Want vs Need

I guess it's important to say that I consider myself a feminist. Not to go into all the history, but depending on what theory you subscribe to (if you subscribe at all), I am a third wave feminist. This is partly based on age (after all, I am only in my 20s) having grown up with the idea that girls can do anything boys can do, not only from my own mother, but from teachers and TV and battle of the sexes challenges in gym class. So yeah, being a girl has always been an okay thing. Glass ceiling? Yes. It's there. But no one I know makes any money, so I can hardly cry foul about that in my experience.

Now, generally, 3rd wavers are known for not being opposed to sex work. Where as my mother's type of feminism requires any utilization of the female body to be regarded as 'demeaning,' I have always struggled with that notion. What could be demeaning about using your very own body to support yourself? An accomplished stripper has always seemed like the ultimate woman to me. You're a perfect specimen of feminine beauty and men are willing to pay to look at you. Hasn't this been in vogue since Aphrodite? And if you so desire to engage in more than longing looks? Well, good for you. Sex is fun and it feels good and if people are willing to pay you for that as well? There are plenty of girls for free at the local bar, yet you are something so exquisite they are willing to pay for YOU.

Not demeaning in the least.

And so working at the club has always seemed okay to me. Sure, people are weird, and I've had requests for situations that I wasn't interested in participating in. But that is part of the beauty: you bat your eyes, smile coyly and say thanks but no thanks. I have always been in charge. And when I made enough money to make my evening complete, I pack my things and go.

Now things are different. No longer am I there because I want to be. I'm there because I have to be. This money is my income. I need it. It pays my rent, buys my food, keeps my heat on during these 4 degree nights. That realization struck me as I left Real Job last weekend and walked to the club. And I felt ill. I didn't want to go. I cried tears that burned my face in the subzero wind and felt utterly defeated. Because the money wasn't something I simply wanted, but needed it to survive. How much harder it is, to refuse a request, when the money they slip into your palm is going to feed you for the next week.

And once everyone in the club, guys and girls alike, started to comment on how good I looked and how I must "have been busting ass at the gym" to lose that much weight in two weeks, refusal stopped being an option. Because I haven't been busting ass at the gym. I just haven't had money to eat.

So yeah, when creepy old guy gives you $100 to make out with him for ten minutes, what do you do? I guess on the bright side I know many of the girls there make that amount of money through many more illicit means. Should I be flattered? There is something to be said about that, I guess. First base with me is worth the same as 3rd with other girls. But that is also very... weird. I'm certainly no prettier, no sexier, no more interesting than any of the other girls there. It is unnerving.

Also there is this orchid blooming at Real Job that smells exactly like creepy old man's breath. Orchids aren't known for their fabulous fragrance, but I'm haunted by this particular halitosis orchid. It taunts me with my shame.

And this is when sex work stops being empowering. It smothers you in the mantle of no other options and that is scary. Because i feel optionless. I've sent SO MANY resumes and cover letters into open positions in my field and have not even had the courtesy of a rejection letter. And, quite frankly, I'm REALLY accomplished in my field. I should at least be getting a round one phone call.