May 28, 2011

Antonia, I hoped I could talk to you about something that happened that I would like your insights and thoughts on. I am older man, 64 almost 65, since my last relationship ended five years ago, I haven’t been with a woman, until a few months ago when I used the services of a sex worker.

Legs: Papa Joe's in Pasadena By Sheila

For the last several years, I was starved for affection. What I really missed was physical affection, I missed touching and being touched, kissing and being kissed. I was so hungry for that. I would go through periods of time of reaching out to women to no avail so I focused on having a rewarding and meaningful life even if I had to be single. I found new things to fill my life. One of the things I found was doing was volunteer work.

One of my volunteer jobs is being on the board of directors of non-profit organization that provides services to domestic and sexual assault survivors. I find this job very rewarding and I’m proud of the agency.  I honestly believe that we are helping many women to live healthy lives because of the services we provided them.

I longed for affection so much that I finally hired a sex worker. The experience was magical. The evening I spent with her I felt so alive, it was like a sunny day after weeks of rain! I was walking on air the next day. Only, I couldn’t really share the experience with people because I was afraid of being judged. Now I feel both good and guilty. It’s nice knowing if I’m starved for affection, I can hire a sex worker.

City Park in NOLA

I also feel guilty and sad. I feel guilty because of my job. My non-profit organization stands for the betterment of women. I believe that no woman should have to live a life with domestic violence or sexual abuse. Paying a sex worker almost feels like a betrayal of that. And to be honest I am afraid of what the people, the wonderful women in my life would think of me if they knew.

It does matter to me, because I value their friendship and their work. And I feel by seeing this sex worker, who I will call Catherine, I am adding to her pain. Catherine told me that at times she is very suicidal. Perhaps a lie, but I do believe her, because she wasn’t asking anything of me, just sharing.

I want to love someone and to be loved by someone. But, I don’t have the power to make it happened. Love happens when it happens. I feel lonely and as hard as I try to change that by doing rewarding work doesn’t fill that loneliness.

Regards, Heathcliff

Dear Heathcliff,

When I read your email, I thought about all of the men like you who I’ve encountered over the years: clients who are conflicted by mixed feelings about sex workers as well as their deeply held principles, desires and needs; men who respect and admire women but have a virgin/whore complex; men who feel guilty deriving pleasure within a system which exploits women. All of those bodies colliding in that messy puddle: desire.

This conversation is long overdue. I can’t answer your question personally without commenting on it culturally. I’m going micro and macro so hold tight while I sort through all of this complexity.

First, something you omitted in your question: where did you find the sex worker? If she is in any way related to your agency and is seeking shelter or help, you are in fact, hurting her and exploiting her extreme vulnerability. Your guilt in this scenario would make perfect sense, as well as your concern about the women you work with at your agency. Your worry about what they would think if they knew you were paying her for sex acts would be valid because you are taking advantage of her weakness. If this is the case, consider quitting the arrangement pronto, before your secret devours you.

If the sex worker is in no way related to your agency, and you sought her out anonymously from a website, it sounds like she would benefit from some counseling services. This conversation should occur outside of the conversation about sexual favors. Consider cutting ties with her on a sexual level indefinitely because of her instability. She may need to talk to someone who is not paying her for sex. That person is not you. That person is a qualified professional.

There are two great places I know of locally that are sliding scale or free counseling if you are in Los Angeles (?) I’ve been to both of these places and they are great:

Southern California Counseling Center here: http://www.sccc-la.org/

The Maple Center here: http://www.tmcc.org/

Back to you. There are several websites to explore to find a clean, safe, escort who is not suicidal. I could send you a personal email with those links for possible leads. In your email you said that you have been starved for affection and then later say you want love. Let’s break that down. They are separate. If you are starved for attention and want to be touched, the sex industry is a good place to go for a one-hour date. Be respectful, punctual, clean and safe. I recommend a sex worker, especially since you are not cheating on a wife or girlfriend in order to meet your sexual needs as long as you understand they are not interested in dating you. The attention they provide is within the constraints of their job and you need to respect that. Seeking romantic love from a sex worker is like going to the Hardware store for eggs.

The guilt you may feel for hiring a sex worker is real, but it’s also informed by our culture, which sells you sex then criminalizes you for purchasing it. You’d be hard pressed to find a man in the US who hasn’t bought a lap dance, hired a girl to perform a bachelor party or paid a chick for a sex act. If you are coming from a respectful place why feel guilty?

Maybe because you don’t want that, after all. Maybe you want a relationship and love. You seem interested in women in a full-bodied, emotional, intellectual way. It seems like you respect and admire women and feel bad exploiting them. I can understand viewing sex workers as an exploited class in general for lots of reasons.

Leaning by Romy

For example, sex workers are an underserved class of women with no protection or health care. One reason is that touching a person with the intent to arouse them and receiving money in exchange is illegal in the US, and so the infrastructure of sex work is unregulated and unsafe here. This invites danger and risk for the sex worker and to a certain degree, the johns.

Statistically, sex workers are victims of violence and considered disposable by our culture, which also desires them with an unbridled compulsion. Personally and culturally, what it means to be a sex worker is complex. What it means to hire one is also complex. Rabid loneliness is where we are at as a culture. We have more means than ever to connect instantly, but it’s not lasting or meaningful. We are compulsive and juvenile in our drive to connect, but remain alone. I relate to your loneliness.

Culturally, the sex industry was designed to cater to the sexual needs of men and use women to that end. Many women do sex work in order to survive. I think maybe you hired one of those women.

There are women who do sex work that are empowered, meaning, they are making a conscious choice and they/we believe that it’s a valuable artistic expression and cultural contribution. they/we come from a place of agency.

I am talking about Annie Sprinkle, Susie Bright and a variety of sex workers. (If you want to know more, I recommend: “Big Sex, Little Death” by Susie Bright and “Post-Porn Modernist” by Annie Sprinkle). Those women had an impact on me. They challenged me to love myself even if my culture doesn’t love me back. Can you love yourself and hire a woman for a sex act?

You may dig empowered sex workers. They will hold you accountable for your specific desires and there will be much discussion about where you are and where you want to be sexually. The sessions will be more about your healing and your consciousness. Be open to learning from these women. They may help you in new exciting ways. The power dynamic will be clear: they are the one in charge of the session. I think you might be more interested in that type of sex worker. This book may be of interest: “Urban Tantra: Sacred Sex for the Twenty-first Century” by Barbara Carrellas. The book is about using sex as a spiritual practice and tool for transformation.

Everyone wants romantic love: culturally, we are taught that finding romantic love will complete us in our desire to become whole, but I don’t agree. We have to be whole on our own in order to enhance someone’s life. If you want to be available for love, you will have to take certain risks, like reaching out to women on a personal level, instead of on websites.

Take this risk: talk to women who interest you in a full-bodied, emotional way that I mentioned earlier. Love happens when it happens but you have to create opportunities for it to happen. You do a lot of volunteer work and are surrounded by people who share similar ideas and solutions.

I love Banksy

I can’t guarantee you will find love or love will find you, but that is my wish for you.

Best of luck,

Antonia

(*For M. Hill-thank you- and the New Orleans Saints)

In 2009, New Orleans was rebuilding its spirit at the same time I was rebuilding mine. I never knew pre-Katrina New Orleans, only its aftermath: destruction and redemption on the bodies of crippled buildings; high water marks like blood on gravestones. The splintered and abandoned double shotgun cottages in the lower Ninth Ward and in the Treme, orange and purple shutters bursting through shambles. Glimpses of brightly colored ghosts, all dressed up for a parade.

St Anne's Parade Mardi Gras

My Mom died of Cancer and I was numb, gutted and alone. I flew to New Orleans from Los Angeles to strip my way through the last year of grad school because I heard there was still money in the topless clubs in the French Quarter.

I placed my past and future on Royal Street and followed it to a foreign place. California had been my Mom: Redwoods and fog and the Pacific Ocean full of fresh crab for Christmas. I’d scattered her ashes off a Mayan temple in Tikal and ended up in a hospital with Typhoid fever. Doctors shoved a needle in my spine and I was quarantined. I projectile vomited and the migraines were back. I needed to get strong again.

In New Orleans, I found traces of the hurricane in the buildings and in the faces of locals. I elbowed my way through the mob on Bourbon Street, which smelled like Red Bull puke, fried fish and beignets. Broke and anonymous, I carried my bag of g-strings and stilettos through the crowd, sucking the hot, wet heat into my new motherless skin.

Angels of Death Mardi Gras

I passed by a man painted silver, posed as a statue on a ladder in a striped suit, defying gravity. I wanted to grab his face and say, “Let’s not stay frozen. Let’s crack together.” I put two dollars in his tip bucket and walked the rest of the way to The Bruiser on Bourbon Street to work.

Here. In the lap of New Orleans, is the Superdome. Construction began in 1971, one year after I was born. It’s the largest fixed dome structure in the world. Once inside, you can’t see the outside world. It was built with no windows.

Outside the Super Dome in August, 2005 were unstoppable rains, whipping winds, dead rats and howling dogs. Rescue workers slept in abandoned cars in parking lots. With fake government ID’s, they went looking for bodies. Scraps of wood that were homes splintered on the ground, covered in sludge. In the wet darkness were piles of abandoned beds and towers of garbage collapsed in the underwater muck. The thing you would hear is the animals howling all night, they said.

Algiers

In 2005, inside the Dome were over 20,000 evacuees on tiny cots. Sleeping and not sleeping in two inches of urine at the 50-yard line. Putrid waste. Hungry half clothed people writhing in the incredible heat. Kids cried for their dogs and cats who were left in an elementary school in St. Bernard’s Parish, entrusted to local policemen who immediately shot them.  A power outage sent a rod crashing through the Super dome’s surface. A gash in it’s golden skin.

In 2009, the Dome held over 76,000 ecstatic Saint’s fans. It was the year the Saints couldn’t lose. I’m not a sports fan. Never have been. At home, it was my Dad who howled for the 49ers. Joe Montana was a household name but in the dank mosquito hole of Visions, with plasma screens on the walls, I threw my arms around every toothless obese local in the room, and yelled along with them, while they blew cigar smoke in my cleavage and Drew Brees threw five touchdown passes against the Patriots, becoming the first player in more than thirty-four years to average more than sixteen yards per attempt in a game.

I danced in a g-string the size of a thread on the bar in Visions and averaged over six hundred bucks per night. The Saints kept winning. Their velocity couldn’t be halted. Their performance caused contagious joy that held the city in a collective kiss. Parades, pralines and gold and black streamers and bands filled the streets. Screams of unbridled joy and horn players played, “When the Saints Go Marching in.”

I rented a cozy apartment in Algiers Point, a white enclave in a predominantly black neighborhood where those eleven guys were murdered trying to get to dry ground during Katrina. On a Sunday, I rode the free ferry across the Mississippi into the French Quarter. A fragile, elderly woman decorated in black and gold Saints pins walked with a cane onto the ferry.

“How’d the Saints do today?” I asked her.

“We kicked some ass baby,” she said. I ran on the levy along the brown river every afternoon to the sound of cicadas and filled the gap in my heart with New Orleans and made it my home. In Algiers Point, I finished my thesis paper for school. I wrote a lecture. I handed in my final manuscript. I ate crawfish and lap danced and paid my bills and stayed a lot longer than I’d planned. I allowed my grief to leak into my writing.  I began to heal from the loss of my Mom. I finished grad school.

When the Saints returned from playing away games, thirty thousand locals welcomed their team home at the airport. New Orleans has a higher crime rate than any other city in the U.S., but during Saint’s games, there were no murders and the crime rate plummeted.

One night at Visions, two huge guys came into the bar and sat down. Thighs like concrete blocks. Necks big as my waist. Bandanas tied around their foreheads. I figured these guys were trouble. Drug dealers. “What do you do?” I asked one of them. They looked at each other. One shrugged.

“How old are you?” He took my jaw in his hands and moved it side to side. “Don’t tell me. You’re 32.”

“Wow. You’re good,” I said. I was actually pushing thirty-eight.

“You just won yourself a topless dance,” I said. Later, in the dressing room, the girls were a-flutter. “That’s number 97 and number 99!” one girl squealed and showed me the guys bio’s on her phone.

When the Saints played the Vikings in the playoffs, we strippers held hands and stared up at the TV and prayed for yardage. The game was tied which meant that the first team to score was going to the Super bowl. The way to determine who got the ball first was a coin toss. The coin toss has always been controversial because the stakes are high and the game is left entirely to chance, which is the same thing as magic.

“Have faith,” Christy said, looking at the screen and grasping my hand tight. The referee tossed the coin and the Saints won; the spirit of New Orleans changed the game, the magic belonged to New Orleans. The Saints kicked a field goal, pushing ahead three points for the victory. All of us screamed and jumped and hugged. The bartenders, security guards, floor managers and customers all held their bellies and cried, doubled over in gushing, full bodied joy, with tears rolling down their cheeks. The Saint’s had never been to a Super Bowl. Ever. There were parades all night in the streets and I danced in the club until the sun came up.

In 2010, the New Orleans Super Dome was given a paintjob to restore the luster of its original “champagne bronze” color. The renovation repaired the damage that occurred during Katrina. The Dome was also given new windows, allowing views into and out of the building and it has a shiny, gold metallic skin, without a trace of damage, but I know it’s there bubbling inside of the joy, glistening like a blazing sun.

Hi, My friend told me that I should write to you. I’ve been thinking about becoming a stripper and I am looking for some perspective. From experience, I know that my ideas turn out to be either extremely amazing or fucking terrible and this idea could clearly go both ways. I’ve gone through the pros and cons and the pros are weighing out the cons. It’s not something I want to jump into without taking the time to figure out if I actually want to do it, and if so, the best way to go about it.

The Kid: Krystal Joy

I’m 18 years old, I’m a student at the community college (high school continuation/duel enrollment program), I live with my mom and my little sister, and I’m sober. I’ve been sober for two years. I got sober when I was 15, two weeks before my birthday. Growing up I wanted to be “perfect” so bad and when I failed, I started getting loaded. I did all the shady things alcoholics and drug addicts do and I hated the person I was. Since getting sober I’ve gained honesty, self-confidence and self-love.

I have goals for myself; for example, I want to work for the FBI. I want to make a difference, somehow, but I also want to be a stripper. I’ve been curious/intrigued/fascinated by exotic dancers ever since I can remember. There is something so sexy about women and their bodies. When I would practice my jazz routines in my basement, I would dance on the pole in the middle of the room. My mom, who is a feminazi, thinks it’s degrading. She thinks I’m going through a phase. She doesn’t want me to do it. I don’t really care, though. She is one of my best friends and I love her but, we just have extremely different views on the situation. In my opinion, beauty pageants are more degrading than strip clubs. Some of my friends know that I’ve been considering it, and most of them say they’ll still love me but I don’t know if that’s true.

Krystal Smile

The rest of my family would disown me or stage an intervention if they found out. Most of the guys I know would call me a whore. The general public doesn’t seem to agree with me when it comes to strippers. I think it takes bold, confident women to undress on stage. I’m not naive to the fact that it can be demoralizing if you let it. I understand its risky business. I see how taking your clothes of for money can easily become fucking strangers for money. The reason this thought has gone from curiosity to decision is because I need the money. I sick of never having enough. I’m sick of watching my mother struggle to make ends meet.

My biggest concern is how it would affect my sobriety. I don’t want to drink or use but, I realize how spiritually fucked I could end up. I know I’d lose a friend or two. I’d probably feel uncomfortable sometimes. But, none of that is making me not want to do it.   Do I just walk into a strip club and ask to audition? I know one pole trick and sometimes I mess it up. Everybody else I’ve talked to has told me to do what I want. Or they’ve tried to talk me out of it. I’m just looking for somebody to tell me the reality of things and guide me in some sort of direction. I think my body is a beautiful thing. Why not share it?

I’m not afraid what people will think about me, I’ve never really given a fuck. But, I don’t want to have to explain myself. I’m not a slut, or a manipulative bitch, and that seems to be the general stereotype I hear from people about strippers. I don’t see stripping as a life or career goal. I don’t know what I see it as. It could be an opportunity to express my sexuality and a way to make quick cash. Maybe I need to “get it out of my system”. I can’t necessarily put “exotic dancer” on a resume. Who knows, maybe some of the other decisions I’ve made in life have already prevented me from working for the FBI. The visible tattoos and shaved head might have left me fucked career wise. I like to break the mold. I don’t think I’m terminally unique, but I like to go about things differently. I major in criminal justice and psychology.

Free Your Head

I want to take down the real criminals: the ones who rape and kill other people. But, I also want to entertain people. I want to show off the amazing ink on my skin. The things I’m worried about the most, though, are how it will affect my future, how it will affect the relationship I do have, how it will affect me in general. Maybe I’m glamorizing stripping in my head. Maybe the money isn’t worth it. My sobriety is the most important thing in my life and I’m definitely not willing to lose it, but maybe I can have both? Maybe.

I’m imaging myself as a pussycat doll, like a burlesque dancer. I live in Portland, and there is no shortage of strip clubs. I’m sure I can find a classy establishment. I don’t want to end up a coked out whore giving blowjobs for drugs. That’s my biggest fear. I don’t want to throw away my morals. I don’t have many, and I hold on to the ones I have. I’ve grown a lot since I’ve been sober and I don’t want to go back to that person I was. I will also admit to enjoying the way my sexuality has on people. I’m attractive. I guess I want to show people that strippers are confident and intelligent women. I think it would be a learning experience. That sounds so cheesy and obnoxious but it’s true. I don’t know what I’m trying to learn but I’d learn something. Please help.

Krystal Joy

Dear Krystal Joy,  I’ve been thinking about you for several days. I’ve been thinking about how much great stuff you have going on in your life. You’re sober, which is amazing and unusual. You’re in school and you hope to pursue a career in the field of private investigating. I’ve been thinking about your Mom and your sister, and how close you are with them and how you want to make a positive change in the world. I’ve been thinking about your fear of being a homeless crack whore. I’ve been thinking how stripping sounds like something kind of scary and delightful to you-and it is-but it’s so much more than that. Stripping is not a pole-dancing lesson.

I won’t make the mistake of telling you what to do.  If I did, you’d sprint in the opposite direction.  I can only tell you my experience and how I made the decision to strip and how difficult it is to not strip once you are in the clubs. How my body is tired, my neck is out, my shoulders are forever injured, but that I am still dancing and making more money than ever.  I’ve been thinking about what it was like when I was close to your age and I wanted to strip too. Mostly, I wanted to tell you something no one told me when I was your age:

Sometimes you take one detour and the rest of your life is altered forever. I’d like to stand in that crossroads with you for a while.

You say you want to do this with your life: “I want to take down the real criminals: the ones who rape and kill other people. But, I also want to entertain people. I want to show off the amazing ink on my skin. The things I’m worried about the most, though, are how it will affect my future, how it will affect the relationship I do have, how it will affect me in general.”

You have a generous heart. You’re concerned for the disenfranchised members of society who may not have the power to protect themselves.  You are a bit of an exhibitionist. You want to entertain. You are worried about your relationships and your future and you are thinking carefully about what lies ahead. There are many careers you could consider. Some that come to mind are: teacher, counselor, social worker, fireman, nurse, law enforcement, comedian, principal, tattoo artist, dancer.

Notice, stripper is not on that list.

Like you, when I began stripping, I needed the money. But if I am honest with myself, that wasn’t it. I wanted to piss off my conservative, Republican, Christian attorney father as well as every other man in my family who’d wronged me. I thought of them as neglectful and abusive, and pissing them off was doing my part in dismantling the patriarchy. I would laugh all the way to the bank. It didn’t work out that way, exactly.

Like you, I was (still am) an addict in recovery. As you know, it’s not just about the drugs and alcohol, I also developed an addiction to money, achievement, sexual power and danger (there are too many others to list here but you catch my drift). The thing no one talks about with stripping is the systematic rejection. I’m not talking about a guy you’re hot for who doesn’t return a text, I’m talking about your beautiful black body, undulating in front of eyes, and hands shooing you away. It’s upsetting. And, you’re young. I don’t mean that as insulting. I mean that you’re just learning the operating system of your gorgeous tough, tattooed skin. Sure, you can cast your pearls before swine and make some money. But seriously. You could also wait tables. Take an acting class. Work towards your goals and dreams with regular, determined, sober hard work.

This was my experience: When I began stripping, I was equal parts anger and love. Hands crawled across my body like crabs and thick calloused fingers slipped beneath my g-string.  I didn’t know how to say no.  I was in love with my speed dealer girlfriend. Sometimes I cried. I watched the other girls perform on stage in a way that appeared powerful and sexy, like they had emotional shellac that enabled them to shake off systematic rejection from men.  I was snorting a quarter of meth day and needed fast money so I learned how to mute the volume of my emotions because no one wants a topless dance from a crying stripper. I climbed from lap to lap at ten bucks a song no matter how I felt. There were come stains on my costumes, filthy fingers on my boobs and tequila breath in my face when I asked for company and they’d wave a hand to shoo me away, say “Later,” then smack me on the ass. I was furious and I learned to force a bigger smile. I jerked grabby hands away and chewed gum until my jaw locked. When anger boiled, I dug my fingernails into my thigh and left marks that turned into tiny white crescent moon scars that still shimmer when the sun hits.

Sometimes I wish I had made a different choice when I was broke and feisty and alone. But I didn’t and I became the most professional, elaborate pole dancer you have ever seen. I learned how to extract blood from a stone. I also learned how to shut down.

Once you’re out of the mainstream workforce, it’s not only difficult to get back into it, there’s no privacy anymore. Online marketing miners and search engines have made it impossible to hide. In a way, it’s kind of freeing. But don’t kid yourself, if you decide to work for the US government or work with children, administrators won’t think is cute and hip that you spent time as an adult entertainer.

You say you don’t care what others think, but that’s not true. You love your family and are concerned about the consequences of your actions. You’re worried about your sobriety. It’s not an easy job to have and remain sober. What matters is what you think of yourself. At the end of the day, stripping is just a job. Your family and friends are more important than a job. Your future is more important than your thrill-seeking streak. I hope I don’t sound too discouraging if your heart is set on stripping. I just don’t want to see another woman get trapped in the industry for twenty years and not be able to move forward. I want you to stay in school and pursue your dreams.

JOY

If you are dead set on stripping,  bring a friend to some clubs around Portland and audition. Listen to your body. If you’re shaking and skeeved out, leave. If you want to cry, leave. If anyone does or says anything degrading, scream at them and get dressed and get your ass out of there. Never, ever, look back.

Love, Antonia