I've been accepted to an arts residency with CELLspace in San Francisco for 3 months mid-year to look at love, relationships, gender, and sexuality from the perspective of a female queer migrant minority, through performance art and other mediums. Originally I was booked for August till October, mostly to make BurlyConand Kaleidoscope Cabaret (for burlesque performers from minority backgrounds), but then this REALLY AMAZING TOTALLY PERFECT opportunity to submit to This Is What I Want came from Jiz Lee (who is the Creatrix of Queer Porn Awesome) and now I might move it to mid-June. Besides that, I've also been offered internships & volunteer opportunities with Femina Potens and the Center for Sex and Culture, amongst other places, and there's always an event or two happening that could use some extra help.
Either way though, I need your help. Besides doing all sorts of odd jobs and saving money, I'm also crowdfunding for $5000 to get to my residency: $2000 for airfare and $3000 to cover residency fees ($650 a month for 3 months) and living costs. Any more will help me explore more awesome events (like Burning Man!!!) and improve my creative & performance skills to create even better, more insightful, personal work.
Contribute to my fund, hire me, sponsor me, write up about me on your blogs and newsletters, send me your frequent flyer miles - any and all help is greatly appreciated!
I have been following the Constance McMillian story for a while now - the girl who wanted to bring her girlfriend and wear a tux to her prom, got denied, sued, saw her prom cancelled, got a lot of accolades for speaking up, and then on the promise of a "prom" was sent to a decoy with only 7 people (including 2 learning disabled kids!) while everyone else disappeared to a private party. Metafilter has a pretty good links roundup.
This whole thing is giving me flashbacks to primary school. Replace "being queer" with "being a racial minority" and you pretty much have my story. In 2008, I wrote an open letter to my old school - Sultan Ibrahim Girls School (Primary) Johor Bahru, come on, own up to your bloody bigotry - detailing some of the most egregious and terrible bullshit they put me through just because I was Bangladeshi ("Other" in Malaysian bureaucracy), my parents were migrant professionals closer to the "Expatriate" category who weren't diplomats nor starving labourers, and because I actually did pretty well in school. The first two may have been forgivable, but how dare I be amongst the top in the class, how dare I come to school in a chauffered company car, how dare I be the best student in English in the entire damn school the 6 years I was there! How dare I demonstrate a love for learning, an affinity to non-Malay English teachers, a keen interest in computers? Even my best friends left me after Standard 5, when most of the rubbish happened, partly due to peer pressure and partly because I was not dealing with it very well.
A lot of the racism was ring-led by the teachers and administrators, many of whom were Malay and benefited from Government-sanctioned Malay privilege (think of the White privilege in Western countries, change the dominant race, and add Government codification). My existence, and that of my parents, was an affront to them, their identity, their politics. My family was Muslim, which should bring me closer to their side, but I was a "labourer" race and not even properly a citizen (despite being born in Malaysia - another long rant), so I didn't make sense to them. I was a contradiction, I defied the labels mainstream media and the ruling parties put on me - and instead of accepting me and working with me, they decided to shun me and make me an outcast.
Secondary school wasn't that much better: there were more opportunities to get involved, so I developed a level of infamy just for being busy. I was revelling in it for a while, taking the applause as sincere, when suddenly one of the more well-known teachers told me "Tiara, they're not applauding for you, they're making fun of you." Even if she was right, why the hell tell me that?! Way to ruin my relationships and trust in humankind (if it wasn't ruined already by primary school). In Form 4 I gained controversy for skipping Pure Science in favour of Humanities, putting myself in the "last class" and being top of the class almost by default. In Form 5 I had a diagnosis of panic disorder and depression, as well as some new insoles that required wearing sport shoes instead of normal school shoes, and the students & teachers claimed that it was all in my head. I was so glad to be gone from school; it was an absolute waste of time and I wish I'd just skipped the whole malarkey.
Anyway, back to Constance. I read the story about the fake prom, the teachers joining in, the Facebook page. And I'm pretty sure that if Facebook existed in my time (and I wasn't the defacto Internet geek of the school), and if our schools had a prom culture, they would totally do the same to me. Hell, they may have been behind-the-scenes scheming without my knowledge; why else would I be denied the award for English Language skills when it was well-known that I was the best in the school? And then you have this absolutely horrible letter, where the students (and presumably the teachers) pegged her with one word:
Attention-seeker.
Attention-seeker, because she was out and proud. Attention-seeker, because she wanted to bring her girl to the prom. Attention-seeker, because she spoke up against injustice. Attention-seeker, because her mum's gay and that just made her even more undesirable. Attention-seeker, because she probably did very well at school too. Attention-seeker, because she existed and did not hide it.
Attention-seeker. The term brandied to me mostly in primary school but also in secondary school for some parts. The term that justified verbal and emotional abuse for years, sanctioned by administration, ignored by the Government.
Attention-seeker, because I did pretty good in exams and competitions while hardly trying - I loved to read and picked up stuff that way. Attention-seeker, because my love for reading (and then the Internet) meant that I was often a year or two ahead of the students. Attention-seeker, because I was passionate about what I believe in and didn't allow myself to be silenced. Attention-seeker, because I refused to participate in hazing sessions (whether as hazer or hazee) misleadingly named "orientation". Attention-seeker, because I got involved in anything interesting and so was up on stage to pick up some award or another a few times a month. Attention-seeker, because even though I was not Malay and the rest of my class was, I still was apparently the only person who knew how to fill in an exam bubble sheet right the first time (this happened in class in Std 6). Attention-seeker, because my parents were upper-middle-class Bangladeshis and my dad was head of a Government-owned company, with almost all his other staff and peers being Malay. Attention-seeker, because I declined a spot in the top-performing Science classes to study Literature. Attention-seeker, because I would speak to a teacher in English and when yelled at by a classmate for "not speaking your mother tongue" I wondered if I should break out into Bengali. Attention-seeker, for apparently making art so bad it apparently warranted taunts from teachers saying their 6-year-old does better, a demand to redo my exam piece in the middle of the text, and the teachers stopping a 12-year-old me in primary school one morning before assembly to tell me that my contribution to a poster contest was so terrible, they tore it all up. Attention-seeker, because I had random debilitating panic attacks in Form 5 and sometimes went home early, to the point of missing an entire month before exams started. Attention-seeker, because I did fine in exams anyway.
Attention-seeker, because I did not want my race to be a barrier or even a factor in being considered as a human being. Attention-seeker, because I was born in Malaysia as a foreigner and didn't get permanent residency since I was 7, because my dad wasn't a diplomat that moved countries every 5 years, because I went to school with permanent residency that required me to go to a Government school that kept trying to kick me out every few years due to my permanent residency, because I was the only non-Malay in the Malay prefects meeting and the only Muslim in the non-Malay prefects meeting when they discussed who should be Head Prefect. Attention-seeker, because I existed.
Hell I still get the same rubbish now - I recently had a big fallout with people I used to be tight with in the Brisbane burlesque world because I'm quite outspoken about issues of cultural appropriation and race representation on The Merch Girl, and that's apparently "insulting, derogatory, and pushy". People tell me that if I "cooled down on the feminism/activism" I would get more opportunities. I can't rock the boat of the people whose whole genre is all about rocking the boat, because I'm the Exotic Other and I should just accept my role as such.
Maybe Constance and I have utterly repulsive personalities, who knows. But even so, it is no excuse for absolutely reprehensive behaviour. You don't want to hang out with her at prom? Fine, but don't go deflecting her to a fake prom! You don't want to hang out with me? Fine, but don't go making me account for every single overblown news article on some Bangla crime when I'm 11. Dear God. Is there no human decency anymore!?
Maybe we're attention seekers. So fucking what?! Why is it such a bad thing to seek attention anyway? Just because we're different doesn't mean we're shrinking violets. Just because we're asserting our presence and speaking up against injustices doesn't mean we're uppity or sanctimonious.
The more I read this, the more sick to my stomach I get. For every Constance or myself there are likely more and more kids who are facing this in school and don't have the same level of support. I wish I knew how to support them. EducateDeviate was my attempt at bringing change, but my move to Australia and change of interest put that on hold. But I still want to support the outcasts, the weirdos, the attention-seekers. I want to protect them from those that would harm them, cut them down, abuse them, hurt them, and give them significant complexes that they are still dealing with many years later.
I want to protect and support them the way I wish someone had protected and supported me.
Here’s the video of the Islamic-influenced performance that got me 3rd place and a whole heap of kudos. I’m so glad that it did what I aimed to do – make people wonder about their assumptions.
The effect and response was totally unexpected – honestly I thought people would be bored because I’m not shaking my booty or tassel twirling!! It’s all coming a bit fast and now I feel like I need to do more and come up with more acts to justify the response! But at least I’ve touched someone, which was my goal.
For most of my life I was very mind-centric. I was one of those people that pretty much lived in my head. I read a lot (still do), had an active imagination (still do), and wanted nothing more than to learn, learn, learn (still do).
I was hopeless with sports, or anything to do with my body. I couldn’t run, throw a ball, catch a ball. I did badminton and swimming for a while at school but was never great at it. I wanted to do gymnastics but was too big and too scared. I only climbed a tree once. Whenever I was the slightest bit ill, I was rushed to the doctors. And who gives a damn about personal appearance? No one ever looks at me anyway. Not like I was interested in attracting anyone – I was an asexual who couldn’t really see the point in sex. Too messy.
My soul was just slightly better. I grew up in an Islamic environment, taking Islamic classes for my entire schooling life. I’ve gone from clueless to pious to pious in a different way to non-religious to doubtful to searching, and possibly many ways around yet. I’m pretty sure of what I believe and how I express that belief; it’s more labels that confound me.
My heart just tended to be broken. I had no concept of romance or courtship; even as a teenager the closest I had to a relationship were long-standing crushes on people and spending a night with a Savage Garden poster in my arms. (My mum’s remark on her seeing me like this: “I think you’re ready for boys now.” None came for about 8 years.) I had very awkward interpersonal connections; friends didn’t come easily for me, and I was more often betrayed and outcasted than welcomed and accepted.
My body, soul, and heart floundered. But my mind – oh, that was very very strong. It was the only thing that mattered. I placed pride in how much I knew, how smart I was, how deeply I thought. I wasn’t one for academics and grades because I didn’t find most of the work challenging or engaging. I yearned for things that awoke my brain, got me thinking, sparked my neurons.
Of course, it wasn’t long before my neurons eventually fried. A lot of stress beginning at childhood led to full-blown anxiety and depression at 17, partly caused by misfiring neurons. My mind became both my escape to and escape from. I thrived in my head and was also trapped within it.
The next few years after that were a crazy mix of challenges to all my aspects – not just my mind. I moved around the country and around the world, challenging my physical endurance. I explored different spiritualities and questioned a lot of my previous beliefs. I gained the courage to actually make the first move in relationships – though I still didn’t get lucky with anybody.
When I moved to Australia, I slowly found my focus and center moving away from my mind. It was still important, but it didn’t quite hold as central a role as before. My heart finally found satisfaction in Mark , and my body flourished in its new dimension – what asexuality? As it is, it was getting more exercise than ever. My soul found expression in service, working hard to find ways to help other people.
Now I find myself more body-centered. I’m training in circus and burlesque three days a week, seven-and-a-half hours all up, and while I’m still not a champion sportsperson I am a great deal fitter and flexible than I ever was. I still don’t give a damn about fashion and trends, but I have gained a strong appreciation for costuming and creative styling. I’m fascinated by expressions and experiences of sexuality – not just in the raw sense, but as combined with psychology and creativity and culture and society. I move more. I flow more.
My spirit’s shifted its mode of focus; while there is still an interest in making a difference, it is a tad more academic. My heart is still strong with Mark but it has also expanded in its understanding of itself.
As for my mind? It’s funny; I don’t feel quite as sharp mentally as I used to. Not so much “oh goodness I feel stupid”, but I haven’t had quite the same mental challenges as I used to. No trivia questions or MENSA tests. Now it’s more about creating, about expressing the mind through the body. Focusing on moves and poses, clearing the mind when possible. Learning, but also doing.
I’m still a voracious reader and I still spend too much time online. But I don’t feel quite as lost in my head as I used to.
The past few days I went on a whim to see San Francisco-based erotic performance artist Vixen Noir at MetroArts in Brisbane. OH MY GOODNESS. Absolutely BLOWNAWAY.
The show was opened by Sunny Drake , a Brisbane & San-Fran-based FTM performance artist whose work deals with gender identity.
His piece, Other-wise, was set as a letter to his parents trying to explain his gender and sexuality, but not wanting to disappoint them. His parents (and the rest of the family, who showed up too) were AWESOME – he told this story about his dad proudly saying “well my daughter is gay and I’m very proud of her” after dealing with a homophobic friend, and about how they’re all still very supportive despite his transitions and issues. I wish my parents were similarly awesome (instead of worrying that I’ve joined a cult!!).
My favourite bit of the show involves Sunny playing Truth or Dare with the voice in his head:
Voice: Truth or Dare? Sunny: Truth! Voice: Are you a girl or a boy? Sunny: No, I’m not any of those things. You see, for me they don’t quite work like that. My gender is CARNIVALESQUEMAGICIAN!
The main star, Vixen Noir came next – and oh my. She is definitely something to behold.
This self-described Black American Princess (more like High Royalty to me) based her show around her raw sexuality, intermingled with stories from her grandmother (who apparently denounced “those things we did” for being Jesus’s soldier). According to her, “I came out of my mother sexually aroused!” She claimed that growing up, she kept connecting everything to sex and was getting quite disturbed by it, but Audre Lorde’s essay Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power helped her realise that there was nothing wrong with her; she was just a sexual being, and she embraced her power.
She went from costume to costume, singing tributes to the power of her ancestors or her favourite things, lauding past lovers and their gifts, joining in with the video of her grandmother talking about her youthful sexual experience (which sometimes got into “that’s just WROOOOOOONG” territory).
At one point she got into dominatrix gear and did a slam poem on her ecstasy from being fisted by a lover. This then led to a long, luxurious, powerful orgasm on stage – which absolutely pwns my attempt at theatrical orgasms!
The ending is a total mindfuck. She strips off her gear till she is standing full nude (wearing only a choker, an armband, and boots). She paints “Fuck” and “Bitch” (or “B4ch” as it looked like) on herself, as well as tribal lines all over her body. On the screen her grandma pops up singing a Jesus hymn, and she joins in. Naked, semi-dominatrix gear, swear words on her, singing praises for Jesus. Crazy.
That evening I found out she had a shorter version of her Unleash Your Fire workshop the next night, which aims to empower women in their “erotic power” through performance. I was quite in awe of her performing style – burlesque, spoken word, slam poetry, music, dancing, singing. A mix of the things I like to do! I actually had a musical improv workshop booked at the same time, but when a prior appointment finished later than expected I decided to check Vixen Noir’s workshop out.
It was a small group of women, all with their own quirks of gender and sexual identity. I can’t really reveal what exactly went down in the workshop (we agreed on confidentiality) but it basically involved frank discussions about yourself and your ideas and experiences with the erotic, and linking that to a performance piece. I got to know one girl, Maddy, who was pretty cool (and damn hot!!) – she just came back from spending her finding-herself 20s in Germany, and I felt like I was in her position, being in a foreign country to rediscover myself. Out of everyone in the workshop (who were all pretty cool themselves) I’d like to get in touch with her more.
I was more “performancy” than erotic – I just rejoined my burlesque classes that morning, and was in a showgirl mood! Mine was more hammy than raw, but it was definitely more out-there than a lot of performance things I’ve done. Some of the others really put themselves out there with their performances – it made me wish I had dared to strip off or do something quite as crazy! (For what it’s worth, Vixen Noir thought it was hot :P)
Part of the workshop involved imagining yourself as 80, having lived a life full of your erotic and sexual power, and writing a letter to your current self about how life is and what they need to do. I couldn’t really picture myself as an 80-year-old, so I just pictured some random Tina-turner lookalike with my short hair laughing her head off. She seemed pretty cheerful. What surprised me was the inclusion of kids and grandkids – I’ve never really thought of myself as a mother. I’d suck at mothering. But in my vision I was surrounded by a HUGE family, made up of relatives and friends that bring me power, and whom I’ve empowered too. Other young women who have been granted the courage to do their own thing and fly.
I wonder if my 80s will be that hilarious!
This year onwards seem like my chance to break away from obligations and figure out what my boundaries are by testing them. I am freaking people out, but at the same time I’m learning a lot about myself. What sort of person will I end up as next year or soon after?
Our Vagina Monologues performances were awesome. Nearly packed Thursday, sold out Friday. People from everywhere (mainly through Facebook chains) streaming in wanting to support vaginas. Some men who were skeptical at first but realised that V-Day wasn’t about being anti-men; it was a celebration, a commiseration, and a presentation of the vagina and its place in people’s lives – the hurt and pain, the glory and beauty. Bad and good. Everything.
This is a recording of my monologue, The Woman who Loved to Make Vaginas Happy. It’s about a dominatrix who works exclusively with women after discovering her enjoyment of moans, and how women were really the only people that appreciated them too. We played her as a vagina geek, rather than a sex goddess; she’s still sexy, but she retells her job as more of “my job is awesome!” rather than “I’m here to seduce you”. Possibly NSFW due to a bit of swearing and plenty of moaning.
Even though these monologues are at least ten years old, and even though there have been hundreds of people around the world that have performed these monologues before (and hundreds more that viewed those performances), these monologues feel like they’re ours. Like they were especially written for us. Like they were about us. Like we were there from the day they started writing them to the performance date and beyond.
Only Lesley could be the Angry Vagina, pissed-off at efforts to undermine her coochie!
Only Helen could come up with a ton of Vagina (Not-So)Happy Facts.
Only Jodie could be neurotic enough to go to a Vagina Workshop.
Only Anja could have a Little Coochie Snorcher.
Only Sarah T could have a great experience with Bob.
Only Claire could reclaim “Cunt”.
and then some.
I just heard a snippet of someone else’s version of My Angry Vagina. It doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t have a “sunny Southern accent” (as reported in Time Off), it has “pussy” instead of “coochie”, it doesn’t have smiles interspersed between yells. It’s not quite it.
On the one hand, I feel like I am in solidarity with all the other women, including Eve Ensler, that have performed these monologues and likely can relate to the experience of production and staging. The celebrities, college women, community women, older women, younger women…ok. Sometimes I wish there was a list of performers by monologue, so that we can bond over the experience.
But it’s just not the same. It’s not quite right. The version pure to me is the version performed and directed by the Brisbane Coochie Coup. No one else can capture the heartbreak, sorrow, joy, laughter, silliness, angst, confusion, innocence, cynicism quite like we did.
The Coochie Coup girls came from all sorts of backgrounds and experiences. Some, like me, have never really acted before. Some others are in training to be professional dramatists. Yet we got along swimmingly. No bitchiness, no back-stabbing, no sourness. Just a group of women supportive and cheerful for each other. It’s only been 6 weeks that I’ve known them, and I wish it were 6 weeks more. Or 6 months. Or 6 years.
Will we meet again? Will we ever commiserate over stupid male comments (while getting props and gear for my role, I walked out of the Valley’s plentitude of porn shops, and some guy in a car yelled “I thought you were a bloke!” o_O) or shout each other’s lines or pace around dancing behind the curtains waiting for everyone to scoot in already so that we can start. Two days is too short.
Our vaginas need a community, a culture. And I think I just found mine.
Tickets are still available from the Globe Theatre . Details:
The Globe Theatre, Fortitude Valley, Brisbane Thursday 5th February – 7pm Friday 6th February – 8pm $25 for refugee women in & from Congo
I’m pretty nervous and excited – it’s my first proper acting performance, especially in a major role. Malaysian schools don’t usually consider theater important (school productions? whazzat?) and if there ever was any I’m either the scriptwriter or a bit part. I’ve sung, dance, poetry-slammed, spoken…but not acted. It’s exciting!
I’ll have to get used to wearing a bustier/corset and fishnets on stage, literally climaxing in front of a bunch of strangers (though with Brisbane being Brisbane, there’s probably going to be tons that I recognise from somewhere). There’s no stripping or simulated anything (aside from moans) and it’s not even softcore; still, it’s probably the closest thing I’d ever get to an professional sex performer.
This role has led me to learn more about sex worker rights, sexuality, BDSM, and all sorts of nuances. Mainly in terms of sex work and feminism, and the various arguments between sides. It’s become an educational journey in more ways than one.
I love my crew. We’ve gotten along really well and they’re all lovely. I’ll miss them! I’m glad for the random meeting with Lesley at some youth conference two years ago, and randomly bumping into her a few months ago while walking about UQ – that’s probably what motivated her to add me into her V-Mon list!
Firstly: my mum reads most of my online writing, and I have to warn her that this will be an especially sensitive topic for her. It doesn’t directly involve her but she’s more traditional and I figure that just the title will give her a heart attack. So, for everyone’s sanity:
HI MUM! I love you, but you might not want to keep on reading. Be assured that your daughter is OK and fine and dandy. If you still want to read on, well…don’t say I didn’t warn you. Thank you :D
Now that we have the Parental Disclaimer out of the way:
It amazes – and sometimes disgusts – me how people that work in the sex industry are viewed by others. Prostitutes, strippers, dominatrices, submissives, porn actors, whatever. Men, women, feminists, chauvinists, whatever.
I’m a pretty vocal feminist. I’ve also very recently developed an interest in the workings of the sex industry. And I see so many clashes of cultures, particularly in terms of morality.
Too much slut-shaming.
Women have the right to choose the direction of their life. To set their own boundaries. To decide how they use, show, display their body. How they use their sexuality. Whether they want to make money out of their sexuality at all.
So what’s all this crap about sex workers being “immoral”? “Lacking dignity”? “Tramps”?
It’s a job. A profession. In many ways it’s not that different from most other jobs; you show up, play a role, do your stuff, get paid, go home.
Yes, there are plenty of issues with exploitation. Trafficking. Disrespect. Abuse. They are NOT exclusive to the sex industry. Exploitation and abuse happens in almost every industry. Politicians being shot down for not looking “feminine” enough, women being kidnapped and sold as “domestic help” slaves, inadequate pay and maternity leave – there’s still a lot of issues with women in the working world.
The sex industry isn’t inherently exploitative or evil. It’s linked to core beliefs and structures that support the ideas of women not being allowed autonomy, of women being property, of people having to fit certain moulds to be accepted. Deal with the issues directly.
I’m often surprised at how different the perception is between countries that have different legal and moral concepts of the sex industry.
In Malaysia, a conservative Muslim country that has made the sex industry illegal, the most you hear about the sex industry in mainstream media are “guest officers” illegally from different countries being arrested and locked up. Also massive discrimination against transgendered people. It’s hush-hush; any mentions usually go along the lines of “OMG those immoral bad culture-corrupt people!” Anything remotely sexual is frowned upon – just look at the yearly hysterias surrounding so-called sex parties.
And then you have Bangladesh. Also a Muslim country, but with a different mazhab (school of thought) of Islam, comparatively liberal. Still very traditional in many ways. In 2000, prostitution was legalised in Bangladesh. This was a response to outcries from Bangladeshi sex workers whose brothels were being unfairly raided and shut down by the police. They demanded protection – and got it.
Most of the sex industry is legal in Australia, with different states handling various aspects differently. For instance, brothels and private escorts in Queensland can’t list services on their websites; not so in New South Wales. In the past couple of years, strip clubs have become a trendy hangout for young men and women alike. There are still places considered “sleazy”, but there’s also a growth of more high-class venues that put a lot of attention on all aspects of the club – such as Love and Rockets and the women-owned B Confidential . If anything untoward happens to sex workers, they have plenty of rights and protections on their side. You still have the goons who think all sex workers are stupid/slutty/useless/whatever, but you also have a lot of other people who stand up for sex workers and beat the stereotypes. Satisfaction) is one of many fantastic fleshed-out portrayals of the sex industry (in this case, a high-class brothel) in Australia; they don’t gloss over the sex, but they also give the characters thorough stories, motivations, and personalities.
In the US, where it’s only legal in Nevada, there seems to be a stronger case of “sex workers are slutty”. At least, I’ve seemed to notice more of a backlash against sex workers. A lot of chauvinists feel that sex workers live only for them and that they have the right to treat them as crap because they’re somehow less than human. Some very radical feminists consider sex workers to be in cahoots with the patriarchy, and think that there is no possible way that sexuality and feminism can ever match. “OMGTHEY’RE PROMOTINGPOLEDANCECLASSESHOWEVIL.” (Most sides of that debate are annoying – “pole dancing is patriarchal oppression!” “it’s just for FITNESS, let’s not talk sex!” “only stupid women do it, it’s not fit at all”. It’s sexy, fun, fit, and some women find it empowering. Deal.) America seems to have a very confused relationship with sexuality – it’s treated as such a taboo thing, yet also strongly desired; representations of sexuality are either heavy on the stereotype or far away on the other side of the spectrum; it’s both treated as the Holy Grail and Hell’s Banquet. There’s no humanity in this. I don’t think a show like Satisfaction could have ever existed in America at all. You do have the outliers like Annie Sprinkle, but she probably wouldn’t have been so famous if the US was more lax about sexuality.
So you have a whole bunch of threads getting tangled here:
Women cannot own their sexuality!
Sexuality cannot be a commodity!
Sex is immoral if there are no babies!
Anything to do with sexuality is by extension evil!
Sex workers have no right to be human!
You can’t possibly have chosen to be a sex worker! (well guess what: many do!)
Some aspects of the industry are fucked up. Therefore the industry as a whole is fucked up.
Which then leads to the following underlying beliefs:
Women don’t have the right to set boundaries that work for them.
If you consent to one thing (say, being nude or doing a lapdance) you consent to everything.
Being aroused is bad.
People can only relate to each other in specific ways.
You can only use your body in certain ways dictated to you from outside authorities.
Women are property and only exist for men’s amusement. (speaking of which: a common argument is that sex work exists only for male titillation. What about girls that like girls?)
You can only be empowered in certain ways; other ways don’t count.
It’s not good to be an opportunist.
Sex is bad.
It’s just sex!
It’s odd how in so many places – including places you think will know better (aherm, US) – sex is seen as both a big deal and something not worthy of respect. We value violence and killing more than we value sexuality. Death over birth. Hate over love. Oh, shoot-em-ups are fine – but oh woe is us if we have to see a breast!
It’s our bodies. We all have them. They’re odd-looking things. Certain things make us feel different. Certain touches, tastes, smells, sights, sounds excite us, cause various reactions. That’s just how it is.
So why the muddle?
What is so immoral about going to a strip club and watching a dance? A lot of contemporary dance isn’t all that different in its aesthetics. And so you went to a brothel and paid for a sex session. With legal brothels, you at least have the assurance that the sex workers are checked out, clean, healthy, well taken care of. (Illegal ones don’t have the same resources – this is why I’m all for legalising.) They’re professionals. Their job is to entertain, comfort, console, excite, whatever it is you’re looking for. And like other service workers you meet, you treat them with *respect*. Just because they’re naked when they see you doesn’t mean you can treat them like crap.
Here’s what I’d like to see change with regards to society’s expectations about the sex industry:
Have comprehensive sex education that educates people about different facets of sexuality and sexual health, gives them options and resources for health, and ultimately teaches them to respect their bodies and other people’s bodies.
Stress the fact that it’s perfectly fine to set boundaries for yourself. No one should make you ashamed for being a virgin by choice or having casual sex or whatever, as long as it’s consensual and informed.
Provide resources for people to know more about sexuality and its different modes of expression.
Teach people that other people are not their property and that, no matter their background or lifestyle, they deserve respect for being a human being. I feel that if that one’s sorted, a lot of others fall into place.
Legalise the sex industry and provide legal recourses for things like assault & battery, financial rip-offs, legal/work disputes, and so on
Get more women (and people really) out of exploitative situations and stress the fact that no one deserves to be exploited.
Stop criminalising petty things like a nipple on TV or a breastfeeding mother.
Provides spaces for people to explore and consider their bodies and sexuality – heck, a lot of “sexual” stuff isn’t actually sexual but more something else being expressed through body and relationships.
Make sex less mysterious and taboo – it’s part of the general human condition.
