someone at a party  “ok, cool, im a teacher/nurse/student/etc” should do the trick. If its your partner “ok, thanks for telling me, i love you/ I really like you/ I support you/etc” and then let them make the next move. If you don’t get all your questions answered right then and there, it’s ok. By providing a safe space you are increasing the likelihood of getting the information you want.

3. Try saying something positive. Like “it’s great you have a job that fits around your studying/parenting/other interests or responsibilities” and just see what they say. You are all of a sudden giving us permission to talk about our job both the positive and the negative. You have shown us in one sentence that you hold no judgements. In fact I really really recommend you try saying this to someone when they tell you they are a sex worker. Let me know how it goes.

Of course all of this only applies to those that have any desire to have the person  in their life in any capacity in the future and for those who want the person disclosing to feel safe in their presence and those who wish to behave appropriately and respectfully. You may have some concerns or some feelings about the issue and that is ok, you may even be unsure about your feelings. But there is plenty of time  to work through any whorephobia you may have lurking later. If you are willing.

However if you have a big problem with sex work or sex workers and you have a severe reaction to the disclosure it might be best if you quietly leave the room without making a scene. Try to say as little as possible so as to not incriminate yourself any further. I just told you what my job is, not that I’m about to murder someone. I don’t need to explain myself. I don’t need your permission. I don’t need your judgement. I have heard  it all before and I was expecting this. If you stick around and show me how you really feel either purposefully or inadvertently,  I will react in one of two ways 1. I’ll answer your questions say what you need to hear, respond in the ways i need to get your approval and make it stop  or I’ll defend myself, stand my ground, put you in your place. And you don’t want to be  put in your place by an angry hooker. for real.

After all of this, if your still looking for something to say let me suggest “can I get you a drink?”

Welcome To My Boudoir

Tags

brothels, clients, escort, friends and family, laws, Melbourne, money, personal stories, sex industry, Sex Work, south australia

Yesterday I got the keys to my new work space, my very own unit! And today I did my first jobs from there.  I have worked in so many different spaces over the years, both for myself and for other people but I have never had my very own place just for me. It’s all mine and mine alone and it is very exciting. Setting it up and slowly settling in, I have been enjoying the challenge of decorating my new workplace in practical and attractive ways that are economical. I refuse to spend money that I haven’t yet earned, I’m not a gambling woman. Pilfering from my home, accepting donations of old furniture from friends and  towels and linen from ex workers and  watching my ideal work space come together, dreaming about future white goods and artwork. I can put things where ever I want, and they will still be there in the same spot when I come back the next day. It’s so fun not having to compromise with other people!

So because workrooms, brothel décor and furniture placement is what is on my mind I have decided to write about the places I have been paid to fuck in. There have been so many different places I have had paid sex but some things were always the same.

My first ever sex work booking was in a gym after hours. I had just started escorting and my first client was the Gym Manager. During that booking his desk became my workbench, I laid back on it with my legs in the air and he fucked me. The building was dark, big and a little daunting. Afterwards I washed at the basin in the ladies toilets. These days, after so many beds,  it would be a fun and interesting job, but back then for my first time, a well-lit private bedroom would have been preferable.

Over the years during escort bookings I have fucked in offices, in ware houses, in cars, in trucks, in the kitchen of a golf club during business hours, on couches, in wives beds, on the floors of empty houses with for sale signs out the front, in backyard sheds, in make shift floor beds, on spare single beds, in spa’s, in caravans, in hotels and motels and probably plenty of other places that i cannot think of.

Being in a clients home is never predictable, the clients might be but their homes and hospitality vary massively. Some clients will show you straight to the makeshift bed on the lounge room floor. Out of respect for their partners they wont do you in the marital bed or even let you close to the bedroom. Others don’t care and will have you in their bed with wedding pictures and children’s toys all around. Sometimes you get the distinct impression there might even be kids asleep in another room somewhere. I have been lucky to not be chased out of a house by an angry partner. Yet. It is a fear though, so I always keep my clothes and money close!

Some want you to have a drink with them or listen to their music or show you their garden or play a game of pool or introduce their dog or show off their big screen tv. Some wont want you anywhere near their things. Some have immaculately clean houses, some don’t. Sometimes you’re at a bachelor share pad in the middle of the day while the other house mates are at work and it doesn’t look like someone has cleaned the shower in years, let alone washed a towel for you. Sometimes you do it on their parents bed because they are away for the weekend and its cleaner than your clients bed.

The only thing the workspaces on my escort bookings have had in common is privacy. I do insist on privacy.  The cars have been parked on private property (like in the warehouse haha), the trucks have cute little private bed cubicles and I wont go into a house if I think there is more than my client at home. But once my client is horizontal, my handbag of tricks becomes my portable workstation containing all the tools of my trade such as condom, lube, massage oil, toys, wet ones and a mobile phone sometimes even some lip gloss.

But I prefer in-house work, where the client visits me and I get to control the environment. I pick the music, offer the drink, invite them to lay on my bed, set the lighting and make sure I have clean towels. Make my sex work space is the way I like it. The first brothel I worked at taught me everything I know about a good sex work space. Back in those days the police were very active and my boss used to move the brothel from townhouse to townhouse in order to evade the police or reopen after a bust. She told me it was important to have a place with an address that was simple and easy to find and impossible to confuse. It was so important to reduce the likelihood of clients going to the wrong door and  causing neighbours to complain and alert the police.

The town houses were 3 bedrooms with two bedrooms converted into work rooms and one being used for a client waiting room. There was a private space for workers (usually the kitchen)that was off limits to clients and whole place would be immaculate and clean.

In our work room we had a queen size firm and stable bed. No creeks or squeaks to distract  our clients during the important bits. Condoms in different sizes and flavours and sachets of lube in the bedside drawer. Tissues, wet ones, massage oil and talcum powder on the bedside table. A chair for clients to put their clothes on, a CD player with something like enya or sade playing, prettily rolled up fluffy towels stacked on a small stand and another towel on the bed folded into a fan like (wh)origami. After taking the clients money we unfold the towel flat onto the bed so the client could lay on it, decreasing any spills onto the bed sheets. And ofcourse there was a clock.

Most of the brothels I’ve worked at since then were pretty similar to this set up, although with varying degrees of cleanliness, classiness, and attractiveness. In Adelaide our brothels are so basic because the illegality prevents people from investing in them. Noone wants to put in spa’s and ceiling mirrors when it could be closed down any minute. Brothels are mostly rented premises in residential areas with usually only two or three work rooms.

Some of the brothels I worked at did not have condoms or lube in the room because they were worried about them being used as evidence, so they would be kept under lock and key only distributed sparingly as needed.

Some  staff rooms double as a waiting room for clients, meaning workers are always on display and on duty even between jobs. I hate that. Who wants to get stuck talking to someone elses client for twenty minutes while he waits for his worker? You have to be sweet and polite and noone is even paying you!

While most brothels I have worked in have been nicely decorated, with classy and sensual framed prints hanging on the walls there were some exceptions. One place I worked was decorated with framed photographs of the owners parents, children and family members. I always found this bizarre and slightly off-putting. I wonder if it was yet another strategy to throw the cops of the scent.

And then there was Melbourne, an eye opener. Ten work rooms, a shop front where the clients just let themselves in, big massive dressing room for the workers, showers built into every room, music playing in hidden speakers in every room, special purple lamps to do STI checks on clients, buzzers and intercoms in our rooms. And this brothel also had a couple of themed rooms, a B&D room with a big wooden chair with buckles on it, a rack with lots of toys and pain inflicting devices, and bed with bars and handcuffs attached to it. It also had an orgy room with a king size bed, a day bed and a spa in the room. But even with all the new features and modern conveniences, everything else was the same, there was still a bed, the towel folding, the tissues, wet ones, condoms and lube.

In my private work I have rented rooms with or from other workers and in hotels, motels and apartments. I bring my own towels, I put on the clock radio on for music and I take my money down to my car between jobs as there is often nowhere to hide it when in a small hotel room with your client right there. I put on the big room light for doing business and a softer bedside lamp for doing….. business. I have the same set up with my whorigami on the bed, my tissues, wet ones, lube, oil, talcum and sometimes my toys on the bedside table. I hang my sexy costumes and lingerie in sight for decoration and eye candy.

And there have been times when I worked on the floor, behind a screen on my friend’s apartment floor, or times when I worked on my other friends couch whist visiting her in Darwin (she was working from her bedroom). Times when I rented a room from the Asian parlour around the corner or from the busy suburban brothel 2 suburbs away. Each time I do my best to try ensure the space is private, clean, practical and comfortable and has some ambience or atmosphere. But even when I don’t, it doesn’t stop the clients from paying.  I have always felt guilty when inviting clients somewhere that I consider not up to scratch but they never seem to care. They are not there for the towel folding or the music playing.

But I am really enjoying being  able to offer my clients a shower in private, playing good music in the background and buying lots of fluffy soft towels. Maybe I should put my prices up?

I am a whore

Tags

discrimination, feminism, language, prostitute, rants, sex industry, Sex Work, slut, stigma, whore shame

And other words you shouldn’t call me…

You may have noticed the name of my blog and my frequent use of the word whore. A lot of people have wondered why I use that particular word and many have suggested that I shouldn’t. Some people have told me that in order to win more friends I should not use such strong language, others have told me that I shouldn’t put myself down like that, I should have more pride. I’ve also been told that it is such an evil word that we should rid it from our language,  no woman is a whore.

I would just like to respond to those comments before I continue:

• I’m anonymous, I don’t need to compromise who I am here in order to make friends. This blog is not about conforming to appease people, it’s about sharing myself in order to offer a perspective on… being a whore.
• Thanks for your concern but I have so much whore pride its dangerous, have you read my blog? Does it look like I’m consumed in hooker shame? Whore isn’t my confession and I’m not asking for your forgiveness.
• And guess what? you’re wrong! some women (and others) are whores… Hi! Sorry, you can’t rid me from your language!

Whore is a word I am choosing to reclaim to describe the job I do and the stigma I face. The fact that it upsets so many people only reaffirms my desire to call myself a whore and watch the people squirm. Why does a sexually and/or financially independent or liberated or adventurous or nonconforming woman stress you out so much? Why is whore so much more offensive than say – wife or student or nurse and all of the stereotypes they imply. Who cares if I’m a whore! Whore whore whore whore whore!! I like the word slut for the same reason. As women these words control us in ways that are so ingrained in society and in our own psyche we barely recognise them. What are we so ashamed of? What are we scared of? Or who cares so much about the sex life of the person next to us? And what even is a slut or a whore? Just words often used as nasty insults rather than a descriptions of someones sex life or work life or both. Lets face it, how many people reading this have been called a whore or a slut, or called someone else a whore or a slut and it had absolutely nothing to do with sex or money? Anyone has the potential to be called a whore or a slut, these words serve to control us all by shaming some of us. The more we all run from these words, the more power they have. By reclaiming the word whore I feel like I am taking away its sting and its ability to hurt me and at the same time I am standing up to the whore hating slut shaming bullies. Standing up with woman kind, with slut kind and with whore kind, with human kind, standing tall and united.

When you call her a slut, you call me a slut, and we are all sluts… now what? Yes I am a whore, I have sex for money which makes me a whore.. so what?

Not only that, I think Whore is so powerful and strong and has an ancient and sacred context. Almost a modern day witch. I am a whore. Hear me roar!

That doesn’t mean all of us are ok with the word whore. Given that it is still used in very derogatory ways, and is considered an insult of the worst kind by most people in our society, you better be careful who you are calling a whore. Sex worker is the politically correct terminology. If you are referring to another sex worker you should use sex work and sex worker unless told otherwise.

Sex worker is the preferred language because it places sex work clearly as work. It doesn’t hold any connotations and it doesn’t make any judgements. It includes all of our community in all our diversity and shows respect to our stated wishes. Basically you should call us sex workers because we said so, and you don’t need a better reason than that.

You should not call us prostitutes. Well not without our permission. In Australia many sex workers find the ‘P’ word offensive. In everyday language prostitute has come to mean sell out or without morals and has nothing to do with the type of work we do. IE/ ‘he is now prostituting himself to corporate sector’. Even when describing our work prostitution is not always accurate. Prostitution generally refers to full sexual intercourse whereas many sex workers do not provide intercourse. I personally am not upset by the word prostitute, but if you are in the media or in politics and you use the P word despite having being asked not to thousands of times by sex workers and our representative organisations, then shame on you! You should know better! Sex worker is what you have been asked to call us, have some respect!

Other names I have been called include hooker, escort, masseuse, working girl, lady of the night, mattress actress, call girl, ho, street walker and many many many more.

They all hold their connotations and we all identify with and/or hate them differently. I personally do not identify as an escort because an escort visits the client in their hotel or home or whatever whereas I more often provide an inhouse service. I don’t mind being called a hooker, but if you’re using the word ho or whore you better use it with love. And that’s just me.

If you don’t know what language someone uses to describe themselves, use sex worker. If you’re speaking formally to or about sex workers, say sex worker. At parties and BBq’s, in the media and in online conversations, say sex worker. Inhouse sex workers, street based sex workers, escort/visiting sex workers, sex workers in strip clubs and in the porn industry, phone sex workers, male, female and gender diverse sex workers, young sex workers, migrant sex workers, private and independent sex workers, sex workers employed in brothels and agencies. Sex workers, sex workers, sex workers. You get the idea.

I know it might sound confusing, I can call myself a whore or whatever else I want but you have to call me a sex worker. If you think about it though, you will notice many marginalised groups are reclaiming and using language that was once used derogatorily against them, while at the same time asking people outside of their community use language that is neutral and respectful. You have no right to reclaim language on behalf of a marginalised community you don’t belong to unless you have been given permission. And even then, permission is usually only good for a specific circumstance or context and does not necessarily give you a free pass to say what you want when you want just because you once dated someone who didn’t mind being called a prostitute. If you are not a sex worker and you choose to use language that holds negative connotations to describe us or our work without any right to do so, you are being disrespectful. If you continue to use disrespectful language even after you have been asked not you, you are a bigot.

To put it another way,

I am a whore amongst whores, a sex worker in public and If you are lucky enough to meet me socially or get me behind closed doors… you can call me Jane.

The boys in brown

Tags

clients, cops, country towns, discrimination, fantasy, friends and family, laws, Love, money, personal stories, Relationships, sex industry, Sex Work, south australia, stigma

I used to travel around South Australia and sometimes beyond for a weekend every month in order to sex work anonymously. I had an arrangement with my partner at the time that I could work with his blessing but not in our own city where the chances of me fucking his boss were increased. The first time I went away it was a risk, a financial risk but it felt risky in other ways too because I was not sure what to expect of the town, of the clients, of the accommodation, or any other variable I could imagine. I hired a driver, a friend of a friend. We agreed that I would pay him a flat fee for the weekend to drive me there and back and to all my jobs. He was employed to provide my transport and my security. I was worried that I wouldn’t make enough money to pay him and still make a good profit but I need’nt have, I was very busy. And so my successful out of town business (ad)ventures continued for a couple of years. I have many stories to tell about these trips away, about the clients, the towns, the jobs, the way I felt. But this story is about the time I was kicked out of town by the boys in brown.

It was the third time I had been to this particular seaside town and each time I had had mixed results. The first time I made a fortune and the second time I barely covered costs. But this time was going to be a winner, my add in the local paper had scored me many back to back confirmed bookings and many more enquiries.

On this occasion I had decided to fly rather than drive and with no car I had no requirement for a driver. I arrived in town alone with a reservation for a nice holiday apartment, my mobile phone, my bag of tricks and a booking sheet full of in-call appointments. It was too early to check into my apartment so I wandered around town window shopping and buying supplies for the weekend. The phone was ringing off the hook but it was mostly just my first client pestering to come and see me early. I kept explaining that I hadn’t yet checked into my apartment yet and that I would call him when I was ready. He was very eager.

It is because of over eager clients like him (among other reasons) that I don’t give out my address until I am ready to greet them at the door. I will take the booking and their phone number and give them a general vicinity of my apartment but I make them call me again 10 mins before the booking to get the full details. This stops anyone knocking at my door before I am ready, when I am not there or when I am with another client. It also means that it is only the genuine clients that know exactly where I am. Makes me feel safer.

Eventually the time came when I could head back to my apartment and check in.  I had done my best to choose a holiday apartment that was suitable to work from. And by suitable I mean, no management on premises and definitely no reception that the client had to walk through before getting to me. I also consider things like, security, but not too much security. I want my clients to be able to get from their car to my front door with as little fuss as possible. And so do they generally. This apartment met all the criteria but  the caretakers were hanging around cleaning some of the recently vacated apartments which always make me nervous. And my first client was still calling. I decided to let him come what was almost two hours early because that would mean I would have a two hour break before my next booking and would hopefully rouse less suspicion the from caretakers if they happened to still be hanging around.

I set up my apartment ready for work. In the bedroom I had my tissues and wet ones on one bedside table and massage oil and talcum powder on the other. In one bedside of drawer I have the condoms and lube and the other I have my toys. In an open cupboard I have my costumes, lingerie and dress ups, all aimed at exciting a client or extending a booking or charging extra. Just having them there in view is often enough to help the session along, or plant the seed for a second booking.

I cover the bed with a coverall blanket over all the bedding and place a nicely folded towel on top. When the client comes I unfold the towel for them to lie on decreasing any mess. At the end of the night I get my own pillow from home and take the blanket off the bed leaving fresh bedding for me to sleep in.

I turn the big lights off and the bedside lamps on. I like background music playing, preferably something smooth and sexy with some bass but the clock radio was often all I had.

In the lounge I had porn playing on mute. Purely to encourage longer bookings and to provide a more… inclusive service, not just a bedroom one. Which is why I also had lots of snacks and beverages to offer clients. I had higher prices and discounts for longer bookings trying to decrease clients without decreasing my profits. Mainly because I was scared of being noticed by the hotels I stayed in and so I didn’t want a steady stream of men coming and going. I had the breath mints out, drinks in the fridge, 2 mobile phones and a piece of paper full of names, numbers and times.

I was nearly ready so I gave my first client the details of where to come but asked him to wait 15 more mins and he agreed. I was hoping the caretakers would leave before he came but of course he doesn’t wait he arrives straight away. I should have known by his incessant phone calls. I let him in and I asked him how long he would like to stay for, which is  really just a prompt for “let’s do business”  since we have already discussed on the phone how long. He tells me and I ask for the agreed upon fee. He doesn’t have enough money.

He did the usual “Oh, I’ll go to the bank and come straight back” routine. Its annoying at the best of times but this time, I was anxious because of the caretakers still hanging around the site. I wanted him to stay rather than come and go and come back again so I asked him how much money he had on him and negotiated a shorter service for a lesser fee, just to keep him in my apartment. Again, hoping that the caretakers would leave before he finished.

He paid, he stayed and he loved it. When I showed him out I was happy to notice the caretakers had left. I shut the door behind him, chucked my money with the phones and booking sheet and went to jump in the shower. But there was a knock at the door. I thought it was going to be my annoying client who had already proven a lack of understanding of my way of doing business. I had only shown him out the door less than 5 mins ago, maybe he left his keys behind or something. I hadn’t yet given my address out to anybody else.

So I threw on my dress quickly, no underwear and opened the door. It took me a minute to process who was on the other side, two guys wearing a brown uniform. The country police.

“We have reason to believe you are running a prostitution business from here”

I laughed. “Why on earth would you think that?” I don’t know how convincing I sounded, I usually lie pretty badly, so I’m guessing I was hopeless.

Apparently the caretakers had called them. I couldn’t believe it. “I have had one male friend visit me and you think I am a prostitute!!!?” I wasn’t actually faking my indignation. Apparently my stupid client had said something to one of them on his way up. Something like “Do I pay you?”.

“So one stupid man asks if he pays the hotel caretaker and that makes ME a prostitute? How ridiculous, maybe he was wanting to rent a room or something”.

No, I have to leave the apartment regardless because it is the prerogative of management and they have asked me to leave. It seemed I didn’t have much choice so I agreed to pack my stuff. Both the cops came into the apartment to “help me pack up”.

Take a moment to think back to the scene I described earlier about how I had my apartment set up, what I was wearing, and the money next to the booking sheet, next to my phones. It became obvious what was going on.

They went all good cop/bad cop on me. They took my details and tried to insist I gave them the phone numbers for both the phones. I wouldn’t admit to their allegations and I refused to give them the second mobile number. It would link to my adds. So I told them it was my phone for my straight job and that I did not want them calling me at work accusing me of being a prostitute! I knew my rights, all I have to give is my name date of birth and address. I didn’t have to say anything else.

And THEN the bad cop came in with a camera! He was going to take a photo of me. I hadn’t even been charged with anything. I asked him if I had a right to refuse and he said “oh it’s just something we do now”. I said again “do I have a right to refuse?” He said “sure you can refuse but then I’ll take you down the station and charge you with prostitution”.

By this time in my life I knew the laws pretty much back to front. Probably better than mister bad cop and his good cop partner put together. There is no charge of “prostitution” there are a range of other charges such soliciting, receiving money in a brothel etc, but he didn’t have any evidence for anything. He had one guy, one girl and some porn. Sure they could claim I was going to engage in illegal activity by turning the hotel room into a ‘brothel’ with the booking sheet but it’s not illegal until you do it.

So I refused the photo and told him he had no evidence to press charges. I was relieved when he didn’t try anyway but on the way out he told me that if I tried any other hotel they would find me there too and I believed him. So I gave up. I changed my flights so I could fly home that night and headed out to the airport. I had hours to wait so I sat and drank the wine I had bought for my clients and contacted all my bookings to cancel and let them know what had happened.

One of my clients was so disappointed he asked if he could come see me right there, right now in the airport. After a few wines and a big financial loss this actually seemed like an option. After all I still had the whole afternoon to wait and I was bored. So I agreed. He picked me up in his ute and drove me to a quiet spot not far from the airport.

40 mins later he dropped me back at the airport and I’d almost recovered my loss. And I had another good story.

But baby, just think of what we could do..

Tags

brothels, couples, discrimination, feminism, friends and family, Love, money, parenting, personal stories, Relationships, sex industry, Sex Work, single mothers, south australia, stigma

Another love story. Complete with love, lies, sex, summer holidays and a little bit of communication. When I met Luke I was happily hooking in a brothel 2 shifts a week, studying part-time, working a ‘straight’  job and parenting but I still found time to do a little partying. I was single, my kids spent a couple of nights a week with their father and I was still young so every now and then I’d go out on the town with my besti’s and on some of these occasions I got lucky. Or I should say, sometimes I went home with someone and they got lucky!

By this point in life I had made a decision to keep my sex work job a secret. I had children to think of, I had an ex partner, the father of my kids, who I didn’t want to give ammunition, I had study, a straight job and a future. I was not ashamed of my sex work, it was just such a non issue that I couldn’t be bothered dealing with the stigma if I didn’t have to, and I wanted to protect my children from it. It was sex work that had allowed me study part-time, given me the freedom  to be a single mum rather than stay in an unhappy relationship, allowed me pick and choose straight jobs, only accepting those that were flexible and willing to work around my family and my study. It  was sex work that meant I could buy the expensive texts books I needed for Uni, and take my kids to overpriced music lessons and still left me with enough money to have a big night out every now and then. I was desperately scared of having to give all that up and I thought that keeping it a secret would prevent that from happening.

And it worked. I didn’t tell Luke the night I met him at the party. Actually we had met quite a few times over the years, but he had never really left an impression on me before. But that night he did and we spent the night together and then later in the week another night and then an afternoon. I didn’t want to tell him my secret because then it’s not a secret. What if we stopped  seeing each other after a short time and then he told everyone else. I decided it was none of his business and that if we were still seeing each other after 3 months I would tell him.

3 months came and went and Luke and I were still seeing each other. He spent time with me and the kids and it was getting fairly serious. I had dropped my shifts in the brothel back to only one per week, and I didn’t want to tell him. I knew by now that he would hate it. I knew that he would make me stop. I knew he would be upset I had kept it from him. And I knew it didn’t have to be that way. We were not living together so I still had my own expenses, and my brothel shift just moulded seamlessly into my busy and respectable life, I wasn’t technically lying…… I just said I was going to work.

I didn’t want to give up what I viewed as my independence and so I kept sex working and I kept it a secret. For nearly two years.

Possibly not the right thing to do, but I am certainly not alone. Half the people I worked with at the time were hiding it from their partners as well. It seems easy to justify when you know it’s just work. And as time went on, it just seemed more and more impossible to tell him. I wanted him to know, sometimes I felt like he just didn’t want to know. I mean, why didn’t he ask more questions, Even if he didn’t notice the extra money I was sure I was dropping hints. But no, I worked once a week in a brothel for more than 18 months and it seems my partner had no idea.

And then one day, in the middle of a big blow up argument, about something unrelated and I can’t even remember what now, I yelled the words at him. “I DON’T CARE, I’VE BEEN A PROSTITUTE THE WHOLE TIME YOU’VE KNOWN ME”

I meant it as a cutting end to our argument, to our relationship, to my lies, and possibly to my job. I had thought about what would happen if he found out and I knew he’d be pretty pissed! I wouldn’t have been surprised if he put a hole in a nearby wall. But I screamed it at him and he just looked at me blankly and said “you are not!”

And so I told him everything. His calmness floored me, so my manner changed. I lost my anger and I felt guilt and sadness for hurting him. I explained myself, I consoled him, I explained myself some more, I apologised and, of course, I did the inevitable. I promised to stop working. We  talked and to my surprise  he was willing to forgive me, and I guess that made him even more appealing to me.

I quit my job, took up extra hours in my straight job, and moved in with him to save money. I felt like I gave up some of my independence  but I was ok about that. I kept it up for around 12 months but after a year of no sex work, and less flexibility in my other job, I was suffering financially. So was my partner, he had acquired an instant family to help support and we were all feeling the pinch. I had been faithful to my pledge to not do sex work, but we were struggling. It was on my mind, and I began making jokes about it. The bills would come in and he would be complaining so Id say, “one night in a brothel, I could clear them for us”, he would ignore me or give me an annoyed look. But neither of us could deny that money was tight and something had to give. I kept making my jokes, but I started throwing in extra sweeteners “we could even go on a holiday!”

“But honey, just think of what we could do!”

He still didn’t agree, but he seemed more open to the idea the more I kept bringing it up. One day he snapped at me “Oh for gods sake, you want to go back to work, just do it then”. I nearly squealed with excitement, but thought that might be an unhelpful reaction. So we sat and had a very open and long conversation about it. I asked him what his main concerns were. He said he trusts me, he knows it’s just work. I reminded him that he knows it wont effect our relationship, because I had already been doing it in the past and he didn’t even know. Eventually he confessed one of his biggest fears about me being a sex worker, was that I might fuck one of his friends or colleagues as a client, or I might be recognised and outed in public.

Jealousy is an awful emotion, and one that is difficult to control. Everyone experiences it differently and for different reasons. His fear seemed silly to me, but I was glad he was able to figure it out and communicate it to me. It meant that we could find a way for me to do sex work that he could live with. We decided that I would go away to work outside Adelaide, where it was unlikely I would see anyone either of us knew and where I could remain anonymous. So for the next 12 months I went away once a month to rural and regional South Australia for working weekends with friends.

And because I felt privileged to be able to go back to work with my partners blessing I used my money very wisely. I knew we were taking a risk in our relationship and I wanted to make it worth it. In 12 months, I managed to pay off our credit card debt and saved enough money to take us on that holiday I had suggested.

I used to joke that I was bribing my partner to “let me” work by paying for us to go to the Greek Islands, but it wasn’t actually like that. I did have to convince him to be ok with me going back to sex work, but we were a partnership, and I felt equal in that partnership, we had developed an arrangement that worked well for us, and sex work had become a part of that arrangement.

And it is hard to argue while holidaying in the beautiful Mediterranean summer!

Stop the Trafic – The Red Light

Tags

brothels, consent, discrimination, feminism, laws, money, rants, sex industry, Sex Work, south australia, stigma, the boss, unions, work, workers rights

This is part three in my series of posts about trafficking. I previously wrote about my suspicions in regards to the portrayal of sex trafficking in the media, and the motivations of the anti trafficking industry in Peak Hour, and the negative outcomes of the trafficking hysteria in The Car Crash. This post is the answer. A green light for migrant sex workers and a red light for trafficking.

If you follow on from my original post the answer seems really obvious to me. There are many sex workers all around the world who travel or would like to travel. Just let them do it.

Let people apply for working Visa’s in Australia as a sex worker. As I have mentioned, I personally have the contact details of at least 10 sex workers currently working in China who would love to come to Australia to work in your brothel, if they could get a Visa. The barrier is that they are unable to get a working Visa as a sex worker. Not to mention the process of applying for Visa’s to enter Australia is extremely difficult because we conveniently do not translate the required documents, so people who do not speak or read English, often need a third person to help them apply for their travel documents. Some of the sex workers I referred to have considered paying a third person a lot of money to assist them in travelling to Australia to work, and some knew other workers who had done that. Obviously being in a lot of debt to the person assisting you travel or your employer does create vulnerabilities for the worker though, it can take away a some of their bargaining power and in some cases could restrict the sex workers choices.  A few simple changes could allow sex workers from around the world to come to Australia willingly to work. There would be no demand for stolen or coerced non sex working Asian women in the sex industry, because lets face it while having sex slaves in place of willing workers might be slightly better for short term profits, it has got to create some serious challenges. Cut out the middle man and the demand by allowing migrant sex workers to enter and work in Australia legally and independently.

That is ofcourse if your concern is stopping trafficking, and not stopping sex work.

It might also be useful to educate all sex workers, our employers, our clients and the general community about our rights, in appropriate and useful ways. Through our peer organisations and that are supported to make sure they can outreach to all sex workers from all backgrounds making sure people know their rights. Make sure we all know what we should expect and what is not OK at work so that we are less likely to be exploited or treated badly and we know what to do or who we can get more information or support from if we do have problems at work.

Of course, where I live in South Australia that would mean giving us some rights in the first place. Decriminalise sex work, and give us our rights!

Educate the wider community, health and welfare services and the police to treat sex workers with respect. Help break down the stigma of being or seeing a sex worker, so that we can talk to people about what’s going on without fear of being judged. The discriminatory perceptions that exist about sex workers and our clients doesn’t make it easy for us to share anything openly or honestly, or to voice our concerns.

Take crimes against us seriously. Dont turn it into a witch hunt on an entire industry, or blame my choice of work, just give me the support I need and deal with the crime at hand. Create safe spaces for people to report crimes, concerns or suspicions and then treat those reports seriously, and respectfully, like you would if the crime or complaint had been committed in a restaurant.

Encourage and  support our organising. In Australia, we havent got our own union, but we have our own workers rights groups and organisations. Many sex workers are members of those organisations and many many many more sex workers receive support, information or advocacy around workplace issues from these groups and organisations. They are also fighting for our workers rights at a state and national level. Strong sex worker organising reduces the risks of us being exploited at work.

Stop the police raids. Stop pushing us and our workplaces, industry, employers and clients so far underground that we can barely see the light. Change the approach and try protecting sex workers instead of scaring us. Save the raids for actual crimes.

Is it really that difficult? Want to stop slavery? Free the slaves.

Seriously, allow sex workers to travel to Australia and work in the sex industry legally, educate them on how to do that, give us rights, make sure we know our rights, create safe and supportive spaces for us or our clients to report crimes or concerns or to make complaints, treat those reports with respect and take them seriously, stop thinking and suggesting that being treated badly is part of doing sex work, support us to organise to improve our work conditions for all sex workers and make the cops protect us instead or raiding us.