Essay: on performing the oldest profession
Essay by Maddy Jolly Fuentes
I first stepped into the shoes of a sex worker (albeit a fake one) in 2018; a stripper in the ensemble of a reimagined production of Carousel at Perth’s Regal Theatre. This was one of three times I would portray a sex worker on stage during drama school, the following being in the popular musicals Rock of Ages and Sweet Charity. When doing character work as a cohort, our directors would encourage us to consider the sex worker’s motives and circumstances: she’s a single mum. She’s addicted to drugs. She’s homeless. She’s a victim of domestic or sexual abuse. The narrative was always intensely negative. I raised the suggestion that perhaps some women simply wanted to make money. After all, isn’t that the primary reason we all go to work? This was quickly dismissed by my directors. It would be ludicrous for any of these women we were playing to want to be sex workers for the same reason many of us are baristas, bartenders and retail assistants.
A year and a half after stepping on the stage of the Regal Theatre in a sequined bikini and spindly stilettos that were poorly designed for actual pole dancing, I found myself nervously swaying around a pole in a dimly lit strip club in North Perth. Again, I was wearing the wrong shoes. After getting the job the dance manager pointed me in the direction of my local sex shop where I could buy Pleaser heels which would support me through an 8-hour shift. This audition was my first real experience in the sex industry. I channelled all my nervous energy into looking like a version of myself I hadn’t quite discovered yet; glitter eyeshadow, a red lip and a freshly bought body suit from Bras and Things, the first piece of lingerie I had ever owned. I approached the security guard, telling him that I had an audition and I was terrified that I would have to blow him or snort a line of coke to get the job. This was far from the case, and I was immensely underwhelmed, it didn’t match up to what the strip clubs of the music theatre world looked like. Where was the sleazy pimp? The girls shooting up behind the bar? The stripper with missing teeth and a black eye? I was told that sex work was full of desperate, destitute women – that you could spot a sex worker a mile away – but all I saw were a bunch of everyday people trying to pay their rent.
I’m not denying that there aren’t dark aspects to the sex industry. It’s true that at some point in history, and even in areas of the world today, girls are being thrown into dark rooms with strangers by sleazy pimps, or chased down the street by a violent suitor. It is also true that some of us are led to sex work due to dire personal circumstances. The flexible and often anonymous nature of sex work makes it ideal for workers with disabilities, mental health struggles, single parents and migrant workers. It’s true that sometimes we loathe our jobs and every single one of our clients, and that the workroom is full of gossip. But can you name one job you’ve worked where you haven’t been ticked off by a customer or a fellow employee? And yet, you don’t see theatre being made about the “toxic” breakroom at your local Cotton On. Nor do your family and friends urge you to leave your cafe job because the occasional customer is a pervy asshole to you. Since my first night at Dollhouse, I have worked in so many facets of the sex industry – phone sex, porn, femdom, stripping, erotic massage and full service. I have seen so many of these professions represented on stage, and yet I can barely count on one hand the number of times I have seen them portrayed accurately.
So why are writers so obsessed with putting sex workers on stage? More often than not, it is to illustrate a situation of poverty, danger, desperation or generally poor quality of life (e.g when used in ensemble numbers like those in Les Mis, Rock of Ages, and Rent), to support a male saviour archetype or to allow for a discussion around “purity”. In Cy Coleman’s Sweet Charity, the tragic hero Charity’s relationship with Oscar tragically ends due to her profession as a dance hall hostess. He can’t get over the idea of his girlfriend being with other men; “The other men, I get this far and I keep thinking of the other men…. How many? I want to know exactly how many!” In Miss Saigon, by Schönberg and Boubil, the protagonist Chris falls in love with Kim, a Vietnamese sex worker, and attempts to take her back to the US with him, away from the horrors of the sex industry. Sex work is used as a cheap dramatic device to make the audience think “damn, things are really tough for this character right now.”
On the flip side, we occasionally see the “empowered” sex worker. The girl who’s dancing on tables because she’s a bad bitch who loves the attention or the escort who only accepts bookings with high-paying clients who take her on tropical holidays and buy her designer handbags. Think, for example, of Kat in Euphoria, who makes a killing as an underage camgirl. Since the rise of Tik Tok, we have seen an overcorrection of the way sex work is portrayed. “Striptok” allows your local stripper or “spicy dancer” to show off the wads of cash they make in a night of work. Interviews with porn stars turned HBO actors (aka Chloe Cherry) paint a picture of sex work being less dangerous and predatory than other “civvie” professions. Whilst this may ring true for particular workers (particularly white, cisgender women), the glamorisation of sex work is also a dangerous narrative to push. It tells the general public that sex work is easy money and that someone can join the industry in a pinch for a quick cash injection, without any risk or societal repercussions. It also views sex work through a narrow, white lens. It completely erases the rich history of trans people and POC (people of colour) who are sex workers in our industry. Not only this, it creates a false idea that sex work is a great way to be an empowered girl boss bad bitch, and that seeking empowerment is the only acceptable reason to enter this industry. No matter how much you love your job, how much it “empowers” you, in a world ruled by capitalism we go to work to, well, work.
So you’ve read this far and you want to create new work about sex work/with sex work themes. Here are a few questions to consider:
Why do you want to include sex work in this story? Is it essential to the plot?
How is sex work represented in this piece? Is it upholding harmful/incorrect stereotypes of an already heavily stigmatised industry?
If you have no personal experience with sex work, why are you choosing to tell this story? Perhaps it is for the shock factor, to “raise awareness” for or to empower sex workers. How can you do this in other ways for the sex work community (advocacy, donations, writing submissions)? Is your one-woman show where you step into a pair of pleasers supporting the community, or are you just wanting to try on a “slutty” sex worker costume for 90 minutes?
If you have no experience in sex work, are you hiring/interviewing sex workers (and paying them for their time) to consult and be involved in the dramaturgical process?
How is the sex work community benefitting from this piece?
It is important to note that there are already many Australian sex workers who are making art about their profession. These artists are taking a great personal risk when linking their art to their identity. By creating art about their work, they are putting a label on themselves that cannot be removed. It screams to the world; “Hi, I have sex for money”. Aside from the social stigma, there are real-world risks of being “face out” as a sex worker. If you try to enter the US you can be denied entry to the country for up to 10 years. Being face out (or having your face visible in your online sex work profiles) may put sex workers who are performers at risk of being hired in certain shows, due to morality clauses (usually for companies like Disney). And across the world, we are still seeing sex workers being denied so many other basic rights because of their occupational identity. It is a great privilege to step into the “role” of a sex worker for a show. At the end of the day, you can hang up the pleasers, wipe off the glitter and tacky lingerie and walk out into the foyer for a pat on the back for being “brave” and “edgy”. For us working girls, this is a costume that can’t be taken off. It will follow us everywhere long after we have retired.
So should we ignore sex work in our art altogether? Absolutely not. As storytellers, we have the power to shed light on all aspects of society. What I’m craving are honest, neutral portrayals of sex work in the arts. I want to see the diversity of the sex worker community represented in theatre and their art forms. Art from/about trans, POC and first nations workers who face tenfold the discrimination workers like myself do. I want to see art that acknowledges how hard it is to work in an industry either exoticises or ostracises POC and plus-sized workers. I want to see appropriate language being used in casting briefs – like using the term sex worker, not a prostitute. I want to see nuanced work about survival sex work. I want to see work about drug-using sex workers that doesn’t just paint them as “junkie whores” who need saving. And most of all, I want to see the woke VCA and WAAPA girlies who make art under the guise of “raising awareness for the sex work community” put their money where their mouth is. Donate to your local peer-run sex worker organisation. Attend rallies for sex worker rights. Call out your whorephobic uncle (who’s probably seen a sex worker multiple times yet still doesn’t view them as real people). And pay sex workers for their time. We are tired of you speaking for us.
Maddy spends most of her time crying, fucking or talking to herself; sometimes all at the same time. She is obsessed with reading non-fiction at the moment, mostly to try and regain the brain cells she lost doing nangs during lockdown. Find her @maddy_jolly.
This essay was generously donated by Maddy.
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Looking for good places to get stories about sex workers?
Find some artists/art here:
Poles The Play @polestheplay
House of Whoreship @houseofwhoreship
Tansy Creative @tansycreative
Debby Doesn’t do it for Free @debbydoesntdoitforfree
More Than Just @tilly.whoretopia
Horny Ghosts @nice.bon.bon
@exotic.cancerr
@swnarrativesalon
@club.chrome
@ugliest.hottie
And find sex worker organisations you can support here:
@decolonisesexworkau
@sinsouthaustralia
@swopnsw
@class_wh0rfare
@respectqld
@vixenworkers
@magenta.org.au
