Unhappy Hookers

The other night I had dinner with some very glamorous ladies at Soho House, L.A.

We sat in a velvety booth high above the city drinking champagne surrounded by expensively careless hairdos and self-important laughter and I reflected that although I was very pleased to be out with my dear friend Liberty London Girl whose visit was the catalyst for the occasion, and I always like a good girls’ night, I was also having to suppress the urge to pick my nose or do something desperately, ostentatiously uncool because there was too much style and not enough substance in the room (our party excluded, natch).

But I didn’t because I is well brought up, innit?

The others were all local ladies and either do or have worked in Hollywood in some capacity so I listened with some interest to their industry gossip and L.A. stories although obviously I had little to contribute.
I obligingly ate most of the contents of the bread basket – I thought they’d probably want to avoid the carbs so it was generous of me, really.
However, at one point they got around to talking about one of the hotels that LLG had stayed in and how at night the bar had been full of high-end hookers. Apparently it was famous for it and ‘everybody knows’ that that is where the girls operate. This then led to a general discussion of what great clothes they have, how much they make, where they live (near the hotel in an expensive apartment complex.
In other words:

These girls don’t do too badly

At this point I had to stop stuffing my gob with baked goods and speak up.

I think they DO do badly.

Who the fuck wants to sit around a hotel while all the ‘normal’ people loftily judge you and wait for some bloke to pick you out like a piece of meat, shag you, and dismiss you?
And that’s your JOB?

Are you supposed to feel good about this? Really?

My companions disagreed. They thought that these girls were

“Beautiful, like models! And they make a lot of money! They have great clothes! And some guy puts them up in an apartment.”

Again. I don’t think this is great. Let’s say you’re 21 and really, really beautiful. Lucky, lucky you! (Or not).You decide to come to L.A. You have a big dream!
Is that dream to be a model? Or an actor? Or to be on TV?  Well, that’s not a crime.

I bet it was not to sit in a hotel bar and wait for some fat old bloke to fuck you up the arse and call you dirty names.
And really, is beauty supposed to be a reward  -or a punishment- in and of itself?  I’m sure looking at your lovely face the morning after that type of ordeal is no comfort. And your money will just be a consolation prize that you spend on your great clothes (tools of the trade?) to compensate for not fulfilling your dream.

The L.A. ladies remained unconvinced. They thought it sounded better than working in a supermarket.
Maybe?  I’m not sure. I’ve worked in a supermarket. It was a bit boring but there was at least a worker’s union, camaraderie, health benefits and most people didn’t have to lie about it and they could wear comfy underwear. Plus, think of the social implications of prostitution, even at the top levels. Can you call your mom after a hard day’s work on your back and complain about how tired you are at work? How do you engage in a healthy, intimate relationship with a partner? It seems pretty awkward and damaging, no matter how you slice it.

I knew someone – a bloke actually – who had worked as an escort, and he said the most heartbreaking thing to me about the money he made

“You never remember how you spend it, but you always remember how you earned it”.

I kept on trying to argue but I don’t think I got anywhere. I think perhaps the only thing I managed to plant in their minds was the suspicion that I either am or used to be a prostitute.

Note: I am least likely person EVER to do this. Not because I am prude but because concept of selling consent enrages me

Nil points scored for the sisterhood, MTFF.

I felt sad that even clever, attractive, grown women with daughters could think that this might not be a horrible, exploitative cycle. Could think, somehow, that because these young women were being compensated with money, (temporary) accommodation in prime real estate and (also temporary!) good looks that they somehow had thoroughly chosen their lot with no coercion in a way that girls on the street had not, and therefore did not deserve sympathy, help or understanding.

Girls and women are bought and sold every day in every country in the world. It doesn’t matter where they are. On Craigslist, in the Four Seasons, in a backstreet brothel in Mumbai, in Nigeria, on the wrong side of the tracks in your town.
It happens. It is bad.

Each time one of us finds a way to say that it’s okay for some of them – they’re beautiful, they know what they’re doing, it’s better than the alternative, they make good money, they have great clothes, it’s not that bad, whateverthefuckexcuse for making it not a crime against civil liberties and human rights, we make it okay for all of the people who exploit ALL OF THEM.

And they’re all exploited, one way or another. We just might have to look beyond their fancy shoes and our own complicated feelings about sexual competition because frankly, I think that’s what a lot of it comes down to with women. It’s easier to feel sorry for the ones we can pity (some poor cow with track marks and a haunted look on the street corner) than the one who looks like Gisele that quite a few men might prefer to pay to shag than do us for free. (Hmm. That’s complex and not entirely comfortable, but I’m throwing it out there.)

But I suppose the real question comes down to whose side are you on?

We don’t always get to feel superior to those who need our help or support. But that doesn’t mean we get to justify why they don’t need it.

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