Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell:
Shame, Fear, and Escorting
by Beverly Fisher, Slut at Large and Woman of Easy Virtue

Note: the following is a work of fiction. Any similarities between the story and real life are coincidental. Beverly Fisher is an escort, a companion paid for her time only.

I don’t like being dishonest. I’m not ashamed of what I do. Actually, I’m quite proud of my work. But when people say, “so, what do you do for a living?” I can’t say, “Oh, I’m an escort.”

Sure, I suppose I could say it, if I wanted to. There’s nothing stopping me, except thousands of years of social condemnation and stigma. Let me tell you, that weighs pretty heavily on the tongue. It sits there in my mouth, tasting faintly of lead and stone. It tastes like anger and persecution, like vengeance and judgment. Bitter wine indeed.

How can I explain persecution, prejudice, condemnation, and hatred? All of us, no matter who we are, have experienced judgment to a certain extent. Racial prejudice and hatred is virulent and powerful. I have felt the weight of such prejudice. I have had my civil rights violated. I have had no recourse. Shame, fear, degradation, humiliation, abuse... I have felt all of these things, because I am an escort.

Civil Rights March

Back in 1989, there was an interesting incident in Washington, D.C. A few police officers got together a little after midnight, and started rounding up all of the streetwalkers they could find. With one police car in front, lights flashing, and another behind, the police led the prostitutes on a forced march to the 14th Street Bridge, and the Virginia state line. “They said they were taking us to Virginia, that we could work over there,” said one woman, according to the Washington Post. “They said we’d go to jail if we stopped.”

When the Washington Post writer and photographer happened on the scene, two officers grabbed the photographer and ordered him to stop. “You’re going to ruin what we’re trying to do,” one officer said.

And Virginia’s reaction? According to the Post, then-8th District Rep. Stan Parris, a Republican, was quoted as saying, “This is the fourth commodity the District exports to Virginia. We get all the sludge, all the garbage, most of the prisoners, and now their prostitutes.”

Sludge. Garbage. Nice.

The thing that really got me about this, leaving an indelible impression for all of these years, was how nobody, not one person in any official capacity, said anything about the civil rights of these women. Not the Washington Post. Not the Virginia officials. Not the Washington D.C. police, when they apologized – to Virginia. These are the representatives of the people. They are charged with upholding the constitution and the laws of this country. These women hadn’t broken any laws; they were standing around the street. They had every right, as citizens of this country, to expect fair treatment under the law.

Reading the story again, I found myself wondering: what would have happened if the D.C. police had rounded up a bunch of African-Americans, and marched them over the Virginia state line? Would there be shocked outcry from across the country? Would the officers involved lose their jobs? Would the D.C. police department be sued? Would new legislation be introduced? Would activists all over the country take up the battle cry?

But that’s not what happened. It was just a bunch of hookers marching that July night, in their miniskirts, carrying their high-heeled shoes. And no one really cared. Except other whores.

I think it’s especially horrible because so many of us, escorts and “normal people” alike, don’t even know what our rights are. But prostitutes who are aware of their rights are also aware of one black, ugly fact: no one is going to uphold them. The police can do whatever they like to you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

The Naked Truth

When I was 21 years old, I was arrested for prostitution. I’d never been in any kind of trouble in my entire life. I was raised in a nice upper-middle-class suburban home, definitely a bit sheltered. I’d starting working in a strip club when I was 18. I’d done a variety of things in the adult industry, before I landed a job at a massage parlor in California. I was attending college at a fairly prestigious university, getting straight A’s, and living my secret double life, the Batman life.

When I was arrested, I was sitting stark naked in a small room at the massage parlor, with a handsome gentleman I’d just met. He was also quite naked, and, I might add, obviously aroused. He was also a cop. Suddenly three men came slamming through the door, shouting, holding three very real guns to my head. I was stunned. I’d never seen a gun in my life, except on television. Why they were holding guns to my head, I’ll never know. I was naked, for chrissake. Where did they think I was hiding a weapon?

I jumped up, grabbing the sheet off the nominal bed, covering myself.

One cop smiled, a cold mean smile that looks like something’s hurting. He grabbed the sheet and whipped it off, saying, “what do you care, slut?” Waving the gun at me, he ordered me to turn around so that he could get a good look at my naked body.

Utterly exposed, tears running down my cheeks, I complied. I turned around slowly for them, showing them my body, while they laughed. I couldn’t take my eyes off their guns.

They finally allowed me to dress and hauled me away in handcuffs. I was blubbering the whole time. I’d never experienced anything like this. I had no idea that the way they had treated me was wrong. I had no idea that they’d violated my civil rights, that they’d sexually harassed and abused me. I had no idea that I deserved to be treated any differently. All I knew was that I was a prostitute, and I suppose I thought that I deserved whatever treatment I received. I just didn’t know better.

Had I known, I could have fought the charge in court. But I didn’t know. I took the overworked, underpaid public defender the city offered me. I listened to him, standing there with his stack of files and his rumpled suit, when he told me I should plead guilty. I accepted their assurances that the charge would eventually be “removed from my record.” I blindly trusted the legal system, because I had been raised to believe that it was all about good, all about protecting the individual. I was raised to believe that goodness wins over evil. I was naive and stupid. I didn’t know that legal protections are afforded only to those society deems are deserving of them. Whores do not make that list.

Non-Human

Some years ago, if a prostitute reported a rape in San Francisco, the police report would be stamped “NH,” which indicates “Non-Human.” The report would be filed with dog bitings.

If a prostitute is raped, it is common for police to laugh – really – and say things like, “Oh, what’s the matter, you didn’t get paid?”

I am paid for my time and companionship. Violent rape is not on the list of services I offer. No amount of money is worth that kind of total violation, degradation. No amount of money is worth that kind of fear and horror.

I have felt a knife at my throat. I have felt a man lying heavy on my belly, digging that knife into my flesh. I have begged for my life. I have pleaded with my rapist to use a condom, cried as my request was denied, sucked in my breath to keep from screaming as that uncovered penis slammed hard into my dry vagina. I have faced death. I have taken a pregnancy test, an HIV test, and prayed on my knees for a negative result – knowing that a positive would mean the rape would continue forever, in my mind and my body.

Hell, who am I kidding? It continues even now. Just writing about it, I can feel that knife again, icy cold and sharp against my throat. I can hear him grunting with his exertions. I can feel and smell his hot fetid breath on my cheek, feel the weight of his body pressing me into the bed, and I can’t breathe. I can feel him entering me, over and over and over. And I can’t scream, and there’s no one to hear me if I did.

I never told the police. I feel guilt about that to this day. It’s sad, really. I always used to think that women who didn’t report rapes were bad people, weak people. I looked down on them, for not warning others about their assailants. But I knew what would happen to me if I reported the rape. They would laugh at me. They would taunt me for “not getting paid.” And I’d be on their radar then, a known prostitute. They’d be watching for me, gunning for me. They would shame me just as they had the night I was arrested, laughing at my nakedness and my humiliation.

I reported the rape the only way a whore can. I called a few of the ladies who advertised in the same newspaper I did. I told them. Then they called all the others. This was before the advent of the internet, there were no Escorts Only boards, no email lists. Just a sad phone call in the middle of the night. We were in competition with one another, we never spoke... but something like this broke the walls. Call it professional courtesy. I’d gotten a few of those calls myself, warning of men who stole money, or men who hit.

Always, we look out for each other. Because, like the whores in Washington D.C., we are all we have.

Light a Candle

One of my heroes is Margo St. James. A feminist and a prostitute, politician and activist, Margo St. James is considered the founder of the prostitutes rights movement in the United States. In 1973, she started COYOTE, or Call Off Your Old Tired Ethics. COYOTE works for the rights of all sex workers, including prostitutes, porn actresses, strippers, phone sex operators – in short, everyone who works in the adult industry, whether male of female, gay, bi, transgendered, or straight. The group has programs to help sex workers transition into other occupations, if they choose. They also focus on preventing scapegoating of sex workers, often blamed for AIDS and other STDs -- yet another aspect of the stigma sex workers carry. Finally, COYOTE works to educate not only sex workers, but clients and the general public about safe sex. The group is also a member of The North American Task Force on Prostitution, and the International Committee for Prostitutes Rights.

In the case of the infamous forced march in Washington D.C., the only group to raise a cry for the rights of the streetwalkers was COYOTE Washington. We do tend to stick together. We have to.

In 2003, “Patriotic Prostitute” Robyn Few started the Sex Workers Outreach Project, or SWOP, with the initial intent of legalizing, or at least decriminalizing, prostitution in California. She’s one of my heroes, too. SWOP is well-organized, and making headway in California. SWOP is slick and hot right now, and I like it very much. I hope to attend some of their functions in the future.

Scarlot Harlot, aka Carol Leigh, is another true Goddess. She’s been working as a prostitute, activist, and artist in the San Francisco Bay Area for more than 20 years. Her writings are brilliant and insightful, her videos are smart, funny, and unique. She coined the term “sex work” in the seventies, and is one of the leaders in the sex workers rights movement in the United States and abroad. Leigh co-founded the Bay Area Sex Workers Advocacy Network (BAYSWAN), and she runs the Prostitutes Education Network Website, which has some of the very best, most extensive information on the web.

In 1997, I went to the International Conference on Prostitution, and the First International Hookers Ball, in Los Angeles. I was absolutely amazed by the sheer number of all the amazing ladies around me. I got to meet Margo St. James, Scarlot Harlot, and yet another Super Goddess, Nina Hartley. I felt like a little kid at a movie premier. I got autographs, for chrissake. It was a spectacle. I watched the world-famous dominatrix Midori stand on the stage in her skin-tight, floor-length red latex dress, and for donations for charity, allowed men to buff and polish her dress/body to a high shine. I watched performance art that one could call stripping, in that the ladies removed their clothes, but the performance was so artful, so beautiful, so skilled, calling it stripping does it no justice.

The event was momentous to me. I had been working in a small town in California, I knew exactly three other escorts, and I felt alone, isolated. That’s one of the hardest things about escorting, the isolation. I had been living in a vacuum. Suddenly I was in this giant ballroom with hundreds of women, all of whom worked in this industry. And so many of them were strong, political, motivated – trying to do something to ensure that my rights were respected. They were trying to give me and all of these women a voice, the ability to fight back the shame and stigma of thousands of years. It was a singular, overwhelmingly powerful moment in my life. I was not alone. Not by a long shot.

And I felt hope, a little white flower in my chest.

The Batman Life

The International Hooker’s Ball was many years ago. I hold the image of all of those beautiful whores in my head.

The internet has been a huge source of change and empowerment. Now that so many of us are online, we have discussion boards and websites just for us – not for advertising, but for communing. Learning. Asking questions. Divulging. Escorts have come together in this electronic world, and we are not so alone anymore.

At any “normal” job, you have co-workers with whom you can talk, have lunch, bitch about the boss, etc. Until the advent of internet networking, escorts were isolated, no “co-workers” to chat with. Now I have somewhere to go, to find people who understand what I do, people with whom I don’t have to pretend, or lie to.

But I still live a very secret life. I always think of Batman – mild-mannered billionaire Bruce Wayne by day, something dark, powerful, and mysterious by night. Living the Batman Life is hard. You meet new people and wonder – should I tell them, or not? After spending time with someone, getting to know them, you feel guilty because you’re keeping this huge part of your existence secret. My escorting job has such an enormous effect on me, on the way I think, the things I do, the things I learn. It even effects small things you wouldn’t normally think about, like what size purse to buy. I’m wandering around the department store looking at purses, thinking, can I fit a vibrator in it?

I have chosen to divulge my Batman identity with my family. They cope with it by pretending it isn’t happening. Denial – it’s what’s for dinner.

The stigma attached to escorting is profoundly real and painful. I don’t feel shame for the work, and I wish I could say I don’t care about the judgments of others. But I do care. I want people to accept me for who I am, to respect what I do and the wonderful gifts I have to offer. I want people to appreciate the skills, business sense, strength, caring, and healing that goes into my profession. I also want a month-long trip to Europe, all expenses paid, with a matching luggage set. Oh, yeah, and world peace.

The truth is, whores are lower on the social ladder than drug dealers. Even most feminists hate us (by the way, Andrea Dworkin can kiss my ass... but that’s another rant), which is especially sad in that they seek to empower women. Through their disgust and disrespect for sex workers, they only keep women down, and align themselves with the patriarchal norms they supposedly wish to change.

Some days I just get so tired. I wish my fellow escorts could see the value in banding together in a more proactive way than just getting together at the strip club for drinks. I wish I didn’t have to know the things I know. I wish I’d never seen those hundreds of beautiful whores. I wish I could shout to the world the truth of my life, my self, my body. I’m Batman!

Yet I still feel that flower of hope, small and white, blooming in my chest. But it is tiny, and fragile. Every time someone asks me The Question – “so, what do you do for a living?” – I feel a quick, sharp pain where the hope belongs.

 

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