We all know that 'it's the journey' that matters. We know it, yet do we live it? How do we remind ourselves to feel the moment even as it's passing?
Since a younger friend of mine (Q) committed suicide just over a year ago, I had a few things in mind and heart I thought would make a difference to the journey I'm on. I sang a song for fellow mental health phone line workers at the end of last year, something I'd told his mum I would do.
It was inspired by some of Q's own lyrics "I love my prostitute, she's so pretty and so cute ..."
The rest of what he wrote is quite explicit and so I've found a more subtle way to reference cock-sucking. I can imagine Q laughing and telling me he didn't want it to be 'subtle'! I couldn't forget the lyrics though; the shock and sweetness of a love song for those struggling to 'love themselves'.
Q had his pretty and cute prostitute, and I've had an almost life-long friendship with a woman who eventually became a sex worker. Let's call her Beauty - or is that too horsey? Probably. Perhaps think of a blooming pale pink flower instead of a horse. Go on. Think of that flower. I used to ponder the history of the 'holy whore' and ask her all sorts of questions about what it was like to fuck 'strange men'. I was fascinated and scared for her as I have sometimes confused sex with love - but she had orgasms easily which made the job more fun than it might be for most women.
Beauty was one of the kindest and funniest women I've ever met, but she also had a real love of the most stereotypical 'bad boys' you can imagine. Think bikes, drugs, brain damage and chain smoking and you have the necessities. Sex work came long after the serious heart break following an abusive relationship. "Men have fucked me," (metaphorically) she smiled when we were about 27, "so I'm going to fuck men." (like, literally). As far as I know, she wasn't using drugs and was very savvy with the money she earned. She loved her wine, but then, who didn't? There were years where she didn't 'work' at all, but when she got back into it she said she imagined she was in love with each client she slept with. She said that she would just tell herself "I love him" and that made all the difference.
Beauty wasn't 'just' a sex worker, she had many other jobs and roles in life, but it was Q's in-your-face poetry that inspired my song. I thought about those two sides of that particular coin, but of course there are more than two sides to everything.
Beauty was quiet, strong, sarcastic, passionate and loved the luxuries and freedom afforded by money. She ceased contact for no specific reason and if I try to guess why all I'll do is extend my sorrow. I have lost more than one friend in the last few years. Mental illness and lack of communication is a huge issue and I don't know what is going on for her. Almost 40 years of friendship is something I thought of as part of my identity - but it was not part of hers and I have to accept that.
The name of the song I wrote with Q's help is 'I love my prostitute'. In it I pour out my love for this incredible woman and connect to the love that Q had for his girlfriend. Q was dealing drugs and his girlfriend was working - and you might say that this couldn't be 'love'. Yet the love or obsession expressed feels real and raw. There is an outlet for the pain, for pleasure, for the opportunity to say 'I love you exactly as you are'. Of course there's also drug addiction and mental illness in the mix - but back when Q wrote that particular poem he may have thought he was just having a really good time. Maybe there were moments when he was even close to happy.
Many of us love a prostitute. She might be your girlfriend, sister, daughter, friend or mother. She might be addicted, or maybe she's saving for a house deposit.
I worked as a Brothel Receptionist for about 4 months when I couldn't find work post-degree. I mainly took it out of curiosity regarding Beauty's life; I wanted to believe it wasn't sad and degrading. Unfortunately the place where I worked (now a back packer's on Fort Street) did not treat the women well, it was an absolute shit hole. Within three months (part time) I started to see everyone through a different filter. Men and women all seemed more like clients and whores to me. It took months for the 'brothel receptionist' filter to come off.
When Beauty told me she pretended to feel like she was in love with a client I thought it was kind of lovely. Now I think it might have been confusing. Can you tell yourself anything and then decide to believe it? Possibly. Could relationships (platonic or otherwise) then becomes a transaction and there isn't room for authentic vulnerability?
Whatever the case, I can only guess according to what she has deigned to share (which is nothing). Perhaps there are things I don't know and wouldn't understand. If she were addicted to seriously hard drugs, would she even tell me? Considering she once told me I was too protective of her, that's unlikely.
These days I seem to have friends who are a little less on the wild side. Perhaps I've changed too.
Yet it's still true: I love my prostitute, she's so pretty, she's so cute ...
I worked as a Brothel Receptionist for about 4 months when I couldn't find work post-degree. I mainly took it out of curiosity regarding Beauty's life; I wanted to believe it wasn't sad and degrading. Unfortunately the place where I worked (now a back packer's on Fort Street) did not treat the women well, it was an absolute shit hole. Within three months (part time) I started to see everyone through a different filter. Men and women all seemed more like clients and whores to me. It took months for the 'brothel receptionist' filter to come off.
When Beauty told me she pretended to feel like she was in love with a client I thought it was kind of lovely. Now I think it might have been confusing. Can you tell yourself anything and then decide to believe it? Possibly. Could relationships (platonic or otherwise) then becomes a transaction and there isn't room for authentic vulnerability?
Whatever the case, I can only guess according to what she has deigned to share (which is nothing). Perhaps there are things I don't know and wouldn't understand. If she were addicted to seriously hard drugs, would she even tell me? Considering she once told me I was too protective of her, that's unlikely.
These days I seem to have friends who are a little less on the wild side. Perhaps I've changed too.
Yet it's still true: I love my prostitute, she's so pretty, she's so cute ...
New Zealand Prostitute's Collective: http://www.nzpc.org.nz/About-NZPC
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