Queer Whore Collective: I Told My Parents That I'm a Sex Worker
I told my parents that I'm sex working. And it sucked, majorly. They didn't freak out, didn't call me names, but worse, belittled me. Started the whole rescue mission, asked me to take care of my dignity, told me they worry about my mental well-being, then didn't talk to me for a while… And that felt more undignified than anything else work-related ever had.
The pity in their words, and how they treated me as if I couldn't possibly know what's best for me. The hypocrisy was disgusting. As if none of them had ever participated in sex work. As if they had never watched, yet alone wanked over, porn. And my dignity? For fuck’s sake… As if I’m some yet-to-be-wed virgin in the 18th century whose purity must be protected by her male family members, or failing that, the pope himself.
Their sudden realization that how I earn my money might impact my mental health… A topic never alluded to nor talked about before. Not when I worked for minimum wage, not when I worked 13-hour days, not when I cleaned a freezer so mouldy that I had to scrub it intensely using the most aggressive products, inhaling them for two hours - a money-saving strategy for my boss which left me with a biting, 48-hour-long headache. A process that got me paid 20 bucks, but never afforded me the opportunity to question whether my work might be degrading or harmful. Because no-one has ever asked me these kinds of questions before.
___STEADY_PAYWALL___
At H&M nobody suggested I was supporting the exploitation of women by endorsing the fast fashion industry. No-one held me responsible for the harm done in the meat industry when I served pork while waitressing. No-one in my family has ever cared about the ethical aspects of any industry I worked in before. My father for sure didn't think about the labour rights of the nude models in the first magazines his teenage longings got him hiding under his mattress. Or how he, as an uninformed consumer, might support her exploitation. I don't really believe that my brother buys ‘ethical’ porn. He probably doesn’t even consider paying for it at all. But suddenly they're all human rights activists and psychologists with a specialisation in whores. Except for me, I'm endangering myself.
Their pity is disguised, verbalised as concern for my dignity and mental wellbeing, socially acceptable as fear of sexual exploitation. Meanwhile, when I was a waitress, it was normal that me and my co-workers dressed up for work. We did our hair, put on make-up, tightened the aprons around our waists. I've even had uniforms that made sure not to cover up my ass or cleavage. When I was a waitress, I was under-age most of the time. But no-one minded that a submissive yet confidently cute smile, eye contact, laughing about the same joke five-hundred times a month, a clever flirting game, lead to tips. No-one minded that I was well aware of the fact that, with parents, especially moms, I got tipped better when I created an atmosphere of calmness and efficiency, warmly entertaining their annoying kids so that they could relax for a second. While with men, I was exactly as aware I should serve them their drinks in the glasses from the upper cupboard, so that they had an excuse to inspect my ass while I moved and stretched my adolescent body to reach it.
"I’ve never had to think about, never had to actively learn, get told, or taught. There are a hundred unspoken rules about how women should behave in order to be "good", aka judged as such by men.”
It was never spoken of, but I knew, of course I did. And it was joked about vaguely, as subtext, in between the lines. I knew my job description wasn't just to serve them, but to make their visit as enjoyable as possible. And that the way I look, the way I can make them feel, has an impact on that. Of course, no-one actively told me this, but I learned it watching waitresses interact with my father when I was younger, and my co-workers when I got old enough to realise that a job with a tip pays better than one without.
Tips depend on how you serve, not that you serve. To be fair, no-one actively told me how to be attractive and sexually pleasing while sex working either. It's something I’ve never had to think about, never had to actively learn, get told, or taught. There are a hundred unspoken rules about how women should behave in order to be "good", aka judged as such by men. No-one needs to sit down and actively teach them to young girls. Because in a system that hands power to men and constant superficial judgement to girls, you really don't need to be a smart ass to learn that your looks, and the way you can make men feel, matter. And that you can capitalise on it.
From my early teenage years in those first jobs, I didn’t question the way I used looks and affect on others, not for a long while. A turning point of realisation was when I watched my older cousin, who also waitressed and usually never wore makeup to anything, getting ready for work. She told me she wants the effort of putting on makeup to be worth it at least. Implying that she wouldn’t do it for free, but knows that she will make more money wearing it that evening, so is willing to invest the extra 20 minutes getting ready. I don't think she would ever consider herself a sex worker, or anything related to it. But, like many others, like me long before I started sex working, she sure leaves her shift with more money for being unspokenly sexualised.
The kind of sex work I participate in is called the ‘girlfriend experience’. How to be someone's girlfriend, to play my part in this heteronormative system (with the end goal of being considered ‘wifey material’), is patriarchal socialisation I was spoon-fed from the crib on. I was trained to get there by being sexy, smart and cool, yet unbothered by superficiality or my appearance, and never smarter or cooler than my male counterpart, as it could threaten them. I know exactly how to appear pleasing yet well-behaved - a term I’ve, funnily, never heard used on anyone but women, children and pets.
I know how to appear sexually attractive but seemingly unaware of it. How to appear to be the cool girl, the girl next door, a natural beauty, the one that doesn’t ‘need’ makeup, effortlessly hot.
Skills it seems like they want me to have but apparently only if I myself don’t know about them. As if their attraction depends on my naivety, and therefore inability to use it to my advantage. Knowingly or not, my family taught me those skills, so that others could feast on them, but not for me to charge for them. Which is probably why they’re so offended that I do. The problem, it seems, is not my attractiveness or my promiscuity - not even the usage of them - it’s that I expect payment, that I monetise the tools I’ve been given to make men feel good about themselves. As I’ve contrarily been socialised to do so for free. My parents’ offence seems to directly originate from my self-determination, specifically that I am charging for what I do, that I am stating it as work and refusing to play my part the way they strenuously raised me to.
Words: Whorezontal Perspective as part of our Queer Whore Collective column
