Reflecting on days gone by (part 1)

Or, "The First Time I Considered Sex Work."

“So, how do you like grad school?” he asks shortly after we first meet.
“Oh,” I laugh. “I’m not in grad school. I’m still undergrad.”
“Undergrad? Isn’t twenty-four a bit old for undergrad?”

I realize that there’s been some sort of miscommunication. Do I tell him that I’m just nineteen? Do I start fabricating now, or will it come back to bite me later? I quickly add up numbers in my head. I had pictured a man in his early thirties, though we hadn’t bothered to exchange small details (like age) over the internet. Standing in front of him now, I cross my fingers and cap my guess at thirty-five. I confess my age, all the while holding my breath.

“Nineteen,” he whistles. “Nineteen. I suppose that makes me one lucky guy.” He takes my bag and we walk the few blocks from the subway to his apartment. “Well, if you can handle a forty-year-old man with the stamina of a college student, you won’t be disappointed.”

We order Chinese food and share a bit of awkward small talk. I’m nervous. I can’t recall what I’m doing in this stranger’s studio apartment. Could I be delirious? I had come down with mononucleosis a few weeks prior, and I was still feeling the physical effects. I wondered if the illness hadn’t affected my cognition as well.

The food arrives and I spoon a small scoop of vegetable lo mein onto my plate. I stare down at my tattered Chuck Taylors.

“So, why are you actually here?” he asks sometime between the egg rolls and the fortune cookies.
“I’m here to learn 'the ropes,’” I laugh, hoping he’s understood the pun.
“Oh, I’ll show you the ropes,” he says. “But I need to know the boundaries.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like, are you here to learn or are you here to fuck?”

It wasn’t that I hadn’t anticipated the possibility of a sexual encounter, but I assumed my physical state had rendered me utterly (and visibly) undesirable.

“But, the mono...” I trail off.
“Come on,” he squeezes my shoulder. “Isn’t mono like chicken pox? You’re immune by the time you reach my age."

Lying for the Greater Good

They say that desperate times call for desperate measures, but who determines what's a desperate time and what's just a time to sweat a little?

This summer, I didn't wait for desperate times to put up an ad on the internet. I was stressed, yes, even scared....but not desperate. I kept my guitar, my computer, and my digital camera. I didn't sell my car, and I remained enrolled at an expensive private college.

When I put up my first ad, I sat in my comfy desk chair and pressed the submit button from my personal computer. In advertising myself, I used my intellectual and socioeconomic privilege to up-sell whatever goods I had to offer.

Want sex but feel too guilty to pay for it? What about an "intimate encounter" with a witty non-pro? I scratch your back you scratch mine, right? I've got student loans; you've got more money than you're interested in spending on your frazzled wife of twenty years. Really, it's a match made in heaven.

My mother called again today to gripe about the economy. "The money just isn't there...it just isn't there," she said over and over again.

When I walk away with my diploma in eight months, I know that the money still won't be there. My dictatorial father is about to jump ship, and when he does, he will leave behind a stay-at-home mother in denial about her empty nest and two daughters with bachelor's degrees and a hundred thousand dollars worth of debt. When this happens, my mother will awaken to the reality of her financial destitution. She'll stop fooling herself into thinking that she can still support me, and long story short, I want to be prepared for the moment when the whole shithouse comes crumbling to the ground.

So what's my next move? I can put up another ad and jump back in before I reach a point of desperation, or I can hold off until I feel like it's my only choice. Yes, I know that my "supposed" desperation is directly proportional to my privilege, but here's the skinny: I want to graduate in the spring, and I want to graduate with a body of work that I feel proud of. I can sell my computer, I can juggle a full time job, but I can't do these things AND put all of my free time and creative energy into my academic work.

If I've made the decision I think I've made, I know that this decision involves lying to someone who loves me and lying to those who have lent me unconditional support over the years. I don't know if it's possible to lie for the greater good, but while I sit here and theorize, my tuition bills aren't getting any smaller.

Karma Police

Today, I went to the Salvation Army and bought a hot pink sweater with penguins on it. It's become kind of a seasonal trend. Every fall, when the leaves begin to change, I go to a thrift store and spend two to five dollars on a stupid, dated sweater.

I was in the process of checking out, when a woman exiting the store dropped one of her bags. A glass soap dish fell from the bag and shattered on the floor. I was standing close by, and saw no one else move to help her, so I stooped to pick up the pieces. The woman stood over me and watched. She then turned on her heels and exited the store.

I handed the broken glass to the cashier and apologized (for what, I don't know). I was peeved at the lack of thanks, but assumed the woman was stressed/having a bad day/in a hurry. When I left the store, the woman was standing outside screaming at the top of her lungs. She was addressing an elderly woman who appeared to be her mother.

"Fucking idiot," she fumed. "Fucking idiot can't even wrap a fucking soap dish."
"Why don't you ask for a refund?" asked the elderly woman.
"I'm not going to ask for a fucking refund. Nobody can do a god damn thing right in this fucking town. Isn't this just a dandy fucking day?"

I passed by silently and slipped into my car. For a minute, I considered stopping this woman in the parking lot. I wanted to grab her shoulders, shake her, and tell her to get a grip. I wanted to scream back - "Look around you! Look at all of these people! You only have to glance over your shoulder to see imbalance and struggle. Pull yourself together, get back in your car, and contribute something worthwhile to this godforsaken world!"

Fortunately (or unfortunately), I vetoed the confrontation. If I'm going to get arrested, it won't be for a brawl in a thrift store parking lot. On the drive home, I turned on Radiohead and put Karma Police on repeat. When I arrived home, I went straight to my computer and put Karma Police on repeat. As I type, I'm still listening to Karma Police. I'm not in the mood for Karma Chameleon, and it was the only other karma song I could think of.

Attack of the socially awkward virgin

Story time.

I'm helping a friend out with some production work for his independent film. On the first day of filming this weekend, I did my best to socialize with the cast and crew. I struck up a conversation (small talk) with one of the actors. I'd seen him around campus, but we'd never spoken before. I asked him about his thesis project, and as the law of small talk dictates, he asked about mine.

"I'm compiling a nonfiction anthology, I said. "Stories written by college sex workers."
"College sex workers?" he asked. "What, like prostitutes?"
"Well, yes, but not exclusively."

He pondered this for a moment.

"Are there many in this area?" he asked.
"More than you'd think."
"And these are people you have connections with?"
"I guess so. Why do you ask?"
"Well, I'm a virgin," he said. "I know the first time is going to be awkward. I'd rather just pay for it and get it over with. And the idea of doing it with someone in my age range..."

I balked at this. I've gotten better at separating my academic work from my personal experience, but this was unexpected. Part of me admired his candor, but I also felt vulnerable and defensive. I advocate decriminalization and better understanding, but I don't *advocate* this line of work. As biased as it may be, I am only interested in sex work from the perspective of the worker, not the John. I am not a referral service, and while I don't want people to assume that my academic interests stem from personal experience, I do expect people to approach the topic with a sort of tip-toeing sensitivity.

Maybe his response was bold but appropriate. I may just be in a place where I can't put enough emotional distance between theory and practice.