Are you a working girl or a Nick Kristof rescue waiting to happen? Take this quiz and find out!
Being a sex worker means that people constantly try to explain to me that I’m a victim who doesn’t know what I’m doing to myself—either that or I must be one of those very empowered, very expensive whores who gets paid thousands of dollars to lounge around in my underwear, enjoying life. The reality of my almost two decades of sex work has swung back and forth, but mostly it’s been squarely, complexly, somewhere in the middle. I’ve been paid hundreds of dollars to receive full body massages. I’ve happily cuddled up to a sweet man and a bottle of champagne in the VIP room until his credit card broke several thousand dollars later. And I’ve had sex with men I didn’t really feel like ever seeing again because I needed the house payment, my truck was about to be repossessed, and I was down to my last 20 bucks.
It’s exciting to think that women in the sex industry are forced into sexual bondage by evil men, but the boring reality is that most often we have to go to work to pay the bills, just like everyone else. Sometimes it’s great and sometimes it’s not, but that doesn’t make our consent—or our right to claim our own agency—any less.