Bill #C36 - Tears and Fears

I try to keep this blog sexy, but this is too important to gloss over. Plus, sex workers' rights, and the rights of clients to consensually hire us, are VERY sexy! This needs to be said, and shared, and spoken about. This horror show, AKA Bill C-36, which is supposedly meant to "help" sex workers (though we're consistently referred to as "prostitutes" or "prostituted women" in proceedings), in which so few current sex workers were even consulted (and none of us were taken seriously by the majority of the government), and which we've been SCREAMING is going to put ALL of us in more danger, is most likely going to pass next week, and it's going to be YEARS before it can be challenged again.

I'm sitting at my computer, tears running down my face, listening to Police Association President Stamatakis "testify" about how wonderful and helpful bill #c-36 will be to police who want to arrest "men who want to do abhorrent things" to "especially the most marginalized women" in society. And on the surface, it sounds OK, if you're someone who doesn't bristle at whore-phobic phrases like "none of us want our children growing up to be prostitutes", "no woman chooses this kind of life for herself" or "all sex work is violence against women" (all of which were actually said by abolition groups, senators, and police during these proceedings, repeatedly). If you're thinking those are reasonable statements, you're blind to the stigma and stereotypes surrounding sex work.

People who haven't been following these proceedings, who aren't involved in sex work, who don't have friends who've been arrested for doing VALID work they either consensually chose (and in a lot of cases, as mine, genuinely enjoy) or who turned to it as a last resort (or any of the million other reasons people choose sex work), who don't know anyone who's lost their housing, their children, their day jobs, THEIR LIVES, all because they accepted money for sex or a sexual service,

may not understand why I'm crying. They may not understand the unique fear inherent to sex work: of being outed, of being rejected by a potential mate or landlord or employer, of being disowned, of being thought of as dirty and diseased and damaged, of being attacked (physically, online, verbally, sexually), or of everything I've outlined above and below, simply due to their profession. Friends of mine who've cried during their testimony were attacked online by so-called "feminists", accused of shedding "crocodile tears", supposedly in manipulative attempts to garner sympathy (as though constantly regaling us with sad stories of past exploitation, addiction, abusive relationships and exploitative working conditions can't be placed in the same category, if one is being cynical). People who are only observing this, and who don't have friends, family, partners, lovers, children, or anyone else they love being impacted by this may not understand my tears, my rage, or my sense of utter hopelessness. 

I am not alone in feeling this way. I'm blessed to be connected (in numerous ways) to a large community of sex workers, from Dommes, cam girls, escorts, porn actors, and sugar babies (and beyond). People who have saved my life, uplifted me, prioritized me and other workers, and whose resilience, brilliance, and strength seems boundless. People who, at first, I was shocked to discover were "just normal people like me". As far as I can tell, at least based on those I've been in contact with (in addition to the chorus of voices online, including those "marginalized women" politicians are so keen on "saving"), we are ALL (to varying degrees) feeling down, afraid, hated, depressed, vulnerable, isolated, ANGRY, and very much against C36. It's especially troubling after what so many of us (myself excluded) felt was the great victory of Bedford V. Canada.

Try to imagine for a moment that your work (whatever work it is you do) was surrounded by societal shame, even if the work you do provides a pleasurable, valuable, and often healing experience for others. Imagine your job is selling sandwiches, but purchasing sandwiches is illegal. Imagine if, while on the job, you faced violence/rape/coercion/threats or any sort of abuse or exploitation, and, because of the shame, stigma, and criminalization of your work, you felt too afraid to ask police for help, because you know, based on their track record, that you will, at best, be ignored, and at worst re-victimized/arrested. Imagine if you DID seek the help of police, based on their constant public proclamations of being "on your side", and instead of your abuser facing justice (a very inaccurate term to describe the racist, classist Canadian system), you wind up being arrested, having your earnings seized, being evicted, losing custody of your children, being deported/losing your immigration status, and being told your only options are a criminal record, or a program to "rehabilitate" you, even though there is nothing wrong with you or your line of work. Imagine the police sitting outside of your work place, in full view of your neighbours, in the hopes of catching you doing something that both you and your client have fully consented to, and which is harming or impacting no one? Supporters of C36 will argue that workers themselves won't be targeted, but the sections pertaining to communicating in public, keeping a bawdy house, advertising, living off the avails, and even criminalizing the purchase of sex will mean that sex workers who want to find and service clients will be facilitating or participating in criminal acts. 

Remember, there is no universal experience of sex work, despite what prominent people say. It's not inherently degrading or inherently empowering. Sometimes it's about survival. Or making money. Or exploring your own sexuality. Or the only reasonable option for getting a fix. Or it's fun. Or it's the only thing that's ever worked for you. Yes. Sometimes sex work is horrible, degrading, and soul-crushing. Just like any other job. Sometimes sex work is fun, easy, educational, and rewarding. Just like any other job. Sometimes it's tedious, boring, annoying, exploitative, and exhausting. Just like any other job. Sometimes it's lucrative, and sometimes you have to eat canned beans or ramen noodles for a month, a dynamic many creative freelancers can easily relate to. 

But almost always, sex workers provide a service which has never been illegal in Canada, which has been around longer than agriculture, and which usually involves an act that is perfectly legal when a camera is rolling, or when offered in exchange for dinner, trips, and shopping sprees, or when performed for free, and which is often (and traditionally) the basis for marriage. If someone is being forced to engage in sex acts, against their will, that is called rape, NOT sex work or prostitution, and we already have laws, which go largely unenforced, against that. I constantly see politicians, police, "sex work survivors" and "women's rescue centres" confusing and deliberately conflating the two, when they're not the same. You wouldn't compare rape to sex, would you? If you would, you lack a fundamental understanding of both sex and rape.

If you've never done sex work, and you're basing what you think you know on the popular mainstream narrative of stranger-danger involving exploited, addicted women, accompanied by a seemingly endless supply of stereotypical stock photos of women in short skirts and 13" inch heels leaning into cars on cold, dark streets, and you've never gotten to know an actual sex worker, then I can see why my tears might not make sense to you. You probably tell yourself I'm sad at what I've become, at what I've reduced myself to. You see whore is the worst thing a woman can be, in most people's minds. But I'm not ashamed. I'm proud of myself, and I love that I was able to (briefly) pull myself out of poverty.
 
I'm angry, and afraid, and sad that controlling women's bodies and pandering to conservative voters (the core of C36) is more important to our society, government and law enforcement than the epidemics of rape, climate change, poverty, food insecurity, colonialism (the ROOT cause of harms facing Indigenous women in this country, and worldwide - which is rarely even acknowledged), racism, and domestic violence. I cry when I listen to a bunch of rich, entitled, white men (and a few women), who hold my safety, my future in their hands, discuss me as though I am an object for them to use, as though I have no agency, as though I am just a dumb, lost, fallen woman who would really rather be crucified at the alter of their moralism, if only they could make me see what's good for me. Is that not exploitation? I cry because the rage is too deep to manifest any other way.

I cry because I have several tens of thousands in student loan debts, am educated but for some reason unable to find "vanilla" work, and I can't do most types of work due to physical limitations and bodily injuries, and my one and ONLY means of survival (and only hope for one day being out of debt and poverty) is soon to be criminalized and ripped away. If you're someone like me, who is lucky enough to have low rent in a city built for millionaires, if you're someone who would likely end up homeless if evicted from their apartment (a very real danger when doing sex work from home - something I am unable to do under criminalization, even though it's safer), and who has no savings, no safety net, no insurance, no work references, the realization that in a week's time you could face legalized police harassment, arrest, eviction, and homelessness is crushing. It feels like there's a mountain on my shoulders. There is no alternative for me. No first and last month's rent. No money for movers. No money for hotel rooms. No hope. For someone like me, who is already in a niche (bbw) market, soon to be crossing into another niche (milf/mature), who everyone is quick to say "won't be targeted" by police, I cry because I simply can't afford to take that chance. I cry because I have no idea what I'm going to do, but most importantly, I cry because sex work is what I feel I was meant to do at this juncture in my life. I love it. I love my clients. I love what I've learned doing this work. I love the ways in which I've found, cared for, and asserted myself. It is where I found community, strength, power, self-confidence. At least they can't take the latter away from me. I guess that's something.


Photos:
https://pbs.twimg.com/media/BqH81EeCIAAHslC.jpg:large
https://twitter.com/hashtag/joysmithmeme
http://www.feministe.us/blog/archives/2010/12/17/whore-stigma-makes-no-sense/
http://pbs.twimg.com/media/BsOqC4-CQAE3OvA.jpg

Hey "radfems" - A poem

"I'd like to acknowledge that this event is taking place on uncedded Native land, and I'd like to thank our Native Canadian hosts for very graciously tolerating our presence here on Turtle Island.

NOTE: this poem contains rather excessive swearing



Hey "rad fems!"

Red-tastic

I can't get him out of my head, so I must write. I told him to stay tuned. I just didn't know it would be so soon. I didn't think I would still be all swollen almost twelve hours later and writing about him just to get rid of the lingering memory.

So wow. Not sure what else to say. Rarely am I that attracted to someone physically. If I hadn't had friends coming over, I would have asked him to stay, something I never, as a matter of principle, do. EVER. Even after he dressed and was leaving I grabbed him and kissed him, chatted with him, for at least twenty minutes. I feel like I should not feel this way about a client, but I can not help myself. He was so cute, firstly. This is the first thing I noticed. That his photo, in no way, does him justice. "Wow" I said "You're really good looking".

Before he went to shower, I looked in his eyes, grabbed him and kissed him, unsure of how he would react. He said he'd never been with a big girl, and I was afraid of rejection after I saw him. But, I was in luck. He responded with a very soft moan and kissed me back. I put my hands on his neck and face and pulled him closer. He moaned again. I was turned on at this point. I was even a bit turned on when I first saw him coming through the walkway. I put my arms around his neck. He moaned louder and put his arms around my waist, pulling me right against him, making me groan. We stayed like this for a couple of minutes, kissing outside the washroom door, rarely losing eye contact. Finally I let him go wash his day away, and I ventured outdoors to retrieve my art book.

I went to my bedroom, unsure of what to do. I ALWAYS, or almost always, know what to do with a man, especially one so young. Should I leave my pants on? He likes tight jeans... Or should I be waiting in my black lace undies when he emerges all clean? I opt for the undies, take off my pants, and lie on my bed reading, waiting for him. Finally, the shower turns off, rustling occurs, and the washroom door opens. He walked to my room wrapped in only my burgundy towel, smiling shyly. I smile, put my book away, and rise to my knees. He's in front of me. I pull him to me, smile, and flick his nipples with my tongue. I love licking and sucking, pretty much anything clean and fresh-smelling. I think I have an oral fixation (which, if you think about it, is possibly associated with breast feeding? Something I think I never did).

I just wanted to hear him moan. To please him, make him feel good, and make sure he comes back for more. I'm already in trouble at this point, I already want more, and he's still in a towel. I lick and suck him for a while, savoring his sighs and breath, and then I reach for him and kiss him deeply. Sometimes, whoever I am with, all the eye contact gets to me. But not today. Not with him. I just wanted to watch him, to see him in pleasure. He seemed to get off on my pleasure as well, which is a turn on in itself. We kiss like this for a while, doing exactly what he told me he likes, which happens to be exactly what I like. Lots of kissing, no rushing and just savoring a new lover's sounds, smells and smiles. The kind of thing that, for me, is nearly impossible to fake. There must be some attraction if I am kissing someone like this. Just because I am getting paid doesn't mean that under different circumstances, or in a different time, it wouldn't happen for free, or that I can look deeply into your eyes and make you feel something not real. I could, but not in bed. In bed, I am pure me.

And he smelled and tasted so good. I wish he was right beside me right now. Client/personal would cease to exist. I would cross that forbidden un-crossable line and just make love with him all night and cancel all of my appointments tomorrow, including three which could prove to be very lucrative.

What else happened? We kissed alot, passionately, playfully, eagerly and unhurriedly. My undies came off. His eyes almost popped out of his head over my breasts. Guys really, really like my breasts. I still don't see all the fuss. Or all the fuss over my cum. To me, it tastes like yogurt. I don't know what else to compare it to. It's been years since I ate pussy other than my own. Off topic, and now I am thinking of pussy. I'm so turned on again. Am I a sex addict? Possibly. Probably. Yes. Likely. I am. Whatever.

So yes. We kissed, I got swollen, engorged, wet. While we kissed, he asked if I wanted a wet tongue in my pussy. Ahhh. Just hearing the words, and even remembering them now, makes me swell and pulsate. I lie down and he started. First, with my nipples, and teasing my lips with his tongue. Just how I like it. Not a tongue jabbed into my mouth. Just light flicks over my lips, just a simple swipe inside my mouth, followed by his lips on mine. Just like that... yeah. He made my nipples hard. I pinched them as he went down on me. For an inexperienced young man, he was unbelievably skilled at oral. Wow. It's ironic that a few years ago, I BEGGED men to eat me out and they consistently refused. Now they pay me. I love it and brag about it more than I should. The quality of men I now attract, both personally and professionally, is astounding compared to that.

And who knows how long after this, he kisses me, letting me taste my barely-there taste and scent. It's intoxicating. I love smelling myself all over a guy's face, fingers and body. Reminds me of his willingness and hunger to please me. And of my own willingness and desire to please him. I tell him I want him to lie down and he smiles and lies down. I turn and face him, and get on top of him, making sure not to let our bare parts do not touch. I want to let them touch. I want to do everything with him, but I stop myself, the way I always stop myself. I just shove my nipples in his mouth, alternating them, shaking them, and my ass, against him. All the while, he's watching me with those brown eyes, driving me crazy.

I kiss his lips, his neck, ears, lick him all over his neck, listening for verbal cues, for changes in his breath. For sighs, moans and groans. I know he likes to be kissed. He likes to be kissed the way I like to kiss a man I am seriously attracted to. I wish I had kissed him everywhere, head to toe. If I see him again, I will kiss him everywhere. For today I settled with lips, neck, ears, cheeks, eyelids, nose, chest, nipples, stomach, thighs and cock. When I reached his cock, I took my time. Got him ready and licked him up and down. Made him harder before I put my lips around him. He has a nice penis, and I definitely want to spend more time with it.

I don't even remember the sequence of events anymore. Nor do I think it's important. He asked if I "did facesitting" which made me laugh out loud. "Hmmm... it's my all-time favorite thing" I said. I told him he was in a perfect position and straddled his face, with my chest and arms against the cold wall in front of me. I want more. NOW. To be rubbing against his face, chin, lips, nose... hearing him moan beneath me, feeling him pull me closer to him. After a while, I turned to face the other way, so that I could take him in my mouth. Eventually I could take it no longer. I knew the time was nearing when my friends would arrive at my door. We'd been together for almost two hours. I told him I wanted to see him come. I told him to keep stroking himself as he was when I was rubbing my pussy against his face. I knelt in front of him, and put my hard nipple in his mouth, which he greedily sucked. I knew I would come at any moment, rubbing my wet, swollen clit with my fingers. I wanted to see him first. I couldn't wait. Well, I could have. I could have stopped fingering myself, but I just told him I was going to come any time. He was pleased, and stroked himself faster. Do men have any fucking idea how hot they look when they jerk off? Especially if they stroke it like no one is watching; Legs all open, toes curled, their hand just a blur of frenzied motion. Suddenly, finally though, it was too late. I'd rubbed myself too long, and even when I stopped, I was started to climax so I just told him I was coming. "Yeah?" he said breathlessly and excitedly, which just caused me to explode. I saw his cum shoot from him, on his chest and arms. I almost fell completely on top of him as I came.

Fuck. I want it now. I must sleep. I have a meeting at 9 am, which is.... oh wow. 2.5 hours. Just amazing. I am pleased.

A Day of Firsts.. Saturday

My very macho, manly Italian friend painted his fingernail shiny purple! That was a first, and something I never imagined I would see. My local bar now serves fruity girl drinks. Another first. I indulged in several fruity girl drinks and for the first time in a long time, I could not drink any more. I lost my favorite sunglasses and I didn't freak out in the sun.

I also had sex with a client. Officially. That's what I went there for. That's what we discussed. The two times it happened in the past, it just happened because I was so horny that I offered it. But this time that was what I was there to do. It feels like it's been a while since I got fucked, and I think, for my standards, it was. A few weeks, at least, and then it would have been with one of my since-departed lovers. Sigh. I miss them alot, still. The wound is fresh and raw, but I do have needs. The sex I had on Saturday was a welcomed distraction. It was also the first time I went "out" for a call where things worked out well.

And well.. I was very pleased to say the least. Some nice flattery and kissing to start with, sucking on my nipples, oral on me, facesitting (my all-time fave!) on a really comfy, well-positioned bed... and then doggy-style fucking. He had such a nice cock. And he was so cute, innocent looking, and smelled so good. And he fucked me so good. I almost felt bad, I enjoyed it so much. I didn't come, but I could have I think. I was so turned on, so swollen and so wet. He then turned me around, on my back, and fucked me for a few minutes. I think I made him come when he stopped thrusting and I kept pushing against him. I didn't want him to stop, but I get off on watching them come too, so what I am to do? I just lie back and watched him come into a condom, all dripping and engorged I was.

Overall, a fantastic day. Hot sex, extra cash, fun with friends and a new appreciation of a new and previously harshly judged neighborhood. Which neighborhood... that is a secret!

XOXO

I'm so horny now. I have a boobage session tomorrow morning. I can't sleep, though I should be. And it's so damn cold! Where has summer gone? (that's rhetorical. Thanks corporate world for the joys of global warming)