Sexwork and sorrow

When I first thought of this post, I was going to say that it pained me too much to write about the anthology Sex Work, but I have gotten over the days of suffering.

It was painful to read all those stories (I’ve so far read only the section of personal stories about sexwork, not the political and nonfiction portions) and not really see what I had heard tell was there– joy in the work. There were really three strands of experience– sorrow/anomie, smugness, and brittle shrillness. Most of the women were sad or just kind of wearied by the work and the idea of it. The sorrowful tone was palpable. There were a couple who were disgustingly smug about the work, all white women of highly desirable demographics. And then there were a few loudly proclaiming the happy hooker partylines, but they really did not seem to have their hearts in it, so to speak. Their stories were told in a shrill, brittle manner that was uncomfortable to get through.

Nobody really deriving joy or pleasure from the work. I had read a little about this book various spots, and I thought it would be different. It was depressing, frustrating and upsetting.

The racial/class aspects and total, utter, complete lack of actual female solidarity also didn’t help matters. It was swimming through a sea of sorrow, and no comforting beach of sacred whoredom to wash up on.