Boy, do these months fly by! It's time for my new column, "Uppity Vaginas and Educational Porn," at the Erotica Readers and Writers Association blog, and I have juicy topic today. While we're constantly bombarded with sexual images to shock us out of our twenty-first-century stupor so we'll buy stuff, "serious" journalists and commentators still treat sexuality with a mixture of fear, contempt, and ridicule. Witness The New Yorker review of Naomi Wolf's new book, Vagina: A New Biography. I haven't read the book, but I am amazed at the response. Over the top snark--but why? If it's simply a bad book, whom does it threaten? The New York Times is less obviously sex-phobic in their profile of Cindy Gallop, a woman who is starting a website for realistic videos of sexual encounters, but they still feel the need to focus on her far-out fashion and boy-toy lair. Unlike me, I guess she looks like an erotica writer!
If you get a chance to read, let me know what you think.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Wednesday, September 05, 2012
Eternal Inspiration for Your Writing
This month, my "Cooking Up a Storey" column at ERWA explores "Eternal Inspiration:The "How's" and "Why's" of Genre and Gingerbread." I discuss how those two simple questions will provide a lifetime of material for your writing, how all good stories are mysteries, and why gingerbread stays delicious forever. Check it out--and consider baking yourself a batch of Honey Cake Squares soon!
Tuesday, September 04, 2012
Violet Blue Recommends the Best of Donna George Storey
Friday, July 06, 2012
The Best of Donna George Storey!
The writing life is all about stories, both the stories we tell and the stories we tell ourselves about the writing process itself. I've wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember--since first grade at least--but realizing that dream took a few more decades. And of course, I had no idea at age six what sort of stories I'd be publishing! That realization came about fifteen years ago as I was reading The Mammoth Book of International Erotica, edited by Maxim Jakubowski. I'd read some literary erotica, like Anais Nin (whom I liked) and Henry Miller (whom I didn't), but this anthology included such a variety of voices, all of them good in their distinctive way, that I was inspired to try and write an explicit, sexy story myself. I hoped I would be published eventually if I worked hard, but even with my fertile imagination, I never would have guessed this day would come: a short story collection of my own, Picture Perfect: Mammoth Books Presents the Best of Donna George Storey.
The ebook brings together six of my stories that have been published in previous volumes of the annual Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica. I suppose it shouldn't be a surprise that every story has special significance to me. They indeed represent the best of my erotica writing throughout my career.
"Blinded," although revised over the years, was the very first erotic story I ever wrote. It took me over a year to be satisfied enough to send it out to editors. It was roundly rejected for about another year. Then the editor of a small literary magazine, who also worked at Playboy's Cyber Club, wrote me to say he was accepting it for his journal and that what I'd written was far better than the stories he saw on the site. Since then the story has been reprinted many times, thus it is fitting it should open my best-of collection.
"Picture Perfect" is the first story I wrote that appeared in print in Taboo: Forbidden Fantasies for Couples, edited by Violet Blue. I really enjoyed writing this story as I discovered some of my own signature themes--exhibitionism, flouting authority, and the erotic power of creating your own sensual images in a society where we are constantly inundated with ideas of what others think is sexy. I was really proud of the last line when I wrote it--and I still am!
"Just Words" first appeared in Violet Blue's Best Women's Erotica 2007. I'm a huge fan of sexy dialogue. Words alone can do a lot for me, which is not surprising for an erotica writer. So I decided to try a phone sex story, and I'm quite happy with the result. Join in the fun and you might even pick up a new bedroom trick or two....
"Spring Pictures" is the first erotic story I wrote that was set in Japan. I've always been fascinated by shunga (literal translation: "spring pictures") or Japanese erotic prints with the swirling kimono and over-sized genitals. A perk was that I could immerse myself in gorgeous shunga books to research this story. I like the ending of this one, too, a sort of cross-lingual pun. I told you I liked playing with words!
"Being Bobby" is based on a cute (I hope) habit of mine back in college of dressing up in my boyfriend's clothes. Except in this story, the clothes have a mind of their own. The setting as well as the teenage misdeeds are based on the dorms at Princeton, in particular Holder Hall, once known as the sophomore ghetto, where the bathrooms and showers were all located in the basement. Cold going down there on a winter morning in your boyfriend's clothes....
Last and not least, "To Dance at the Fair" was first published in print in Rachel Kramer Bussel's Dirty Girls: Erotica for Women. It's a special pleasure to have this story in my best-of book because it's one of my favorites. For me sex is not just a physical act. It's about fantasy and memory and mystery and connection. This story explores those themes when a divorced female professor takes advantage of her new status to get closer to some old colleagues.
So, that's the rundown of Picture Perfect. If you enjoyed the book, please consider writing an Amazon review and posting the same review on the publisher's website. Also "liking" the Amazon page and adding votes for the tags is a nice way to help a struggling author put her best book cover forward on the Internet marketplace.
Thursday, July 05, 2012
Talking BDSM with Justine Elyot
Monday, July 02, 2012
The Perils of Publication
Happy July! That means it's time for another installment of my column, Cooking Up a Storey over at the Erotica Readers and Writers Association. This month I discuss the "Perils of Publication," namely how the focus on external validation can distract a writer from what's really important in the process. Speaking for myself, it took far too long for me to examine my own assumptions about what publication and success in the marketplace means. It's not an easy process, but the rewards are great--just as they are when you take on the complicated, but delicious recipe I highlight this month for Venetian cookies. I always get rave reviews for these colorful treats, and many people have told me they are their favorite cookies ever. Thin layers of almond cake sandwiched with apricot jam and glazed with semi-sweet chocolate--pure heaven. So go ahead and take a bite!
Monday, June 18, 2012
Four Ways We're "Allowed" to Talk about Sex
It's time for another installment of "All About Pleasure" over at the Erotica Readers and Writers Association blog. In this month's "Erotica Writers in Bondage," I was inspired to call out the ways the media and publishing industry constrain the discussion of sexuality to keep society safe from the disruptive dangers of carnal lust. If you dutifully conform to any of these safe-sex approaches, you won't threaten anyone and your work will find its place in the proper category. However, if you try to break free of these bonds in some way, people are going to be uncomfortable and upset. But isn't that the mission of the serious writer? Let me know what you think!
Friday, June 15, 2012
Bound By Lust in a Magical Setting!
This is why I love being an erotica writer. This past Wednesday, on a lovely June evening, my husband and I scooted across the Bay Bridge in his vintage MR2, pulled into the garage at Mission and Fifth, and walked right into the Good Vibrations downtown store (very convenient if you're in Union Square and need to pick up a rabbit for the folks back home). There was something so magical about the setting--sleek, jewel-colored dildoes on the wall, a fabulous collection of erotic books, rhinestone, encrusted silk handcuffs--already I was transported to another world, where people can speak freely and supportively about sexual desire. That was, in fact, the reason I was here, to participate in a reading for the spanking-new BDSM romance anthology, Bound by Lust.
As I drew near the signing table, draped in a sparkly cloth that looked like a belly dancer's veil, I spotted the book's editor, Shanna Germain, looking every bit as lovely as she does in her film noir photos. I've always been a big fan of Shanna's stories, which are always beautiful, risky and super hot, so it was a real thrill to meet her in person. As the start time approached, the chairs were filled with the perfect San Francisco crowd. You could tell from their eyes they were smart and open-minded! Shanna began by reading Alison Tyler's lyrical foreword to the anthology--which starts off with a provocative quote by the most fun Founding Father, Benjamin Franklin: "Lust knows not where Necessity ends." Indeed.
I went next, reading the first two sections of my story "Spring Training." The male partner is a baseball fan and sets up a special workout for his girlfriend. References to the World Champion San Francisco Giants abound, and the audience was very appreciative. Indeed it was the perfect setting in which to read the story as there's also reference to shopping for dildoes. Then Shanna read from Sommer Marsden's intensely moving "Reclaiming Spring"--in keeping with the late spring theme of the evening.
Next came the Q & A, which can be a little unpredictable on occasion, but this group was great--lively, interested and supportive. We finished off with a signing on the sparkly tablecloth. The writing process can involve discouragement and struggle, but evenings like this, when I can connect with other writers I admire (erotica pioneer Thomas Roche was in the audience as well) and celebrate erotic storytelling, are what keep me going with a smile on my face--as you see in the photo above!
Friday, May 18, 2012
All About Pleasure: The Ultimate Writer's Romance
After fifteen years in the writing business, you'd think I'd be a total cynic when it comes to publishing. Well, I thought I was until an encounter with a certain manuscript made me realize that I'm still a romantic deep down in my heart. How about you? Do you think the publishing marketplace brings us the best? Does the market give us what we deserve? Do you believe that good writing will always find a publisher? Read my column, "The Ultimate Writer's Romance," and let me know what you think!
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
All About Pleasure: Beyond the “Wet Test”
We read erotica to get off, right? That's why people always preface comments about my writing with, "I don't usually read this kind of stuff, but...." Admitting you do read a lot of erotica is tantamount to a public proclamation you indulge in--gasp--self-pleasuring activities. And I don't mean eating fine chocolate.
This month at the ERWA blog in "Beyond the 'Wet Test,'" I talk about the ways that assumption is often reflected in casual reviews of erotica anthologies. And it's not that there's anything wrong with listing the stories you "like" best in an anthology. It's just that sometimes it seems that's the chief means by which erotica is judged, so that it serves as a kind of code for what personally turns someone on.
You may disagree. Read the post and let me know!
This month at the ERWA blog in "Beyond the 'Wet Test,'" I talk about the ways that assumption is often reflected in casual reviews of erotica anthologies. And it's not that there's anything wrong with listing the stories you "like" best in an anthology. It's just that sometimes it seems that's the chief means by which erotica is judged, so that it serves as a kind of code for what personally turns someone on.
You may disagree. Read the post and let me know!
Monday, April 02, 2012
Write Like a Rock Star!
April is here, and with it arrives the second installment of my column at the Erotica Readers and Writers Association, "Cooking Up a Storey." This month, in "Write Like a Rock Star: Making Magic on Stage, on the Page, and in the Kitchen," I share one of my most popular cookie recipes and the insights I've gained about how to reach an audience with your writing from watching kids perform on stage. If you Google the term "rock star," you'll see that it's currently used for a wide variety of things not necessarily related to music: not only energy drinks, clothing, and other consumer goods, but also generally performing an activity in such a way that you rise above the ordinary with your energy and charisma. I'd dismiss it as another symptom of our society's celebrity worship, except that my son plays in a rock-and-roll band, and I've come to appreciate all the hard work and skill that is involved in performing on stage. But there's another--almost magical--ingredient that can be used by artists of every kind. Check out my column, and see if you agree!
Sunday, March 18, 2012
All About Pleasure: The Politics of Arousal
Pornography. You know it when you see it, right? It's the stuff that's created to arouse you. But is that the only entertainment that targets our natural instincts and vulnerabilities? Today at Erotica Readers and Writers Association blog, in All About Pleasure: The Politics of Arousal, I discuss how literary and mainstream fiction also manipulate our emotions and our sexual desire, for often less than noble purposes, and why they get away with it.
It's a provocative topic, and I'd be curious what you think!
It's a provocative topic, and I'd be curious what you think!
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Now We Really Need Courage to Write Erotica
One of my projects for 2012 is to contribute a monthly post to The Erotica Readers and Writers Association blog, along with many other erotica writers whose work I greatly admire. This morning when I went to Facebook to link to my current post, they refused the URL as inappropriate or "spammy." This has never happened before, and I don't see it as a good sign. We live in a society where our House of Representatives believes it's okay to ask a panel of old men to decide on women's health issues and their right to access birth control without allowing a single woman to be part of the dialogue. Is Facebook's sudden blocking of ERWA a similar effort to allow the most reactionary, fearful opinion prevail over freedom of speech and thought?
I hope I'm being paranoid.
Unfortunately, history shows that the forces of reaction can roll back progress, as impossible as that might seem. Remember that Jim Crow kept southern blacks in virtual slavery for over a century after the Emancipation Proclamation. There are obviously many people out there who would like to outlaw contraception and anything that celebrates the enjoyment of sexuality. As my blog post argues, writing erotica is an important way to assert the truth about the human experience rather than buckle under to what makes a small minority of fear-mongers comfortable. Apparently Facebook is part of that minority.
The problem is, once you start censoring for the "common good," where do you stop? I find violence very objectionable, and in fact some PG-13 movies offend me with their portrayal of terrible violence without realistic consequences. Does that mean Facebook should censor all violent material?
Ironically, my ERWA blog post about changing the world is even more salient than I thought when I wrote it last week.
I hope I'm being paranoid.
Unfortunately, history shows that the forces of reaction can roll back progress, as impossible as that might seem. Remember that Jim Crow kept southern blacks in virtual slavery for over a century after the Emancipation Proclamation. There are obviously many people out there who would like to outlaw contraception and anything that celebrates the enjoyment of sexuality. As my blog post argues, writing erotica is an important way to assert the truth about the human experience rather than buckle under to what makes a small minority of fear-mongers comfortable. Apparently Facebook is part of that minority.
The problem is, once you start censoring for the "common good," where do you stop? I find violence very objectionable, and in fact some PG-13 movies offend me with their portrayal of terrible violence without realistic consequences. Does that mean Facebook should censor all violent material?
Ironically, my ERWA blog post about changing the world is even more salient than I thought when I wrote it last week.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
An Irresistible Offer
My year has started off quite nicely with some exciting new anthologies hitting the stores. Just in time for Valentine's Day is Irresistible, an anthology of couples erotica edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel. My story, "Pink Satin Purse," is one of my naughtier endeavors--for daring couples only. Plus Rachel has a very sweet deal going for anyone who purchases Irresistible before January 31--you'll get your choice of another of her awesome erotica books, signed, for free! Check out the terms at her blog, Lusty Lady. Seriously now, can you resist this?
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
All About Pleasure: Eat Chocolate!
One of the many exciting new developments of 2012 is a new feature on the ERWA blog--a rotating roster of some of erotica's sexiest authors will post a column on specific days of the month. I get the 18th--my 18th year was a memorable one--and I plan to make it an exercise in self-indulgence. This month I explain how eating two different kinds of chocolate in one sitting will improve your writing and your sex life. Check out "All About Pleasure: Stimulate Your Senses." Now it's time to go out and buy some good chocolate!
Wednesday, December 07, 2011
The Path to Publication
The December-January ERWA columns are up, and this issue I conclude my writers' feast with a discussion of that most luscious of literary desserts (and deserts)--publication! Ah, yes, we all want to be published. We probably all want to be published more than we actually want to write. And there's no better way to get published than to to promise tips and strategies for other people to get published. But I digress.
In my latest "Cooking Up a Storey" column, "Get Published Today!," I pass on a few of my personally-tested tips for getting the editorial nod--gratis. Of course, now that I'm a published veteran, I'd argue that the writing process itself is the real gold, but I certainly still enjoy getting word that my story will appear in a new anthology. I also offer a great recipe for Eggnog Ice Cream, which goes wonderfully well with homemade Christmas cookies.
Happy reading and submitting and holiday eating!
In my latest "Cooking Up a Storey" column, "Get Published Today!," I pass on a few of my personally-tested tips for getting the editorial nod--gratis. Of course, now that I'm a published veteran, I'd argue that the writing process itself is the real gold, but I certainly still enjoy getting word that my story will appear in a new anthology. I also offer a great recipe for Eggnog Ice Cream, which goes wonderfully well with homemade Christmas cookies.
Happy reading and submitting and holiday eating!
Sunday, November 13, 2011
My Desire Made Me More Interesting to Myself
I'm really excited to announce my latest interview over at the blog of Anna Cook, The Feminist Librarian. The interview is part of the blog tour for Women in Lust, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel. Rachel's latest anthology is particularly strong precisely because it's about strong women who have the courage to explore their desires--it's a very inspiring and empowering read. My story, "Comfort Food," is a favorite of mine because it deals with appetites of all kinds, for food, sex, and enjoying sensual pleasure of all kinds. In the story, the narrator has an epiphany that really resonates with me: "My desire made me more interesting to myself."
Isn't that what attraction and lust are all about?
The questions Anna asked me in the interview really got me thinking about erotica, my own writing, and our unfortunate cultural habit of thinking sex is "out there" in Hollywood or sexy magazines. That other people decide who is sexy, and the rest of us have to watch from the sidelines. Writing erotica helped me understand sexiness is inside of me, and that sense of empowerment ties back to the theme of Women in Lust as well. I highly recommend you head over to Anna Cook's blog and read the interview, as well as her other posts. She is a thoughtful and thought-provoking blogger, and I was delighted to be invited!
(The photo above is of my collection of erotic books related to Japan and Japanese culture. Makes me want to roll around and read for hours!)
Friday, September 30, 2011
Sexy Writing Partnerships
Writing and sex have a lot in common, and I explore another way this is all too true in my latest ERWA column, Sexy Writing Partnerships: Mastering the Art of Reading, Responding, and Roasting Brussels Sprouts. Originally I'd meant to put in a paragraph or two at the end of an earlier column about writing groups, but my memories of the good and the bad of writing feedback were so overwhelming, I decided to devote an entire essay to the topic. And that was just the beginning--is there anything to get a writer going all night over a bottle of red wine than sharing stories of mean critiques? Well, if you have the wine, I've got the tales, but I've also learned a lot about the kind of critic I want to be, a work in process of course. If you have any suggestions for further tips on how to give and accept feedback on a very sensitive issue for a writer, let me know!
And I noticed fresh Brussels sprouts on the stalk are already available at my local uber vegetable market. Gonna get roastin'....
And I noticed fresh Brussels sprouts on the stalk are already available at my local uber vegetable market. Gonna get roastin'....
Thursday, August 25, 2011
I Was (Almost) a Prostitute, Part 2
Writing part 1 of my response to the “Hipster Hooker” story and its aftermath was therapeutic, but I’m still dismayed at how slut-shaming remains such an extraordinarily effective strategy to keep women in line. I mean, really, even today if you want to be a respected writer, ladies, stay away from any whiff of sex or you’re ruined. That’s why this strategy works so beautifully. If “serious,” “respectable” people are scared into silence, then sexuality will continue to be dirty, forbidden and a great way to get at us in sly, subtle ways so we feel ashamed, don’t get feisty, and buy more stuff. Women will suffer for this because on the face of it they are designated as the more sexualized, vulnerable and inferior sex. But in spite of their alleged superiority and free rein with the libidinous impulses, men lose out in a sex-phobic society, too. Jessica Pilot’s article illustrates this point equally well.
While nominally about young women who make six-figure, tax-free salaries keeping company with prominent men, whether intentionally or not, Pilot’s article presents a grim picture of male sexuality. Pilot and her friends didn’t seem to have a very positive experience with sex with free-loading lovers. Pilot admits that at 22, all her dates and hookups hadn’t amounted to much, except to make her life more stressful. A call girl informant asked Pilot, and through her the reader as well, “How many men have you slept with who have turned out to be assholes? Well, let’s say you could get reimbursed for all the time you spent with them. Would you?” It’s easier to get compensated, says another. Sex with a boyfriend just isn’t worth it.
So, okay, guys, you’re going to have to make the bedroom more rewarding for your girlfriend, if you want to beat out the fellows willing to pay $2000 an hour!
If regular guys aren’t offering much pleasure in the sack, the “big-time artists,” “pro hockey players,” a “CFO at a major investment firm” mentioned in the article do seem to exert an appeal for Manhattan’s desirable young women. Of course Pilot can’t mention names, prostitution is illegal, but the necessity of being coy really underscored the depersonalization of the men. They become job titles, wallets, success objects. They might believe a long-time client relationship means there is genuine feeling, but Pilot’s pretty informants shake their heads and smile at that comforting illusion. If you happen to be in the mood to pity rich guys, you’ll find plenty of evidence here. Observes one call girl: “These guys are just lonely. And I know it’s hard to believe some of the big names we’ve been with would ever get that way, but believe me, they are. You have to have some sympathy for a man who works so hard to be successful and has no true love in his life. He has to get it by the hour.”
More than an expose of prostitution, Pilot’s article strikes me as warning about the costs of success and the worship of money as well. I’d guess a majority of people would not actively encourage their daughters to become prostitutes, even high-paid ones, but plenty of us encourage our sons to “succeed” without considering the price our elite professions exact. I was reminded of another great book I read last year called Liquidated: An Ethnography of Wall Street by Karen Ho. Ho studies the culture of Wall Street and her findings would be sad if they weren’t so dangerous for our national economy. In brief summary, Wall Street firms indoctrinate their young recruits by forcing them to work hellish hours in a cutthroat environment, stringing them along with the promise of huge bonuses for putting profit above any other consideration. Does this harsh, blindered life take a toll on these young men (and just a few women who survive the gender hazing)?
Pilot’s article gives us an intriguing answer to that question. Naturally no article about high-end prostitution would be complete without glimpses into the kinky tastes of rich guys, and Pilot gives us a doozy with a peek into the erotic fetish of a “prominent hedge fund millionaire.” (Incidentally, according to a little web surfing, part of the pleasure of reading the article for New Yorkers was guessing identities). Is this kinky enough for you? One Wall Street master of the universe placed fifty one-hundred-dollar bills all over the bed then told “Olivia” to lie on top of them naked and (pretend to, she assures us) play with herself. He promised her the money would be all hers. Then he ejaculated on the money and stuck every bill to her body with his personal “glue.” After he pasted the last bill over her mouth, he said, “I told you it would be all yours.” (Olivia collects the money in a baggie, washes and dries it, then gives it to her landlady for rent. Is the dirty money still circulating? If you deal in hundred-dollar-bills, beware of wrinkled, laundered-looking specimens!)
Okay, certainly one response to this scene, the most expected one, is EEEUUUWWW, men are so creepy and perverted, and obviously the richer you are, the more screwed up you are and the more you demean women and ohmygod this is so gross! That poor prostitute, she must have no self-respect to endure that. Oh, and is there another example of the weird things these high-flyin' guys do?
I must admit, however, that my reaction was a bit different. Some argue that high-end call girls are more like therapists and in this case it couldn’t be truer. I can't help but wonder what has happened to this man in his life that would find erotic expression in this form? What humiliations did he have to endure for that dangling phallus of great wealth? What silence was required that felt to him like a mouth gagged by a hundred-dollar bill covered with a stranger’s semen?
Remember, this is a guy who has some serious power over our national economy, a success by any measure. Maybe we should stop worrying about our daughters and start taking a look at the way we compromise the souls of our sons?
One more thought about overlooked gems in Pilot’s article. One of her informant friends is supposedly confessing the downside of her job—that she feels depressed when she doesn’t have clients, that she calculates what she’d be earning with a john when she’s out with a boyfriend (as if busy businessmen aren’t always thinking about work as well). But she also confesses she feels close to some of her clients. “We’re both hiding a secret about ourselves, and in a very bizarre way that’s totally hot.” I wish Pilot had explored these intriguing insights further--our assumptions might have been challenged in an interesting way rather than, mostly, confirmed.
But I promised you a story of my own brief descent into prostitution, and I’m a girl who delivers. I won’t leave you your hotel room door, mouth gaping, deeply chagrined that a call girl took one look at your face and fled on you like the poor chubby guy Pilot rejected. (One can’t help but wonder what she would have done if Hugh Grant answered the door). Anyway, here goes.
In the summer of 1983, when I was just one year younger than Jessica Pilot, I lived in New York City for a few months. New York had always seemed so glamorous, all I could see was the neon and bustle, but I gradually became more familiar with its shadowy side—the young women in silk dresses lingering outside of midtown office buildings at day’s end, a friend of a friend who worked for the Mayflower Madam with fascinating, often poignant stories of her own. I glimpsed more depressing aspects of prostitution in New York as well. I didn’t write about my experiences then, but I did a few years ago in an autobiographical story entitled “Gotham Sex,” which was published in Maxim Jakubowski’s Sex and the City: New York.
I’ll let my narrator tell you the story:
Over the next year I did witness plenty of streetwalkers plying their trade on the sidewalk in front of my sister’s building. These women were not French fashion dolls like Anne, but clichés of another sort. Their bodies were dumpy and worn-looking under polyester halter tops and miniskirts. Most appeared to be in their thirties, bored-looking Puerto Ricans or chain-smoking peroxide blondes. There were exceptions. One day I spied two laughing men in their early twenties emerging from behind some cars in the parking lot at the corner. A woman about my age with kohl-rimmed eyes followed a few steps behind, tugging down her skirt.
She returned my gaze with an icy stare of contempt.
I looked away and hurried on as if I were the guilty one.
After a few months I was savvy enough to identify the regular customers, too. Cars cruised the block regularly—fat Cadillacs or big old Buicks with beefy, gray-haired drivers.
Sometimes, when I was feeling disgusted with my Ivy League classmates’ Wall Street ambitions, I wondered if a career in streetwalking might be a more honest way to make a living.
The August after graduation, I finally got my chance to try it.
I was strolling back from lunch with friends in the West Village, wearing shorts and a Hawaiian shirt I picked up for a dollar in a thrift store. I walked very slowly, studying my sandaled feet. The symbolism of it struck me even at the time. Up to then I’d known exactly what my next step should be. Now my future was wide open, but too frightening to examine, like a deep, messy wound.
That’s when I sensed the big car shadowing me, its engine purring just a few feet away. My body seemed to know what was happening before my mind did, for my cheeks began to burn as if I’d gulped down a puckery old Manhattan cocktail.
Oh, God, he thinks I’m a streetwalker.
I bit back a giggle. But was it a joke? At that moment I did feel like a desperate woman with no direction in her life.
Here was opportunity at last. Obscene possibilities flashed into my head. I could see my own body leaning on the passenger’s window to haggle (how much should I ask for anyway?). The hurried ride to a secluded spot (wherever would that be in this all-too-public metropolis?). Me clutching the car upholstery with sweaty fingers, wondering if I could actually go through with it. Bending over to take his wrinkled, grandpa’s cock between my lips, but doing my best, because I always tried my best for older men.
With a shiver, I instinctively looked up and straight into the eyes of my suitor. I remember purplish, fleshy ears, a shock of white hair. Our gaze locked for a good three seconds. It seemed much longer, however, as I watched the eager curiosity in his stare turn to shame as ink stains clean water in a glass. Jerking his head around, he floored the gas pedal and tore away down the street, engine roaring.
I glanced around quickly, but no one had witnessed my conceptual fall from respectability.
I’d actually been an East Village streetwalker in his eyes, if only for fifteen seconds. Yet the moment I returned his gaze, he knew I wasn’t. And he knew I saw what he was.
Maybe I did have a future after all?
(End of excerpt).
So, there you go, folks, I was a prostitute for fifteen seconds in my own head. I’m not sure how long the old man saw me as such, but he sure got the message that I wasn't when he looked into my pure, not-quite-virginal, presumably respectable eyes. Or was it the Princeton shield on my running shorts? In any case, I will end my musings on Jessica Pilot and good-girl prostitutes with this thought.
Magazine articles about prostitution assume that the world they are “exposing” and their readers have little in common. Sex for pay is illegal and good people don’t break laws. It’s emotionally and physically risky and good people only have sex with people they love and trust. It’s an extreme and foreign thing, either fun and glamorous or depressing and seedy, but the complex issues it raises are not something ordinary people ever experience.
But what if we stop trying to reassure ourselves that this has nothing to do with us? That we recognize the whole project of dividing women into respectable ladies and sluts causes great harm to both the women and men who judge as well as the victims? That we acknowledge “success” as defined by our society comes at a great cost and it's not just prostitutes who make dangerous comprises in their work? And that finally this great enforced silence about sexuality, such a vital part of the human experience, has serious consequences to our psyches and the quality of our lives?
Jessica Pilot’s story and article raise all of these issues, but most people were too busy being titillated or shocked to notice. My hope is that if “respectable” people keep talking and asking questions, this situation will change for the better.
While nominally about young women who make six-figure, tax-free salaries keeping company with prominent men, whether intentionally or not, Pilot’s article presents a grim picture of male sexuality. Pilot and her friends didn’t seem to have a very positive experience with sex with free-loading lovers. Pilot admits that at 22, all her dates and hookups hadn’t amounted to much, except to make her life more stressful. A call girl informant asked Pilot, and through her the reader as well, “How many men have you slept with who have turned out to be assholes? Well, let’s say you could get reimbursed for all the time you spent with them. Would you?” It’s easier to get compensated, says another. Sex with a boyfriend just isn’t worth it.
So, okay, guys, you’re going to have to make the bedroom more rewarding for your girlfriend, if you want to beat out the fellows willing to pay $2000 an hour!
If regular guys aren’t offering much pleasure in the sack, the “big-time artists,” “pro hockey players,” a “CFO at a major investment firm” mentioned in the article do seem to exert an appeal for Manhattan’s desirable young women. Of course Pilot can’t mention names, prostitution is illegal, but the necessity of being coy really underscored the depersonalization of the men. They become job titles, wallets, success objects. They might believe a long-time client relationship means there is genuine feeling, but Pilot’s pretty informants shake their heads and smile at that comforting illusion. If you happen to be in the mood to pity rich guys, you’ll find plenty of evidence here. Observes one call girl: “These guys are just lonely. And I know it’s hard to believe some of the big names we’ve been with would ever get that way, but believe me, they are. You have to have some sympathy for a man who works so hard to be successful and has no true love in his life. He has to get it by the hour.”
More than an expose of prostitution, Pilot’s article strikes me as warning about the costs of success and the worship of money as well. I’d guess a majority of people would not actively encourage their daughters to become prostitutes, even high-paid ones, but plenty of us encourage our sons to “succeed” without considering the price our elite professions exact. I was reminded of another great book I read last year called Liquidated: An Ethnography of Wall Street by Karen Ho. Ho studies the culture of Wall Street and her findings would be sad if they weren’t so dangerous for our national economy. In brief summary, Wall Street firms indoctrinate their young recruits by forcing them to work hellish hours in a cutthroat environment, stringing them along with the promise of huge bonuses for putting profit above any other consideration. Does this harsh, blindered life take a toll on these young men (and just a few women who survive the gender hazing)?
Pilot’s article gives us an intriguing answer to that question. Naturally no article about high-end prostitution would be complete without glimpses into the kinky tastes of rich guys, and Pilot gives us a doozy with a peek into the erotic fetish of a “prominent hedge fund millionaire.” (Incidentally, according to a little web surfing, part of the pleasure of reading the article for New Yorkers was guessing identities). Is this kinky enough for you? One Wall Street master of the universe placed fifty one-hundred-dollar bills all over the bed then told “Olivia” to lie on top of them naked and (pretend to, she assures us) play with herself. He promised her the money would be all hers. Then he ejaculated on the money and stuck every bill to her body with his personal “glue.” After he pasted the last bill over her mouth, he said, “I told you it would be all yours.” (Olivia collects the money in a baggie, washes and dries it, then gives it to her landlady for rent. Is the dirty money still circulating? If you deal in hundred-dollar-bills, beware of wrinkled, laundered-looking specimens!)
Okay, certainly one response to this scene, the most expected one, is EEEUUUWWW, men are so creepy and perverted, and obviously the richer you are, the more screwed up you are and the more you demean women and ohmygod this is so gross! That poor prostitute, she must have no self-respect to endure that. Oh, and is there another example of the weird things these high-flyin' guys do?
I must admit, however, that my reaction was a bit different. Some argue that high-end call girls are more like therapists and in this case it couldn’t be truer. I can't help but wonder what has happened to this man in his life that would find erotic expression in this form? What humiliations did he have to endure for that dangling phallus of great wealth? What silence was required that felt to him like a mouth gagged by a hundred-dollar bill covered with a stranger’s semen?
Remember, this is a guy who has some serious power over our national economy, a success by any measure. Maybe we should stop worrying about our daughters and start taking a look at the way we compromise the souls of our sons?
One more thought about overlooked gems in Pilot’s article. One of her informant friends is supposedly confessing the downside of her job—that she feels depressed when she doesn’t have clients, that she calculates what she’d be earning with a john when she’s out with a boyfriend (as if busy businessmen aren’t always thinking about work as well). But she also confesses she feels close to some of her clients. “We’re both hiding a secret about ourselves, and in a very bizarre way that’s totally hot.” I wish Pilot had explored these intriguing insights further--our assumptions might have been challenged in an interesting way rather than, mostly, confirmed.
But I promised you a story of my own brief descent into prostitution, and I’m a girl who delivers. I won’t leave you your hotel room door, mouth gaping, deeply chagrined that a call girl took one look at your face and fled on you like the poor chubby guy Pilot rejected. (One can’t help but wonder what she would have done if Hugh Grant answered the door). Anyway, here goes.
In the summer of 1983, when I was just one year younger than Jessica Pilot, I lived in New York City for a few months. New York had always seemed so glamorous, all I could see was the neon and bustle, but I gradually became more familiar with its shadowy side—the young women in silk dresses lingering outside of midtown office buildings at day’s end, a friend of a friend who worked for the Mayflower Madam with fascinating, often poignant stories of her own. I glimpsed more depressing aspects of prostitution in New York as well. I didn’t write about my experiences then, but I did a few years ago in an autobiographical story entitled “Gotham Sex,” which was published in Maxim Jakubowski’s Sex and the City: New York.
I’ll let my narrator tell you the story:
Over the next year I did witness plenty of streetwalkers plying their trade on the sidewalk in front of my sister’s building. These women were not French fashion dolls like Anne, but clichés of another sort. Their bodies were dumpy and worn-looking under polyester halter tops and miniskirts. Most appeared to be in their thirties, bored-looking Puerto Ricans or chain-smoking peroxide blondes. There were exceptions. One day I spied two laughing men in their early twenties emerging from behind some cars in the parking lot at the corner. A woman about my age with kohl-rimmed eyes followed a few steps behind, tugging down her skirt.
She returned my gaze with an icy stare of contempt.
I looked away and hurried on as if I were the guilty one.
After a few months I was savvy enough to identify the regular customers, too. Cars cruised the block regularly—fat Cadillacs or big old Buicks with beefy, gray-haired drivers.
Sometimes, when I was feeling disgusted with my Ivy League classmates’ Wall Street ambitions, I wondered if a career in streetwalking might be a more honest way to make a living.
The August after graduation, I finally got my chance to try it.
I was strolling back from lunch with friends in the West Village, wearing shorts and a Hawaiian shirt I picked up for a dollar in a thrift store. I walked very slowly, studying my sandaled feet. The symbolism of it struck me even at the time. Up to then I’d known exactly what my next step should be. Now my future was wide open, but too frightening to examine, like a deep, messy wound.
That’s when I sensed the big car shadowing me, its engine purring just a few feet away. My body seemed to know what was happening before my mind did, for my cheeks began to burn as if I’d gulped down a puckery old Manhattan cocktail.
Oh, God, he thinks I’m a streetwalker.
I bit back a giggle. But was it a joke? At that moment I did feel like a desperate woman with no direction in her life.
Here was opportunity at last. Obscene possibilities flashed into my head. I could see my own body leaning on the passenger’s window to haggle (how much should I ask for anyway?). The hurried ride to a secluded spot (wherever would that be in this all-too-public metropolis?). Me clutching the car upholstery with sweaty fingers, wondering if I could actually go through with it. Bending over to take his wrinkled, grandpa’s cock between my lips, but doing my best, because I always tried my best for older men.
With a shiver, I instinctively looked up and straight into the eyes of my suitor. I remember purplish, fleshy ears, a shock of white hair. Our gaze locked for a good three seconds. It seemed much longer, however, as I watched the eager curiosity in his stare turn to shame as ink stains clean water in a glass. Jerking his head around, he floored the gas pedal and tore away down the street, engine roaring.
I glanced around quickly, but no one had witnessed my conceptual fall from respectability.
I’d actually been an East Village streetwalker in his eyes, if only for fifteen seconds. Yet the moment I returned his gaze, he knew I wasn’t. And he knew I saw what he was.
Maybe I did have a future after all?
(End of excerpt).
So, there you go, folks, I was a prostitute for fifteen seconds in my own head. I’m not sure how long the old man saw me as such, but he sure got the message that I wasn't when he looked into my pure, not-quite-virginal, presumably respectable eyes. Or was it the Princeton shield on my running shorts? In any case, I will end my musings on Jessica Pilot and good-girl prostitutes with this thought.
Magazine articles about prostitution assume that the world they are “exposing” and their readers have little in common. Sex for pay is illegal and good people don’t break laws. It’s emotionally and physically risky and good people only have sex with people they love and trust. It’s an extreme and foreign thing, either fun and glamorous or depressing and seedy, but the complex issues it raises are not something ordinary people ever experience.
But what if we stop trying to reassure ourselves that this has nothing to do with us? That we recognize the whole project of dividing women into respectable ladies and sluts causes great harm to both the women and men who judge as well as the victims? That we acknowledge “success” as defined by our society comes at a great cost and it's not just prostitutes who make dangerous comprises in their work? And that finally this great enforced silence about sexuality, such a vital part of the human experience, has serious consequences to our psyches and the quality of our lives?
Jessica Pilot’s story and article raise all of these issues, but most people were too busy being titillated or shocked to notice. My hope is that if “respectable” people keep talking and asking questions, this situation will change for the better.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
I Was (Almost) a Prostitute, Part 1
Yes, this is a blatant teaser of a title, but it’s relevant, and, if you’ll hang with me until the end of this two-part series, you’ll find it’s even (kind of) true.
Recently I read an article at XO Jane that stayed with me, so much so that I decided I had to write about my reactions. It’s called “I Was a Hipster Hooker (And It Sort of Ruined My Life).” I recommend you read the column and the original article that led to a young woman’s ruination, but for those of you who don’t have time right now, I’ll give a brief summary.
When freelance writer Jessica Pilot was a dewy-eyed 22 year-old journalist, she published an article about upscale prostitution in New York City in the September 2008 issue of Radar Magazine. The story was based on interviews with women who felt empowered by their lucrative work. As part of her investigation, Pilot met with a madam who quickly evaluated her potential as a working woman ($950 market value because although she had a hot "look" her breasts were small) and suggested she go out on a call later that evening. Caught up in the momentum of her journalistic research and encouraged by an “on-again, off-again boyfriend,” Pilot agreed and went to the Plaza Hotel to meet a client. The hotel room door was opened by a pudgy, hirsute man with short arms. Pilot found herself unable to go through with the appointment for reasons she did not fully articulate (more on that below) and was forced by the very angry madam to pay up the $2000 she would have earned. Flash forward to the XO Jane story of the aftermath and all the abuse and humiliation that Pilot suffered for her byline from her family, vicious strangers on Gawker and others, including sexual harassment by an editor who, three years after the story was published, started an interview with “Well, Ms. Pilot. I can’t offer you $950 an hour,” then laughed at his own joke, oblivious of her discomfort.
As I mentioned above, my reactions to this article were quite strong and complex--and surprisingly personal. I also write about sex in a way that often celebrates its empowering aspects for women, and I’ve also suffered consequences, some very unpleasant and significant, some just “thoughtless” jokes and comments that might seem harmless but add up. (Even the apparently innocent remark, “you don’t look like an erotica writer” wears on me, but maybe I need to explore that further in another post). I found myself wanting to talk about the article, the column about the article and all the assumptions about sex, sex work and success that were not articulated in either.
Thank you for reading and “talking” with me.
First point--Pilot was accused of writing the article to get attention for herself, although no article is published in a for-profit magazine without the editor and/or publisher evaluating its worth in terms of drawing readership so they deserve credit, plus I’d guess few journalists write in order to be modest and self-effacing. There’s an old saying that a lady’s name appears in the papers three times—when she’s born, when she marries and when she dies. Any other time would involve a scandal because of course a lady would never write something for the newspaper. That would draw attention to herself, a grievous sin of vanity which is apparently still a fresh insult today. What also annoys me here is that all the people who criticized her for this either read the article because they were titillated by the title or didn’t read it but said mean things about her based only on the topic. Both are hypocritical and represent to me a very common way of dealing with personal discomfort about sex—project it out on to other “sinners.”
Many commentators also failed to take in the fact that Pilot never actually had sex for money, rather she ended up paying the angry madam twice what she would have earned in order to get out of the situation. Whether or not Pilot remained “a good girl” by bailing before she “went too far” is not my point right now. What struck me is that a woman doesn’t have to actually step over that line to merit hysterical criticism for unladylike behavior. All she has to do is think about improper behavior and of course write about it. I believe that the author’s curiosity as well as a certain glamorization of high-paying sex work in her article is what drove a certain segment of critics to shame her. And indeed, in my opinion, this fall from grace was at the heart of the editor’s sexual harassment three years later. By writing that article, Pilot was no longer due the respect he would have to show to a woman who had avoided controversial sexual topics or had written a disapproving expose of the perils of selling your body.
Obviously the double standard is alive and well. This disappointing truth was also driven home in another book I’ve been reading, Dilemmas of Desire: Teenage Girls Talk About Sexuality by Deborah Tolman. When I was a teen some thirty years ago, I hoped and believed women would become the equals of men in work, school and the bedroom by the twenty-first century. But Tolman’s interviews with teenage girls show that sex is still seen as a dangerous for girls. They are allowed to be objects of desire—a pretty creature for the right nice man to fall in love with--but not desiring subjects who can express curiosity, pursue pleasure or own their erotic power. The prostitutes Pilot interviewed seemed to be “getting away with something” by flouting these ancient rules. Perhaps Pilot was taking some of the flack intended for them?
While I am truly saddened by the reaction to this article, and the unfair stigmatization of a talented journalist, I have to admit I had some issues with the content of the article. Much of it was probably unintentional and certainly represents broader cultural stereotypes, as journalism often does. While googling the Radar issue, I found this very insightful response at BitchBuzz called “Love, Sex & the Internet: Hipster Hooker with a Heart of Gold” by Esmerelda Smith. In case you don’t have time to read it right now, I’ll summarize some of the pertinent points that also caught my attention.
First, Pilot’s article is presented by Radar as some kind of cutting edge expose about a new trend among our loveliest young females, but in fact our culture’s fascination with high-end call girls and their wealthy, powerful clients is timeless. The entire article is peppered with references to how cool, stylish and sexy the players are, investment bankers, musicians, CFOs and of course ladies lovely enough to charge thousands for an hour of their time. How different is this from our hunger to learn about the latest sexual misdeeds of celebrities? Like Smith, I also feel like I’ve seen dozens of made for TV movies on this “forbidden” subject.
Next, while supposedly providing us with a glimpse into a forbidden world, an aspect of the article confused me. Why would two women who had a list of trusted clients and were making six figures sign up with a madam who would take half their fee, not to mention handing their clients’ information over to a third party? I assumed Heather, Olivia and Kelly kept their private clients and just took on new ones through the madam, but Smith’s critique pointed out that Pilot’s story did not jive with the experiences of other articulate sex workers and emphasized the glamour over an in-depth study of how these things really work.
Last but not least, Pilot’s article supposedly offers a view of the new prostitution as something much like “legitimate service industries.” Yet, the double standard and old stereotypes of women as vaginas and men as wallets shine through as subtext throughout. Nowhere is this more obvious than the “climax” of the article when Pilot finds herself unable to go through with the trick. As I mentioned above, she doesn’t really explain why, so we are left to assume one of two things: the client was too short, fat and hairy and didn’t live up to the informants’ romanticized descriptions of “classy" gentlemen with whom any woman would sleep for free anyway OR Pilot was a good girl at heart and these scruples won out over her dangerous, but temporary, intoxication with the contemporary demimonde. There is, admittedly, something soothing about this ending in that it mirrors the reader’s experience. By consuming this article we get to be voyeurs. We can go to the brink of sin and get a little turned on by the idea either of being adored and spoiled by older, rich men or in the case of a man, perhaps being rich and successful enough to pay a beautiful woman for sex with no more effort than a phone call. But then, of course, being “good” people, we can step back at the hotel room door, return to our ordinary, non-New-York-glamour lives, and do it for love instead of money. We can have our fantasy prostitute's cake and eat it, too.
But somehow, that feels a little sleazy to me. Perhaps this forced complicity is why I feel the need to go deeper into the assumptions and myths hovering about and hiding within this article. There’s more to say about how sex is presented (yes, as kinky and dirty) and how the clients are portrayed. I also think this story could be seen as a critique of “success” in our society. Oh, and as promised I will talk about my own unwitting foray into prostitution, a nice girl caught up in New York City's sinful ways. But that is for next time. After all, good capitalist consumers always have to sit tight for the story at eleven.
To be continued in Part 2!
Recently I read an article at XO Jane that stayed with me, so much so that I decided I had to write about my reactions. It’s called “I Was a Hipster Hooker (And It Sort of Ruined My Life).” I recommend you read the column and the original article that led to a young woman’s ruination, but for those of you who don’t have time right now, I’ll give a brief summary.
When freelance writer Jessica Pilot was a dewy-eyed 22 year-old journalist, she published an article about upscale prostitution in New York City in the September 2008 issue of Radar Magazine. The story was based on interviews with women who felt empowered by their lucrative work. As part of her investigation, Pilot met with a madam who quickly evaluated her potential as a working woman ($950 market value because although she had a hot "look" her breasts were small) and suggested she go out on a call later that evening. Caught up in the momentum of her journalistic research and encouraged by an “on-again, off-again boyfriend,” Pilot agreed and went to the Plaza Hotel to meet a client. The hotel room door was opened by a pudgy, hirsute man with short arms. Pilot found herself unable to go through with the appointment for reasons she did not fully articulate (more on that below) and was forced by the very angry madam to pay up the $2000 she would have earned. Flash forward to the XO Jane story of the aftermath and all the abuse and humiliation that Pilot suffered for her byline from her family, vicious strangers on Gawker and others, including sexual harassment by an editor who, three years after the story was published, started an interview with “Well, Ms. Pilot. I can’t offer you $950 an hour,” then laughed at his own joke, oblivious of her discomfort.
As I mentioned above, my reactions to this article were quite strong and complex--and surprisingly personal. I also write about sex in a way that often celebrates its empowering aspects for women, and I’ve also suffered consequences, some very unpleasant and significant, some just “thoughtless” jokes and comments that might seem harmless but add up. (Even the apparently innocent remark, “you don’t look like an erotica writer” wears on me, but maybe I need to explore that further in another post). I found myself wanting to talk about the article, the column about the article and all the assumptions about sex, sex work and success that were not articulated in either.
Thank you for reading and “talking” with me.
First point--Pilot was accused of writing the article to get attention for herself, although no article is published in a for-profit magazine without the editor and/or publisher evaluating its worth in terms of drawing readership so they deserve credit, plus I’d guess few journalists write in order to be modest and self-effacing. There’s an old saying that a lady’s name appears in the papers three times—when she’s born, when she marries and when she dies. Any other time would involve a scandal because of course a lady would never write something for the newspaper. That would draw attention to herself, a grievous sin of vanity which is apparently still a fresh insult today. What also annoys me here is that all the people who criticized her for this either read the article because they were titillated by the title or didn’t read it but said mean things about her based only on the topic. Both are hypocritical and represent to me a very common way of dealing with personal discomfort about sex—project it out on to other “sinners.”
Many commentators also failed to take in the fact that Pilot never actually had sex for money, rather she ended up paying the angry madam twice what she would have earned in order to get out of the situation. Whether or not Pilot remained “a good girl” by bailing before she “went too far” is not my point right now. What struck me is that a woman doesn’t have to actually step over that line to merit hysterical criticism for unladylike behavior. All she has to do is think about improper behavior and of course write about it. I believe that the author’s curiosity as well as a certain glamorization of high-paying sex work in her article is what drove a certain segment of critics to shame her. And indeed, in my opinion, this fall from grace was at the heart of the editor’s sexual harassment three years later. By writing that article, Pilot was no longer due the respect he would have to show to a woman who had avoided controversial sexual topics or had written a disapproving expose of the perils of selling your body.
Obviously the double standard is alive and well. This disappointing truth was also driven home in another book I’ve been reading, Dilemmas of Desire: Teenage Girls Talk About Sexuality by Deborah Tolman. When I was a teen some thirty years ago, I hoped and believed women would become the equals of men in work, school and the bedroom by the twenty-first century. But Tolman’s interviews with teenage girls show that sex is still seen as a dangerous for girls. They are allowed to be objects of desire—a pretty creature for the right nice man to fall in love with--but not desiring subjects who can express curiosity, pursue pleasure or own their erotic power. The prostitutes Pilot interviewed seemed to be “getting away with something” by flouting these ancient rules. Perhaps Pilot was taking some of the flack intended for them?
While I am truly saddened by the reaction to this article, and the unfair stigmatization of a talented journalist, I have to admit I had some issues with the content of the article. Much of it was probably unintentional and certainly represents broader cultural stereotypes, as journalism often does. While googling the Radar issue, I found this very insightful response at BitchBuzz called “Love, Sex & the Internet: Hipster Hooker with a Heart of Gold” by Esmerelda Smith. In case you don’t have time to read it right now, I’ll summarize some of the pertinent points that also caught my attention.
First, Pilot’s article is presented by Radar as some kind of cutting edge expose about a new trend among our loveliest young females, but in fact our culture’s fascination with high-end call girls and their wealthy, powerful clients is timeless. The entire article is peppered with references to how cool, stylish and sexy the players are, investment bankers, musicians, CFOs and of course ladies lovely enough to charge thousands for an hour of their time. How different is this from our hunger to learn about the latest sexual misdeeds of celebrities? Like Smith, I also feel like I’ve seen dozens of made for TV movies on this “forbidden” subject.
Next, while supposedly providing us with a glimpse into a forbidden world, an aspect of the article confused me. Why would two women who had a list of trusted clients and were making six figures sign up with a madam who would take half their fee, not to mention handing their clients’ information over to a third party? I assumed Heather, Olivia and Kelly kept their private clients and just took on new ones through the madam, but Smith’s critique pointed out that Pilot’s story did not jive with the experiences of other articulate sex workers and emphasized the glamour over an in-depth study of how these things really work.
Last but not least, Pilot’s article supposedly offers a view of the new prostitution as something much like “legitimate service industries.” Yet, the double standard and old stereotypes of women as vaginas and men as wallets shine through as subtext throughout. Nowhere is this more obvious than the “climax” of the article when Pilot finds herself unable to go through with the trick. As I mentioned above, she doesn’t really explain why, so we are left to assume one of two things: the client was too short, fat and hairy and didn’t live up to the informants’ romanticized descriptions of “classy" gentlemen with whom any woman would sleep for free anyway OR Pilot was a good girl at heart and these scruples won out over her dangerous, but temporary, intoxication with the contemporary demimonde. There is, admittedly, something soothing about this ending in that it mirrors the reader’s experience. By consuming this article we get to be voyeurs. We can go to the brink of sin and get a little turned on by the idea either of being adored and spoiled by older, rich men or in the case of a man, perhaps being rich and successful enough to pay a beautiful woman for sex with no more effort than a phone call. But then, of course, being “good” people, we can step back at the hotel room door, return to our ordinary, non-New-York-glamour lives, and do it for love instead of money. We can have our fantasy prostitute's cake and eat it, too.
But somehow, that feels a little sleazy to me. Perhaps this forced complicity is why I feel the need to go deeper into the assumptions and myths hovering about and hiding within this article. There’s more to say about how sex is presented (yes, as kinky and dirty) and how the clients are portrayed. I also think this story could be seen as a critique of “success” in our society. Oh, and as promised I will talk about my own unwitting foray into prostitution, a nice girl caught up in New York City's sinful ways. But that is for next time. After all, good capitalist consumers always have to sit tight for the story at eleven.
To be continued in Part 2!
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