Sometimes I Wish I Had Had an Abortion.

How Sex Work Helped Me Reclaim My Sexuality

Trigger warning: this piece contains mention of stalking, grooming and sexual harassment.

When I first met M. P. at a Writer’s Meetup, I didn’t really notice him. To me, he was just another adult in a room full of them. The Meetup took place in the back room of a restaurant not far from my parents’ house. I was there with my mother, because I was still just a kid. At the time I was seventeen years old, a high school senior, and exceedingly sheltered for my age. My Catholic parents hadn’t given me “the talk” yet, and they’d opted me out of Sex Ed at school. Aside from a brief “relationship” (we only kissed once) with a girl at summer camp, I’d never really dated. My Asperger’s Syndrome made me something of a loner as well. I didn’t know what a serious, adult relationship was supposed to look like. Nor was I interested in one. I was attending Meetups to make platonic friends. Isn’t that what meetups were for?

M. P. began direct messaging me via Meetup. Before long we were messaging each other on a near-nightly basis (he worked the night shift at a local apartment complex, where he manned the front desk and waiting for something - anything - to happen). From the very start he made sexual comments and claimed to be in love with me. I knew that M was 33 - seventeen years my senior. I didn’t mind, despite the large age difference, because I was so glad to have someone to talk to. I thought it wasn’t too bad since my grandparents were sixteen years apart in age. Anyway, M claimed that our relationship was totally normal and I (foolishly) believed him. All kinds of perfectly ordinary situations - from hugging a relative to watching certain movies with the sound on - distressed me, thanks to my autism. So I generally relied on other people - friends, family, teachers, even strangers - to tell me what “normal” looked like.

M. P. soon began stopping by my parents’ house nearly every afternoon, bringing gifts. He also began to grope and touch me, as well as describing his favorite kinds of porn. When I asked him not to, he explained that - as his girlfriend - I owed him. Supposedly, I had to do what he wanted, no matter how uncomfortable it made me. He’d also tell me that my writing was horrible and that I ought to become a prostitute because I was too stupid for anything else (which just proves that M. P. didn’t know what he was talking about, given that sex work actually requires a fair amount of business savvy, emotional labor, and raw intelligence). Of course, I believed him. Many of our visits ended with me in tears. I became increasingly gloomy and miserable as the months went by. Yet I kept everything hidden from my family, fearing they’d hate me if they knew.

Finally, around my 18th birthday in May, I tried to break up with M. P. I did this at one of the Writer’s Meetups so that there would be witnesses. I also confirmed over text. He agreed that we were broken up. Then, the next day, he refused to acknowledge that anything had happened. The next few months were even worse. I felt increasingly hopeless. Finally, I decided to cut him off completely and block all of his accounts. I also blocked all our mutual acquaintances and stopped going out. Though M. P. managed to send a few more harassing emails using new accounts, he eventually gave up. I was free, though still shaken and frightened.

By then it was September. My parents had decided to send me to community college. I’d wanted to take a year or two off, to recover from everything that had happened, but they wouldn’t allow this. Even more frustratingly, my parents had signed me up for a kind of mentorship program. One of the mentors (a man in his 30s) began texting me nonstop, telling me I was sexy and that I should become a stripper. He’d show up everywhere I went at school, probably because (as a mentor) he had access to my schedule. He also kept trying to get me to meet him alone on an isolated part of the campus. This terrified me. When I went to the man in charge of the mentorship program, he was apparently fairly shocked, yet he didn’t seem to know what to do. The campus police weren’t any help either, because the mentor hadn’t actually broken any laws. I ended up dropping out before my first semester ended.

Soon after that, I began taking classes and volunteering at a local public access television station. It was there I met J. M., a handyman in his 50s, who produced a horror hosting show there. He cast me as one of the kooky characters. From the very start, his behavior was vile. He’d barge into the women’s dressing room without knocking, send me explicit sexual messages, and threaten me when I didn’t do what he wanted. When I insisted that I was uninterested in him and probably gay, he responded by becoming aggressive and angry. He’d call me various cruel, sexist names and say that most women would love attention from him.

Eventually, after about a year of this, I gave in to his heckling. I let him kiss me with his horrible mouth, I let him grope me. Though I promised, constantly, that I’d have sex with him someday (usually to get him to stop yelling at me), I never did. He soon became impatient. He claimed that I didn’t have the right to say no, not after “dangling” myself in front of him (I suppose he saw me as a piece of irresistibly delicious candy, rather than a human being). One day, while I was at his house, he convinced me to flash my breasts. I thought that if I did so, he’d leave me alone. Instead, he pinned me to the couch and licked my torso. He tried to take my skinny jeans off as well, though between their tight fit and my struggling he couldn’t, so he eventually gave up. I found this incident exceedingly traumatizing. I had nightmares for many months. Everything startled me. I was terrified of the dark, of sleeping, of strangers who looked like J. M.

Finally, a little more than a year later, the nightmares stopped. By then I was still living with my parents. Aside from a brief stint as a cashier during the Christmas rush and a number of unpaid internships, I’d never really had a job. My income came primarily from gig editing work and publishing my essays. My autism and shyness made it hard for me to get through job interviews. It was then that I began hearing about sites like OnlyFans and ManyVids. I knew that selling porn or nudes could be a fairly lucrative side-hustle. It was also something I could do from home, without having to see anyone or go anywhere. I also felt that no matter where I went or what I did, I’d be objectified and taken advantage of by someone. Sexual harassment seemed inevitable so, cynically, I figured I might as well find a way to profit from my youthful looks and curvaceous body.

I began filming themed striptease videos and posting them on ManyVids. To my surprise I actually enjoyed the process. For the first time, I felt as if I were in control of my sexuality and sex appeal. I no longer felt as if I had to look or act a certain way to appeal to aggressive, controlling men. Instead, I could wear costumes that made me feel sexy and act out scenarios that I enjoyed. I soon branched out, filming masturbation and fetish clips as well as more themed stripteases. I played a variety of strong, confident characters in my videos - from vampire countesses to drill sergeants. I also “invested” some of the money I earned in props, as well as fabrics which I used to sew more costumes for myself.

For the first time ever, being sexual was about me instead of the men in my life. Plus, since I did everything - from setting up the camera to editing the footage - I was completely in control of the content I produced. If I didn’t like how something looked, I could shoot it again or cut out a few seconds. If someone requested a custom video that made me uncomfortable, I could always say “no”. After years of feeling trapped by the vile men in my life, being able to have complete control over something (even something as simple as the videos I post) has been so helpful in helping me heal and regain some autonomy in my life. Not only that, I’ve been able to make a couple hundred extra dollars every month from my video sales. When I live-cam, I can make that much in only about five to eight hours. This has made me more financially secure, which in turn reduces my anxiety and makes me more confident. The fact that I’ve been able to run my own business and make a profit has also helped me. It’s proved to me that, with enough determination and hard work, I can be legitimately successful at something. I’m not the useless idiot M. P. insisted I was. Quite the contrary.

M. L. Lanzillotta is an AFAB transmasculine freelance writer from the Washington DC metro area. Before his transition, he dabbled in online sex work under a female persona and name. His many hobbies include painting, acting, cooking, and complaining via Twitter.

Guest Author 4/5/21 Guest Author 4/5/21

Review: Velvet Collar Issue 2: Rough Trade Secrets

The second issue of sex worker Bryan Knight’s comic series Velvet Collar, “Rough Trade Secrets,” depicts the aftermath of Rentman’s shutdown, the series’ thinly veiled fictionalization of rentboy.com. Abel, still chasing the wrong men, has shifted into freelance graphic design work. Storm’s precocious daughter, now a teenager, has become a high-school decrim activist, to the chagrin of her dad. (It’s hard to keep it on the low when your own child is blowing up your spot). Billy had to live in his car for a while, but has since joined the other gig economy as a Lyft driver. Indomitable Daddy is in a relationship with a trapeze student hunk and steering clear of sex work. Rica Shay is barely scraping by, increasingly relying on his side- side-hustle of selling blackmarket steroids.

Into this morass of disruptive fallout from the Rentman raid stomps Ten, a butch/femme switch in a men’s suit, high heels, and a shock of red hair falling over one eye—with two bodyguards in leather dog masks in tow. Ten lays out a proposition, claiming that the Rentman servers are full of personal data incriminating important politicians and businessmen, a “political nuclear bomb.” He proposes to pay them $50,000 apiece to steal the servers out of federal custody. This bonkers scheme is greeted with scorn until Ten reveals that he also has dirt on our five workers—Rica Shay for selling steroids, Daddy for tax evasion, etc. Abel is summarily evicted from his apartment as proof, and Ten threatens to ruin the lives of the rest of them if they don’t help.

Ten then directs their anger towards a notorious troll, a “seventy-one year old real estate tycoon from Queens,” (get it?) who has “spent years collecting personal information on hundreds of sex workers…” fingering him as the villain behind their blackmailing. It falls on Storm—who is revealed to be a secret agent of an organization called NAAMAH—to convert our five into a special ops team and undertake this high-stakes mission. Storm enlists his brother Star, who is also a down-low sex worker and possible secret agent to help. In the final frames, Ten is revealed to be the lover of the new lead prosecutor on the Rentman case, lamenting how he will have to betray his fellow workers.

Issue 1 represents a strong start to a promised 9-part series, with clearly rendered characters, concise and neatly interwoven plot lines, and some graphically beautiful frames. Issue 2 departs from established facts to speculate on what might be the true motivations and consequences of the Rentman/Rentboy raid. The graphics are less consistent than in Issue 1—there are two artists on inks, and a third on colors and the cover—and the palette is generally murkier. This might reflect the plot, a hairball of conspiracy theories, double-crossers, and secret agents. It will take some Daddy-level acrobatics to untangle all the strands and resolve them into a plausible conclusion over the seven following issues, however a sneak preview has been released of Issue 3, entitled “Performance Anxiety,” showing our stalwart team fucking their way into a federal storage facility.

With that said, Velvet Collar breaks ground in chronicling the new realities of sex work in the SESTA/FOSTA era, in which once-reliable platforms have vanished, leaving workers scrambling. The observational work that the creators have undertaken to depict relatable sex worker characters will go a long way in getting us through to the end of a story that is surely unfinished and untold.

Former sex worker and activist Dale Corvino’s short fiction and essays have appeared in various publications, including online at the Rumpus and Salon. He won the 2018 Gertrude Press Fiction Chapbook contest with a trio of short stories; Worker Names was published in 2019. Recent publications include a reflection on Chile’s massive populist uprising and the legacy of queer writer Pedro Lemebel for the Gay & Lesbian Review and an essay on growing constraints on adult online content in Matt Keegan: 1996, from New York Consolidated/Inventory Press. He lives in New York City. https://dalecorvino.com

Guest Author 3/29/21 Guest Author 3/29/21

Review: Velvet Collar Issue 1: Unhappy Endings

Velvet Collar, a comic book series written and produced by Bryan Knight and drawn by queer comic artist Dave Davenport, depicts the lives of five male escorts. In Issue 1, “Unhappy Endings,” their escort listing service is shut down by the feds, making it a thinly-veiled representation of the 2015 Rentboy raid.

Davenport had previously represented a sex worker in his homoerotic series Hard to Swallow. Set in fictional Fogtown, the series features Doug, a compact young tough who works as a stripper at a gay club. Doug has a special bond with two supernatural characters: a preppie gay who transforms into a sexually ravenous werewolf (Feral), and the Ghost Skater, a skateboarding ex of Doug’s, now a horny ghost. With each story line, the characters’ unashamed, raucous sexuality is an instrument of resolution. The supernaturals rescue Doug from danger, then fuck him silly.

To date, two full-color issues of Velvet Collar has been realized and financed through crowdsourcing, with a third in production. Volume 1 opens with expository blocks offering the backstories of the five male sex workers. Each is based on an actual worker who consented to participate in the project. Some names are changed to avoid disclosure. For their likenesses, Davenport worked from photos and videos.

Davenport’s hand in drawing Velvet Collar v. 1 is tighter than it is in Hard to Swallow, perhaps because there are more characters and interwoven storylines. The characters are faithfully rendered and colored, and the New York City settings are drafted with precision. The reader shifts from one character depiction to the next via a chain of phone calls gathering up the group to attend an event at the offices of “Rentman,” the world’s largest online escort listing service. This narrative device centers technology, reflecting the current reality of technology-mediated sex work. As with Hard to Swallow, many of the depictions of sex—both personal and transactional—are explicit, raucous fun.

Part of the mission of Velvet Collar is to depict sex workers as fully realized protagonists with complex emotional lives. The five represent a range of ethnicities, body types, and ages. The character Abel Rey is based on a Latino worker active in New York. In his frames, he is seen arguing with a love interest who has “discovered” that he’s a sex worker, despite a previous disclosure “on (their) second date.” The sequence, charged with emotion and sexual heat, resolves with Abel giving him a worker-in-relationship go-to: “Other people pay cash, all you have to do is pay attention.”

Bearish Billy is shown in the midst of a call with a submissive who worships his hairy body and big belly. The character Rica Shay is a composite, partly inspired by the Los Angeles-based gay hip-hop performer and dancer. Frames depict Rica Shay saying goodbye to a loving partner while he pursues his music career, which is in turn financed by sex work. One of his regulars is shown being supportive of his musical ambitions. The character navigates a romantic relationship, his creative aspirations, and client expectations.

African-American Storm is based on the true experiences of a “down-low” escort who requested that his name and likeness be withheld. He is married with a wife and child; in the opening sequence, the silos between his sex work and family life come crashing down when his young daughter announces, “Dad, I know you’re a prostitute.” This story line grapples with deeper questions of disclosure in the lives of sex workers. While his daughter is understanding, his wife raises serious risks: “If child services finds out, they’ll take her away from you.”

The last of the quintet is Scott, aka Daddy. Daddy is a trapeze instructor and a sex worker at 62. The characterization draws on a veteran worker whose longevity also defies stereotypes. These five convene for the launch party of an ad campaign in which they are featured at the offices of Rentman on the occasion of the company’s 20th anniversary. Federal agents in black crash the party, and overrun the office with force, to the astonishment of our five, who are turning the corner just as Rentman’s handcuffed employees are being perp-walked towards a police cruiser.

The cover art depicts the founder of Rentman bound up in yellow crime-scene tape. While stylized, it accurately conveys the circumstance of founder Jeffrey Hurant, who—after being arrested and charged with promoting prostitution and conspiracy to commit money laundering—was convicted and sentenced to six months in federal prison. The acting U.S. attorney who prosecuted the case described the business as an “Internet brothel.” Before it was shuttered by ICE/Homeland Security, Rentboy.com was the single largest global platform for male sex workers. Prior to 2015, it had operated without any significant federal scrutiny. The raid was part of a coordinated effort—in advance of the passage of SESTA/FOSTA—to shut down websites with prominent sex worker presence (Backpage was seized soon afterwards).

In its detailed frames, Unhappy Endings does an excellent job of presenting its five main characters navigating sex work in their individual lives. It also establishes the Rentboy raid as a turning point in male sex workers’ access to online platforms, a topic to be unpacked in subsequent issues.

Guest Author 3/22/21 Guest Author 3/22/21

Breaking into Male Sex Work and Society, Representation in Comics

Have you lifted the 500+ page Male Sex Work & Society? The 2014 textbook is something of a staple in gender studies programs around the country, but the publishers got some flack from the sex worker community for relying on researchers and excluding the voices of, you know, actual sex workers. A funny thing happened after my interview with sex worker Bryan Knight and artist Dave Davenport—collaborators on the Velvet Collar comic series depicting the 2015 federal raid on rentboy.com--posted on Tits & Sass, the long-running sex worker blog with the tag line ‘service journalism by and for sex workers.’ Some time after the post ran, I was approached by Harrington Park Press, the book’s publisher, and asked to contribute to their follow-up title, Male Sex Work: Culture & Society, volume 2. I buckled down and wrote a whole damn chapter on the wide breadth of representations of male sex workers in comics, starting with Seven Miles a Second by artist David Wojnarowicz. So yea, we can represent ourselves, and we can also talk about representing ourselves.

Tits & Sass, currently on hiatus, has also reviewed the work of Canadian stripper and writer Jacqueline Frances, known as Jacq the Stripper. Her crowdfunded graphic novel Striptastic! is a satirical look at the world of strip clubs. The author’s ear for the dark humor in interactions with choice customers, and the banter between strippers, is well-served by her irreverent, stripped-down (pun intended) drawing style. Striptastic! skewers male patrons’ sleaziness and turns the judgey things civilians say (“How can you do this job and call yourself a feminist?”) back on them, all while paying tribute to strippers’ backstage camaraderie and sisterhood.

But back to my assigned topic, representations of male sex workers in comics. There are not that many examples, so I endeavored to consider them all. Seven Miles a Second, which dates back to 1996, is pretty dark. Its narrator/protagonist recounts his origin story as a teen street hustler in New York’s Times Square circa late 70’s. From the outset, desire is entwined with violence and degradation; his first customer goads him into watching a female sex worker service her customer through a peephole, while the narrator is serviced by his customer. In a graphic frame, the woman turns to reveal extensive slash marks on her torso. The teen’s intro to sex work couples voyeurism and violence. In subsequent panels, artist James Romberger illustrates the protagonist’s apocalyptic rage against the cruelties of the universe—in particular the U.S. government’s indifference to gay mens’ suffering during the AIDS epidemic. As a comic book figure, Wojnarowicz’s superpower is his ability to transform suffering into art.

Seven Miles a Second demonstrates that for sex worker creators, comic books can infuse our narratives with requisite emotional depth and complexity. A level of artistic control is possible, keeping the work and the narratives in our hands. It’s an accessible, character- and action-driven medium for bringing stories based on true experiences to a receptive audience—without risks of disclosure.

Despite the fact that representations of male sex work in comics covers a brief 25-year period, the works I examined track the general migration of sex work from analog spaces like Wojnarowicz’s Times Square to online spaces like rentboy.com and locative apps such as Grindr to the present reality of increasingly scrutinized (and prosecuted) online platforms— from street trade to SESTA/FOSTA. In subsequent posts, I’ll review Velvet Collar to assess how it tackles the latter period.

*The book project has since changed publishers, and will be brought out as Handbook of Male Sex Work, Culture, and Society from Routledge Press (UK) this April.

Guest Author 12/15/20 Guest Author 12/15/20

How Sex Work Exposed My White Privilege

In 2020, people throughout the US and beyond have taken to the streets to protest systemic racism and injustice—yet how many of us have considered the effect of racism on sex workers? In my six years working as a professional submissive and switch at a commercial dungeon, I’ve seen firsthand how racism and other prejudices affect the entire sex worker community. In fact, my personal experience as a white sex worker, witnessing and questioning how to respond to acts of racism against my coworkers, is now mirrored by the way many white Americans are examining their own problematic attitudes and assumptions about race.

When I began working at a commercial dungeon in Los Angeles in 2013, the diversity of the dungeon community was one of the aspects I most appreciated. I worked with Black, Latinx, and Asian-American women, and ladies who’d grown up in countries including Ireland and Russia. Our community was also diverse in many other ways—we were different ages, came from different educational and economic backgrounds, and had different life trajectories, with some of us in college, others who were artists and still others pursuing successful business careers in addition to our dungeon lives.

The magic of our dungeon environment was that, as sex workers, we all shared a secret many in the outside world would judge us quite harshly for—and that one commonality frequently overpowered the other elements that might have divided us. I felt an instant bond with my coworkers that only grew stronger over time, as we all got to know each other in the often long waits between sessions. In the dungeon, I found a place where women didn’t judge each other by skin color, any more than we judged each other for our histories or our achievements.

Yet even as entering the dungeon allowed me to join an inclusive community of women, working in this environment also showed me, perhaps more than any other experience in my life, my own white privilege. It was common knowledge that women of color at the dungeon booked less sessions, especially when working as submissives. As my Black coworker Violet puts it, working as a submissive was “not as lucrative as I thought it would be” for two main reasons: One, the dungeon’s clientele consisted mainly of older white men who wanted to spank, tie up and tickle what they considered a sweet, innocent-looking girl. As Violet points out, these men were “trying to relive their youths, [which] did not typically include interacting with Black people in general, so they saw right past me and opted for the slim, pale-skinned, soft brown-haired girls-next-door.” Secondly, clients who were younger were still predominantly Caucasian and typically “felt a sense of white guilt, and were uncomfortable beating a Black woman.”

Similarly, Lulu, who was the only Mexican-American woman at the dungeon when she began working there, noticed “I wasn’t getting as many sessions as the other girls” and “came to the realization that clients favored white females.” Lulu decided to “get better instead of bitter” by “investing more in my fetish outfits” and attending workshops to “expand my experience as a player”—however, her efforts were not always as successful as she hoped.

Due to the exact issues Violet and Lulu describe, in my early days at the dungeon as a submissive, I was often in session making money while my African-American and Latinx coworkers sat in the waiting room downstairs—and the only reason I was working when they weren’t was the color of my skin. Violet describes the frustration of quitting her job to “dedicate my full-time hours to the dungeon,” while “only managing to score three to four sessions a MONTH”—and also having to “listen to my white coworkers complaining that they didn’t have a minute to rest between sessions.” Lulu similarly noted that while her hard work and skill “helped some,” white girls “who put in little to no effort in their craft continued to get session after session.”

Clearly, as women of color, Violet and Lulu had very different experiences at the dungeon than I did—ones that impacted their relationships with coworkers in addition to clients. And yes, I was one of those women complaining on days I had back-to-back sessions, without considering how my words might affect my fellow dungeon workers. My blind spots kept me from realizing that for some women, the dungeon might not always be the same welcoming, inclusive place I experienced—and my behavior directly contributed to that disparity.

As a white woman at the dungeon, I also didn’t have to deal with being confronted by stereotypes related to my race, the way many of my coworkers did. Asian-American submissives booked many sessions—as long as they were willing to play the “Asian schoolgirl.” My coworker Aimi, a first-generation Asian-American, says “there was definitely stereotyping—the worst of which was probably some guy calling to ask if I could speak English. When the desk mistress confirmed that I could, he was disappointed because he wanted an Asian girl who couldn’t.”

African-American women were also asked to take part in sessions that engaged directly with race. For instance, Violet recalls that her “very first client request was a plantation slave/master roleplay.” Women at the dungeon were never required to take these sessions, but even in being asked to do so, they had to deal with preconceptions based on the color of their skin—and I, as a white woman, did not. I was able to do my job without having to think about my greater ethnic identity, an added burden in an occupation that is already emotionally draining.

However, even as a white woman, I found that I couldn’t escape the negative effects of racism at the dungeon, just as none of us can deny the fact that racism affects us all in the larger world. At the dungeon, we had a repeat client we not-so-affectionately nicknamed “Racist Joe,” who liked to session with women of color and took every opportunity to comment on and ask about their ethnicities. One day, Racist Joe booked a double session with me and Lulu. By this point Lulu was a talented dominatrix, and I was always happy to session with her—with Joe, not so much. The two of us had sessioned with Joe before, and we knew what to expect: he wanted Lulu to “teach” me how to dominate him, how to give him a spanking and so on, even though I had already been a switch for a while and I knew how to do my job.

Lulu and I were suffering together through the session, trying to avoid Joe’s sweaty body as much as possible and pretend we were excited about the prospect of “torturing” this out-of-shape old white man, when out of nowhere, despite the fact that neither of us had uttered a curse word, Joe looked straight at Lulu’s lips and said: “You know, I’ve always wanted to wash a Mexican girl’s mouth out with soap, because you all have such dirty mouths.”

Lulu turned and walked right out of the session room, and I didn’t blame her. My shock had overtaken my own emotional reaction, and I knew my responsibility for the moment was to keep Joe occupied for however long Lulu needed to collect herself. I don’t even remember what I did for those minutes she was gone. I was panicked, caught up in a conflict that felt like it was both mine and not mine at the same time. I was disgusted by Joe’s words, but at the same time, I had no idea what Lulu—the person the comment had been aimed at—was experiencing. I could do my best to empathize, but since I had never received a derogatory comment based solely on my race, I couldn’t truly understand.

Eventually, Lulu returned holding the bottle of liquid hand soap we kept in the bathroom down the hall. She showed it to Joe and said, “I’d like to wash your mouth out with this right now,” but because she was a professional—even in a situation where her client was being completely unprofessional—she put the soap down and we finished the session.

As soon as Joe left and we were cleaning the room, I said, “I can’t believe he said that!”

Lulu replied, “Yeah, I just…I had to get out of there for a minute.” I wasn’t sure what else to say—or if Lulu even wanted to discuss the matter any further—and for better or for worse, that was the extent of our conversation. When I interviewed Lulu for this article, she said, “I remember feeling so angry and insulted I walked out of the session.”

Although I couldn’t understand exactly what Lulu was feeling, I was angry too.

Shortly after that session, I decided not to session with “Racist Joe” again. There were plenty of other things I disliked about his sessions, in addition to the offensive comments. But somehow, I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened. I was writing a novel at the time, and without my consciously choosing to include him, “Racist Joe” became a part of my story. He morphed into an unsavory diner owner in the 1950s, who could assault his waitresses and spit out racial slurs with impunity. I spent hours imagining a scene where one of those waitresses—secretly a powerful dominatrix—corners Joe and nearly cuts his balls off until he promises to behave himself.

Clearly, even though the real-life Racist Joe’s comments weren’t aimed at me, they had a strong effect on my psyche. I’m still thinking about what Joe said—and about how I reacted, or didn’t, and what I could have done differently—more than two years after the incident took place. Maybe a part of me sensed this was about more than one isolated experience; now, a few years later, I’m seeing my own struggle reflected on a much broader level. White people who consider themselves on the side of equality are now acknowledging that they’ve contributed to the problem of systemic racism, simply by going along with the status quo.

I still don’t know what exactly I might have done during this situation: Should I have voiced my disapproval of Racist Joe’s comments to his face, even though he was a client? Should I have offered more support to Lulu after the fact, or would doing so have only made her uncomfortable? But I do know that in the greater upheaval we’re all living through at the moment, white people can’t remain inactive, paralyzed by our worries. We can’t go on blaming the “Racist Joes,” the people whose behavior is blatantly problematic, without acknowledging the larger system of inequality that allows injustice both obvious and insidious to continue.

If the escalating problem of police brutality and the higher impact of COVID among people of color has made one thing clear, it’s this: our society won’t change unless people of all races take part in dismantling systems of oppression. We have to ask the uncomfortable questions. We have to think about how racism, prejudice and inequality affect every aspect of our society, even the ones—like sex work—we might consider unimportant or overlook.

We have a long way to go, but one thing is clear: silence and inaction isn’t an option. Until we can acknowledge the impact of systemic racism in even the most marginalized areas of our society, we can’t truly take steps toward equality for all humans.

SC Stephanie is a graduate of the Master of Professional Writing program at USC, and I have been published in the HuffPost, Entropy, and many other publications.

Guest Author 11/22/20 Guest Author 11/22/20

Unfinished Solidarities

N is a seemingly quiet, perceptive woman in her late 20s whose only caveat before she came in for her first therapy appointment was to ask that she be the last client of the evening. She didn’t fill her intake form which is a preliminary information gathering sheet that helps me get some basic medical and personal history of clients/patients before the appointment in order to better understand them.

A lot of clients either forget or need several reminders to fill it before an appointment. Nothing unusual there. N dropped me an email and asked me if it was ok for her to verbally give an intake when she came to the clinic. I agreed.

We began our session with a cup of tea; she seemed apprehensive, uncomfortable. Again, nothing unusual for first timers in therapy. I assumed it was the sudden exposure to the contemplative silence of a therapeutic setting. Suddenly she burst forth with a single, shaking sentence –“Ma’am, I have to tell you about my job.” My assumption was that she perhaps was unemployed and maybe needed pro bono help or wanted to inquire about sliding scale payments in which clients pay as per financial wherewithal per session. Before I could ask anything, she sighed – “I work as an escort. I am not sure if you counsel people like me. I am sorry if I am wasting your time.”

“People like me” is a phrase that can carry such translucent contradictions; evident yet indistinct. A person using it either feels mousetrapped, isolated in their identity or very sui generis. The only response that felt suitable in that moment was to sit back and listen rather than assume what was N’s story.

Over a period in time as I have gotten to know her, I reckon she is a rarity among those who use sex work in India as their main source of income. N works on her own, can exert some autonomy and makes choices based on her own discretion when it comes to her clientele. This has not come easy to her. She is a high-school dropout who was slung headfirst in Bombay’s chaotic riddle when she was barely 16. The map to her present has been involute. Over the years as she moved from being a dancer in one of Bombay’s infamous dance bars to her current profile of being what she calls a date-for-pay. She is incredibly smart and she has taken time and effort to educate herself on her rights even though the realistic expression of those rights is usually negligible and compromised in a country that pivots on patriarchal supremacy dehumanizing and delegitimizing the personhood of women.

Accessing mental health help is already a thorny path in most parts of the world. Common cultural stigmas, limited funding, poor practitioner-to-patient ratios, disorganized psychiatric epidemiology and a widespread inclination towards a pathologizing, purely bio-medical model that often doesn’t factor psychosocial causation for mental and emotional wellness all contribute to this quagmire. This is especially flagrant in the Global South where poverty, climate apocalypse and increasing ethno-fascist regimes have impaired an already derelict public health infrastructure, if at all one call it that.

“In South Asia, depressive disorders accounted for 9.8 million DALYs (95% UI: 6.8–13.2 million) or 577.8 (95% UI: 399.9–778.9) per 100,000 population in 2016. Of these, major depressive disorders (MDD) accounted for 7.8 million DALYs (95% UI: 5.3–10.5 million). India generated the largest numbers of DALYs due to depressive disorders and MDD, followed by Bangladesh and Pakistan.”

The burden of depressive disorders in South Asia, 1990–2016: findings from the global burden of disease study (Ogbo, Mathsyaraja, Koti, Perez & Page)

The high prevalence of depression-spectrum conditions cause a massive overall health challenge to physical well being leading to increased co-morbidity for diabetes, coronary diseases, poor infant mortality rates and neo-natal health, increased self-harm and suicidal ideation as well as substance abuse. This complex weave is rendered more inelastic due to prolonged wait time for getting any reliable medical assistance and a general lack of affordability. This is exacerbated when you are positioned at the intersection of caste, gender, class and sexual orientation in such a way that disenfranchisement is means to keep an electoral imbalance for cheap political wins.

Sex work till date carries its own taboos irrespective of how progressive a society claims to be. While studying for a forensic course, I was always appalled by how victims of “serial offenders” especially murderers who started their trajectory by attacking sex workers were referred to as “high risk” as if the nature of their work was solely responsible for the inhumane treatment meted out to them, not the internalised misogyny of the those who committed the violence.

In a no-nonsense essay, “How being a sex worker affected my mental health”, British sex worker and activist who uses the pseudonym Mitzi Poesener wrote -

“However, contrary to popular view of sex work, it is not a one way ticket to a breakdown. The difference between us and workers in other industries is that when we seek help we are asked to look at the ways we’ve kept ourselves out of poverty as shameful.”

N’s hesitation towards revealing her profession became more palpable when she described her attempts at visiting a psychiatrist while in the throes of a heavy depressive spiral brought about by her mother’s death a few years ago. She was both mentally and physically violated in a place designated to be refuge away from judgment. This had put her off from seeking any further help till, wait for it, a regular client of hers convinced her to try therapy again and passed her my details. Apparently, he had a significant social media presence and that’s how he’d chanced upon me. She researched me for days before she called my practice for an appointment.

The National Human Rights Commission of India has recently issued an advisory that now lists sex workers as informal workers in India. This move came in the wake of COVID 19 and also to take cognizance of the fact that a lot of sex workers in India are from marginalised sections of the society. The real-time impact of this declaration is something we can only wait and assess over time. A close friend who works towards providing affordable healthcare to sex workers in remote, often neglected red-light districts in two-tier and three-tier Indian cities is not as jubilant about this new development because they believe that systemic corruption coupled with a pervasive casteist, sexist bent of our society won’t let such proliferation make any real dents. Their pessimism has its own historicity.

There is also the more vicious and embittering side of this coin which involves human trafficking, sex tourism and forced prostitution that often sweeps up the most defenseless amongst us. Young girls, particularly from oppressed communities (e.g. lower castes in India or BIPOC and immigrants elsewhere) are often sold into flesh trade and these rackets stretch across a vast geopolitical radius. Socio-economic disparities are growing as capitalism fails to realise most of its promises. Once again, there is limited community-focused work on rehabilitation for those who have experienced these atrocities.

In a study titled “Burden and correlates of mental health diagnoses among sex workers in an urban setting”, the researchers drew a valid and significant conclusion –

Women in sex work faced disproportionate social and health inequities compared to the general population.
Evidence-informed interventions tailored to sex workers that address intersections between trauma and mental health should be further explored, alongside policies to foster access to safer workspaces and health services.

The key challenges to mental health help for sex workers can be listed as follows –

Compound Stigma– Even trained professionals often show stringent biases stiffened by inflexible echo chambers in which they exist. It is harrowing for someone to wade through all the aforementioned complexities that make mental health care usually unreachable to then face reproach or flippant remarks about the nature of their work or worse, character. Clients of mine have narrated abdominal experiences of dealing with GPs, psychiatrists and psychologists that bordered on uninformed, invasive and prejudiced/small-minded abuse. In a world that often invisibilizes people who engage in consensual sex work or, worse, makes them feel chronically unsafe, trusting a professional is an act of courage. This courage extinguishes itself when the professional is unable to remove themselves from a regressive and essentialist understanding of sex and sexuality. For example, a former sex worker and single mother who visited a local hospital for guidance about what she believed to be PTSD and vaginismus, she was repeatedly chided about her past just because she chose to be honest while providing her medical history.

Affordability & Access – Sex work– for a significant percentage of people who willingly engage in it– is still an unsteady source of regular income. If you are not covered by sufficient insurance which again is hard to access if you are primarily working as a freelancer within an irregular setup, being able to find a reliably inexpensive psychiatric or therapeutic intervention is often a pipe dream.

Individualizing of Harm – The most popular contemporary models for assessing mental health tends to lean heavily towards a biomedical model that has its uses but often doesn’t make enough space for psychosocial factors involved in a person’s suffering. One can’t deny that neurochemical and biological markers are relatively important when discussing mental health and illness but we need to be more receptive to the formulation around social inequities linked to race, class, caste, gender and sexuality based discriminations that dent people’s wellbeing on several levels. The DSM or the Diagnostic Statistic Manual which of often used by mental health practitioners to code and diagnose mental illness is a debated creed and for good reason but still it considers/includes both disorder/disease and distress models of mental health. Yet, there is a disproportionate attention paid to pathology where a person’s wellness or illness is often attributed to faulty wiring on an individual level v/s ecology where a person’s response to acute and persistent exposure to debilitating circumstances is relegated to the back-burner.

Marginalisation – Queer and trans folks are further penalised for engaging in sex work and often experience the most dreadful consequence – an ever looming threat to their lives. Fighting for a dignified acceptance of identity is compounded by limited vocational options that respect the whole human being. In a report published by National Center for Transgender Equality, it was noted that in the US nearly 40% of the respondents were denied shelter when homeless and almost 60% reported that they had attempted suicide at some point in their lives. In India, the presence of caste further stigmatizes a transgender person’s right to safety and acceptance. This often enables hyper-sexualization of transgender identities by cisfolks to devastating consequences. Till date, there is little to no inclusion about trans rights in most mental health syllabi used in colleges in India. Queer theorists and academics are working to change this but it is slow. Most research around their health and wellbeing is often carried under a cis gaze as well.

The sizable role played by law enforcement’s frequent viciousness against those in sex work is also undeniable. Most sex workers report frequently barbaric encounters with members of the police force. There have been various news stories and investigative journalism pieces that refer to collusion by members of such agencies in sex trafficking rings.

Sex work is a complex conversation that can’t take place if we begin viewing its entire existence with a jaundiced eye. It involves precarity for those who participate in it. There are evident dangers to mental health and wellness for sex workers but let us also understand and pay attention to how much of that is caused by social prejudice against sex and sexuality. On the one hand, independent sex workers who engage is mutually consented activities are pathologized, limited rehabilitation is available for those women/persons who have been rescued from illegal sex trade that festers across the landscape of the Global South.

Mental health practitioners need to educate themselves and be open to learning as they go. Accessibility for on-time healthcare is a matter of human rights. Antipathy cloaked in “traditionalism” is an offshoot of social conditioning and it needs to be disassembled. This has to be a process that rests on unconditional compassion, not a one-time event hinged on dubious charity. Challenging our own programming as therapists, psychologists and psychiatrists, our implicit scripts built on vague morality and questioning the lack of support for folks merely on account of their profession is only the entry point of this change. Centering the needs of our clients in therapy is the first rule of therapy. This shouldn’t be forgotten or compromised.

Citations:

The burden of depressive disorders in South Asia, 1990–2016: findings from the global burden of disease study (Felix Akpojene Ogbo, Sruthi Mathsyaraja, Rajeendra Kashyap Koti, Janette Perz & Andrew Page) https://bmcpsychiatry.biomedcentral.com/articles/10.1186/s12888-018-1918-1

How being a sex worker affected my mental health (Mitzi Poesener, Dazed Digital)

https://www.dazeddigital.com/artsandculture/article/35938/1/how-being-a-sex-worker-affected-my-mental-health

Criminalisation of clients: reproducing vulnerabilities for violence and poor health among street-based sex workers in Canada—a qualitative study (A Krüsi, K Pacey, L Bird, C Taylor1, J Chettiar, S Allan, D Bennett, J S Montaner, T Kerr, K Shannon)

http://bmjopen.bmj.com/content/4/6/e005191.full

Psychiatric morbidity among female commercial sex workers (Marboh Goretti Iaisuklang and Arif Ali) https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC5806326/

Burden and correlates of mental health diagnoses among sex workers in an urban setting (Nitasha Puri, Kate Shannon, Paul Nguyen & Shira M. Goldenberg) https://bmcwomenshealth.biomedcentral.com/articles/10.1186/s12905-017-0491-y

Scherezade Siobhan is an award-winning psychologist, writer, educator and a community catalyst who founded and runs The Talking Compass — a therapeutic space dedicated to providing mental counseling services and decolonizing mental health care. Her work is published or forthcoming in Medium, Berfrois, Quint, Vice, HuffPost, Feministing, Jubilat, The London Magazine among others. She is the author of “Bone Tongue” (Thought Catalog Books, 2015), “Father, Husband” (Salopress, 2016) and “The Bluest Kali” ( Lithic Press, 2018). Find her @zaharaesque on twitter. Send her chocolate and puppies — nihilistwaffles@gmail.com. Tweet at her @zaharaesque.