I’m a Sex Worker and This is How I Spent Election Night.

I’ve voted in exactly four presidential elections, and that makes me feel both older and younger than I’d like to admit. This is the only one I've participated in where I've been an actively working sex worker however, and it really changed how I felt both about politics and about my role in our greater society.

The first time I voted was for Obama, and he won my first year in college. Life felt hopeful, and inspiring. The second time I voted, I was living on the west coast pursuing my dreams of being a writer, with barely two pennies to pinch together. My friends and I celebrated with cheap beer and stale weed, in a basement apartment in LA. It was dirty and grimy and I loved it. I felt like we had really taken a positive and permanent turn as a country, that things were turning out alright. We had gotten out of the worst recession in living memory and all my friends and I had jobs, had places to live. Hey, I was living in a closet under the stairs (earning me the affectionate nickname of Harry) but it was where I wanted to be, and I felt like I was playing a part I could easily escape at any time. We were lucky, then.

The next election in 2016 found me living abroad in Berlin. I had gathered a small group of friends in my flat to celebrate in anticipation of a Hillary win. As the night wore on, we stopped cheering, and eventually, there were tears. I couldn't believe that I was so far from home, and that we not only missed our chance to elect our first female president, but that we had handed our democracy to Trump. The cheap wine tasted like vinegar in our mouths, and I stayed in bed the next day, skipping my classes and not answering my phone. For the next couple of weeks as I wandered the streets of the city, shopkeepers or random people would stop me when they heard my accent and ask 'are you American?' For a long time I lied and told them I was from Vancouver, that what happened down there in the United States hadn't happened to me. I was in denial, and I was ashamed.

That was four long years ago. Now, I live in New York City and make art while also doing sex work on the side. The impact of Covid on my professional life has been unbelievable, and turned my incredibly busy intimate life into a barren desert. In some ways it was a crisis, as I found myself jobless like countless other people in the country, and yet because of the nature of my work I wasn't able to apply for unemployment relief. I did have many clients who still wanted to see me, but what had been for so long a safe haven for men to come and see me, and to escape the stress of the world became just another risk. I started setting up digital-only appointments, and answered many, many emails from clients who worried about me, and who were struggling to take care of their mental health under all the stress.

The past couple of months have seen a slow but steady return to some normalcy, with many sex workers such as myself becoming more and more familiar with ways in which we can minimize our risk, and with increasing ease of access for Covid tests making it easier for our clients to meet with us, it’s been getting gradually easier. While it was nowhere like it used to be, it felt good to be able to see my darlings.

Last week was the election and it put me in a very different sort of space. For months I'd been binging podcasts, watching the news until nearly sunrise, and feverishly scrolling through social media, consuming every poll and new article or projection about the election, and that was when my inbox started flooding. Loads of clients old and new started to contact me, with subject lines such as 'need to escape the news cycle for a bit' or 'I can't bear to watch this election alone.'

The night of the election, I met with a wonderful man whose only request was that we didn't talk about the election. We laid in bed and held hands and stared at the ceiling like we were in a French new age film. For awhile, we forgot that there was an election at all, and while it was always lingering somewhere in the back of my mind, it felt really good to get away from it for a moment, to have a valid reason to not look at my phone.

The next day, even though the election hadn't been called yet, I met with another regular of mine who wanted me to meet him in Connecticut, which I gladly did. When I saw him, he looked exhausted, and had the washed out and messy appearance of an unmade bed. I haven't slept all night, he told me sheepishly, and I just wanted you to help me feel like things were going to be okay.

I saw two other people that week, who both said things along the same lines. I don't want to worry about the election for awhile. I'm so tired, and so worried. It's too late for me to do anything about it, all we can do is wait, and I want to wait for a little bit with you. I felt the burden of their exhaustion, and I was tired from caring for them, and yet I felt like it was an essential duty in many ways.

It reminded me of something I saw being shared earlier in the pandemic on twitter, that while we have relied first and foremost on the medical experts; the doctors and public health leaders to tell us what's going on and how to protect ourselves, after that, we turned to the artists. Many of us started reading again for the first time in a long time, or we watched shows that we had never gotten around to seeing before. Loads of us bought art supplies and took online classes in painting, DJing, or playing guitar. We turned to the artists, to the writers, to the creators and the creatives to hold us up and give us hope. And in the same way, as the stress of the year wore on and the trauma and anxiety of the election outweighed the fear of the pandemic, I was reminded of the ways in which in times of emotional need, my clients can turn to me for healing and escape.

So I didn't spend my election night, or week, watching the news and chewing my fingernails. I spent election night holding hands with someone while talking about our favorite sushi restaurant that does super cute takeout boxes, and about Schitt's Creek. I spent election week going on an urban hike to get a great view of the city and talk with someone about how Max Richter's take on Vivaldi has been keeping them sane. I got to pet a client’s dog. I got to write emails to people to give them hope, and to suggest reading Normal People by Sally Rooney if they needed something to distract them. I spent the election caring for people who were exhausted, worried, hurt, and afraid, and it felt good.

The election ended for me on Saturday, when I heard my entire neighborhood erupt in cheers, clapping, and honking. The war isn't over but a big battle was won. And I am reminded by my week, even though it was exhausting, that the way we move forward isn't isolation, anger, or obsession. It's with gentle care.

The Day After.

By the whorticulturalist.

---

It's the day after election day and I'm so exhausted that I can barely focus my eyes on the work I have to do in front of me. I feel sick, my lower back aches, and my eyes are already burning. The blinds are pulled shut and my curtains are drawn. My apartment, which is usually full of music or podcasts, is blissfully silent. I want it to remain that way, I want to preserve the fragile tendrils of certainty and safety I feel.

It's surreal, to say the least, that we've finally made it here. I can still remember this day in 2016, and the feeling of hopelessness and betrayal. I was living abroad in England at the time, and as I went about my day and ran my errands, I was asked by many who recognized my accent what I thought about the election results. I didn't want to talk about it with strangers though, I didn't want to cry in public, so I just told everyone that I was Canadian. I didn't want to take on that responsibility, I was ashamed of how low we'd come.

There was a heavy feeling in my heart, as a woman, a sense of oncoming doom. I already felt tired thinking about the fights that were to be had. Maybe even back then, maybe I was already starting this magazine in my head. Just like back then, this week I'm thinking that this is not the end, but the beginning of something huge. I want to think about all the ways that this election, and this presidency have galvanized a lot of people to participate in their communities in ways they had never previously imagined. And I think about all the thoughtful energy created. People are paying attention, and people are beginning to care.

It's too early to say whether or not we are too late. It's too early to know whether or not we're going to be able to save the world in time. I feel even more lonely when I think about how more people voted for Trump in 2020 than they did in 2016. We need to change this. We need to change it all.

Last night I took a walk through the city to observe what I could. I could see streets that were eerily empty, and sports bars with election coverage on their tvs. I stopped next to a woman who was helping a homeless man, and when she walked away, the man told me that she had stolen his phone. I paused to look at graffiti on the sidewalk and a man leered at me and asked me to get a drink with him. I saw the empty hotels of SF with their rooms selectively lit up to make the skyline a choppy row of glowing hearts. I went home so tired, but I didn't sleep. I didn't sleep at all.

This isn't the end, this is just the beginning. This is us realizing, as we did back in 2016, that there is no end to the work to dismantle patriarchy, white supremacy, and exploitative systems of colonization and capitalism. We are tired, but we are determined. The tide is turning, and we will have our turn.