I Thought Sex Workers were Scum
We all grew up with beliefs and ideals passed onto us from our families, communities and culture. They affect how we observe ourselves and the world around us. Some of our ideas work out pretty well; like obeying traffic lights, or helping neighbors when they’re sick or in trouble. Others create hatred and division; like racism. Or homophobia. Or stigmas around mental illness or addiction. Our ideologies and beliefs are the psychological police of society, and some of our fundamental ideas are in the realms of sex—especially the sexuality of women.
Slut, whore, harlet, floozy, hussy, hooker, tramp.
There was a time, not long ago, where I felt repulsion for those kinds of women: Women that diverged too far from sexual norms. Women that stepped out of place. They seemed to disregard themselves and other women. They felt threatening. The feeling was strong. And it was disturbing.
It was a shame I felt about myself that I’d later project onto other women.
Why does this matter?
Shame is a kind of social feedback loop that’s passed from one woman to another, man to man, parent to child and one generation to the next. It’s also one of the most fundamental ways to steer us away from happy, healthy, fulfilling lives. Feelings of shame make us feel unworthy and flawed, disconnected and self-loathing. For me, these feelings ravaged my self esteem and led to years of addiction. I became desperate to fill the emptiness and find the love that was missing.
I’ll share a few examples of how shame can be perpetuated.
It’s my first year of high school. I’d gone on a date with Andy. Andy was one of the popular boys in school. But Andy’s advances felt gropey and even hostile. He clearly had no real kindness or care for me. So, I didn’t have sex with him. I didn’t so much as give him a kiss.
The following day, I sat alone in the lunchroom munching on a sandwich. My attention was pulled toward Andy. He was standing on a bench at his table, and he was getting loud and rambunctious. I watched as he pointed at me and howled so the whole lunchroom could hear:
“She could do deep-knee bends in a cucumber patch without getting turned on!” Some of the boys at his table literally fell on the floor, holding their stomachs, laughing. I shrank. I reddened. I stared at Andy who, although he was pointing my way, not once made eye contact. Andy was my first date, but I was already a prude. Now the whole school knew it.
It was kind of a funny thing to say, I admit. But when it’s about you and the thing you most want is to be a part of things, it’s devastating.
Soon after, I’d get drunk and have sex just to get over with it. I was fifteen.
Within the next few weeks I ran away from home due to extenuating circumstances. On my first night away, I went to a party. A few beers in, I was making out with new crush named Chris. It was delicious. It was dreamy. I was into it. Then Chris suddenly stopped and said, “Are you going to have sex with me or what?” I pulled myself out from under him, confused by this sudden shift in tone and feeling. “I’m not ready.” I said. Chris stormed away. I had no idea what just happened. It sucked. I was upset. I really liked him.
So I got more drunk. And as the night rolled on, I went looking for a place to sleep and stumbled into his friend Dave’s room. I didn’t realize I was in the wrong place until I’d already asked I could sleep in there. But it didn’t matter. I was drunk and tired and just wanted to go to bed. He lifted the covers and I tucked in next to him. Moments later, his groping hands were all over me. I stopped breathing. I didn’t know this guy. What was he doing? But his hand was on my crotch and I just laid there, stunned and exhausted. Then he was inside me.
Chris, of course, showed up just then. Enraged by the discovery he threw me out of the house. By then I was terrified and just wanted to sleep and escape into the safety of my friend’s van. Why the fuck hadn’t I thought of that in the first place? But Chris still had grievances. About a half hour later he resolved them by sending one of his girlfriends after me. She showed up at the van and told me to come out, which I did. Before I knew what was happening, a fist met my face, my head slammed into the van, and I crumpled into the gutter. My eyes opened. The girl was gone. I looked up and saw Dave pull his head in from the window. He’d watched the whole thing and done nothing.
When I attempt to understand the consequences of incidents like these, my mind kind of draws a blank. It’s one of the reasons why I write, to try to make some sense of it all. But I do find it interesting that I’ve always held an attitude of self-blame: I shouldn’t have been drinking or in those situations in the first place. There is, after all, a bit of truth to that. I shouldn’t have. I should have been protected from such incidents. Yet what are the foundations that would keep these kinds of experiences almost inevitable for a runaway girl at 15?
And if I had a view of a girl like myself from the outside, a girl who’d kissed Chris only to fuck his friend, perhaps I too would have felt a little thrill knowing she would be beaten. I mean, she deserved it, right? Hadn’t she given Dave a clear message by showing up at his bedroom door? Sex would be expected in such situations, wouldn’t it?
I’ve really had to stop and think about that. The more I do, the more it makes me want to vomit.
And what was missing from this picture was the inside story; the emotionally destroyed 15 year old who laid there, limp, while Dave got his rocks off. She’d never agreed. She never said yes, nor offered any touch or kissing or inviting body language. She also didn’t have any fight left.
I’m not mad at Dave. Or Chris. A girl just can’t expect to be lost in the world without being raped or beat up. Yeah, I understand.
If I try to switch the roles in these stories, it’s hard to do. It’s hard to imagine, for example, Chris as Christina: while the hurt of such an incident from his/her position might certainly be universal, it’s hard to imagine the latter being so violently entitled to sex.
But the point of these stories isn’t to shame boys or show how bad their behavior can be when it comes to dating and sex. All of us are part of this culture, and whatever our gender, we’re really in a time of confusion. We’re a mess. In fact, that’s what this writing is about; How I came to despise the sexuality of women. How I, if I was to blindly keep living with and feeding such feelings, would contribute to the shaming that ultimately rips us apart, both as women and men.
In truth, I didn’t know I had these feelings at all. They stayed hidden behind my judgments, jealousies and addictions. However, I discovered them by chance when I was 33. And when it arose, it did so in a way that held my attention:
On cold winter mornings, I’d pedal by a ‘gentleman’s club’ on my bike, en route to work as a barista at a coffee shop. I could barely afford rent and the Summa Cum Laude degree that was supposed to pull me out of poverty didn’t get me any better jobs. But it did add on a mountain of debt. Meanwhile, each time I passed by, out of breath and pedals squeaking, I thought; the bitches in that club are making god-knows-how-much just for taking their clothes off. How unfair is that? I fought my addictions. I got my degree. I’ve done everything I can. I’m still fucked. But those whores are pulling in the bucks. For what? For having no brains? Having no real value or purpose? For being sluts? I despised them. Every day, back and forth. My resentment grew for months.
Eventually, I was so sick of my judgment and repulsion that I rode up to the club, threw down my bike and went in to apply for a job.
Those feelings I had for the club were far beyond any kind of wise recognition that something was inappropriate or out of balance. I believed sex workers were dirt. They were evil. They needed to be eliminated from the planet. When things feel like that they’re personal — quite likely, they’re projections.
According to Good Therapy, a projection is a psychological defense mechanism in which individuals attribute characteristics they find unacceptable in themselves to another person. For example, a husband who has a hostile nature might attribute this hostility to his wife and say she has an anger management problem. In some cases projection can result in false accusations. Someone with adulterous feelings, for example, might accuse their partner of infidelity.
Or, someone who wanted a healthy, normal sexuality was too ashamed, so hated those who appeared more open and free?
My employment at the strip club didn’t last long, but long enough to see that the reality of strippers didn’t match the images in my head. Sure, there were drugs and shady circumstances. That’s inevitable anywhere people deal with issues of self esteem and unworthiness. Overall, though, those women were much like myself; women who wanted to work towards degrees or pay off loans. They were single moms with kids to take care of. They were real women not disposable ‘sluts.’
And these observations only led to more questions.
I mean, the absolute repulsion I felt. The hatred. That was interesting. Why did I have that? It couldn’t be normal. Or maybe it was. But I sensed that this had to be more about me than it was about them.
I didn’t recall ever being sat down to be told that sex was dirty or bad or wrong, but an image was certainly tied in with sexworkers; one of sleazy hookers lurking in dark corners along with coke dealers and rapists. They yelled ‘Hey Baby’ and leaned into cars offering $20 blow jobs.
And because my judgmental feelings remained for other aspects of sexual work, I eventually leaned towards them as well. I worked as a tantric practitioner and even gave sensual massage. Like the club, this was the kind of thing I was ‘above’; the kind of thing I’d never do. But I did.
I did because I was in control. Men couldn’t just walk in and exchange money for sexual services. I didn’t give sensual massage to just anyone. It was reserved for clients with whom I’d built affection and trust. I had to see how they would benefit from such an experience. The foundation had to be love.
Interestingly enough, I couldn’t imagine this working. Weren’t men desperately run by their cocks? They wanted a hand job. They wouldn’t be interested in healing or intimacy or vulnerability or connection.
I was so wrong.
This isn’t to say there weren’t those who didn’t just want that. There was. And that was fine. I just refused those ones. But that was on me not them; I just wasn’t ready for that. I told any potential clients right off the bat that sexual touch may never happen. Men came nonetheless. Sometimes all we did was cuddle. They even thanked me for it. And still paid me well. I was flabbergasted.
Sure, this wasn’t the world of prostitutes. I didn’t use my body for penetrative sex. But the point is that I had no idea that a world of healing and real care existed around sex. How could I when sexuality out of the context of long term committed relationships was perpetually presented as dirty and wrong?
I met many prostitutes. They didn’t roam street corners. They lived honest, respectable lives. They were wise, loving, intelligent women.
Yes, there were those I still didn’t like. Yes there were dark worlds out there connected to trafficking and drugs and horrible inhumanities. But the point is, that’s all I thought there was. My images, as are images so often from the outside, were incorrect. I was looking through the lens of cultural beliefs about women and sex; the same lenses we use to view race or poverty or social bias. The lenses that keep us ignorant and divided.
I was learning that sex work, done with the right intentions, could be healing. It helped heal my shame around sex. It helped me find my boundaries. It helped me discover my power and heal my relationships with men. It helped the men in ways that still blow my socks off, pun intended. I have several clients that to this day continue to remind me how our work together healed both mental and physical aspects of their lives.
I’d never have thought of a sensual massage as a place where deep intimacy could occur. Men would grow vulnerable and tears would flow. It’s just not the image I had in my head. So many people in these worlds were trying to find love and meaning and heal their pain just as I’d been. We all needed intimacy and touch and connection.
Leaning into the places I judged was an awesome pathway to drawing back my projections. I could see myself through others, the good, the bad and the ugly and eventually take personal responsibility for my feelings. It gave me freedom. It gave me power. It gave me an authentic sense of compassion.
The hardest ideas to shake are those so deeply internalized throughout society that we see them as natural and inherent—if we see them at all. One of the ideas we most accept and continue is our unconscious collective agreement to render female sexuality shameful; something to be controlled rather than honored and respected.
And I really do understand how that has come to be. It’s hard to respect all the rage or fads or obsessive flag-waving that so often accompanies this subject. Healing sexuality doesn’t need the energy of a cheering squad behind it. It doesn’t have to focus on ‘orgasmic juiciness’ or egoistic ‘Goddess’ facades.
Do you want to know what your hidden bits might be? Your cues are the things that most attract and repulse you. But Maya! I’m repulsed by murderers or pedophiles! Are you saying this means I have some hidden psychopathic desire?
No. It doesn’t. Look deeper. We can look at something and recognize it as wrong and fight for injustices without some unconscious trauma running the show. But it’s certainly helpful to be willing to discover these pieces of ourselves without the belief that something’s morally wrong. Which is difficult. After all these are bits that, consciously or unconsciously, we’ve deemed unacceptable.
So ask yourself:
What is the stuff that really edges at you? What are the things that make you want to pull out your own hair and scream? The things that keep your mind spinning? What causes the poisons of contempt and fury running through your veins? You get the picture; look for the things that are ‘in your face,’ that keep showing up in your life. Perhaps they are there, waiting to be discovered.
I Thought Sex Workers were Scum
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