Lament of the Streetwalker

A few weeks ago, Ren issued a call to arms of sorts for those of us who work in this business and who are better off than some others to talk about the disparity in the way we’re viewed and treated vs. those who work the streets.  There are very few days that go by where I don’t think about those men, women, children, and transpeople who work the streets providing sexual services to anyone who’ll pay.  I’ve started to write about this a good dozen times or so, but in each case I just couldn’t find the words to do it justice.

For my honors project in undergrad, I interviewed just over a hundred sex workers, a little more than a third of them being those who ply their trade on the streets of Miami and Fort Lauderdale.  I can’t begin to tell you how depressing it was meeting these women.  With the exception of one person, all told me they wanted to leave the streets.  They had to go out to make ends meet, though – some to put food on the table, but the majority worked to feed a drug habit or support a pimp as well.  The only true difference between those two groups is that those working on their own had a better sense of who they were and what they were doing – those who were owned were almost lost without their pimp. Both had a strong distaste for the work, though.

Street walkers are the public persona of prostitution for the vast majority of people.  With the occasional, rare exception, they’re the ones you see being arrested, names and faces splashed in the newspapers, on the late local news, and on the “Hall of Shame” web sites established by “law enforcement” agencies.  The way these people are treated is itself a shame. We don’t put thieves’ photos on those web sites, and they steal from other people.  Prostitutes don’t – they earn their money legitimately and work for it.  We don’t put murderers’ photos on those web sites, either.  Even if they kill a prostitute. 

But, because someone uses their body to make money in a way some group of (almost invariably) old people decrees as illegal, the police believe it is acceptable to further humiliate them publicly.  It’s an endless, vicious cycle – the police arrest them, and they are forced to go back out on the street to earn more money to pay the bail, attorney’s fees, fines, and court costs they incur in addition to that which they need to support themselves and their families.  Whereupon, of course, they’re often arrested again, perpetuating the cycle. What a waste of resources, both in terms of money and in humanity.  It stupefies me that lawmakers and politicians don’t see the discordant irony in that and take some legitimate, serious, concrete measures to solve the problem rather than contribute to it.  But, of course, they’re just hookers, right? Sometimes it’s hard to believe we’re actually living in the 21st Century.

San Francisco is replete with sex workers – probably more per capita than any other city in this country, except perhaps Las Vegas.  The vast majority of them, us, work anonymously, making movies, taking clothes off, seeing clients discretely without anyone else being the wiser to it, and with little or no interference from the local fuzz.  But one only has to drive around the Tenderloin District for a few minutes each evening to see the other side of this business, and to understand that many people are not as fortuitous as some of the rest of us are.  

Ever since my first classroom discussion on this subject, when I heard and felt the disdain many people have for street prostitutes, I’ve made it a point to understand what they deal with and include them in my own writing on the subject of prostitution in general. I’ve never intentionally treated them any differently than anyone else I come into contact with. You see, I know I’m not any better than any of these people, just far more fortunate.

So as I sat down last night, in another attempt to put words to the computer screen on this subject, I tried to put myself in their position.  How would I feel?  What would I think about myself and the work I did?  Though I’ve never worked the street like they have, I believe I know enough about it to understand how I’d feel if I were to find myself in that position.  In all honesty, I just don’t know if I could do it.

Anyway, I tried to write something as if I were in those shoes.  I was never good at writing poetry when I was in high school and college.  I did okay – well enough to pass the classes, of course.  This won’t win any literary awards, but it represents the best I could do.  This is how I imagine myself and my feelings as I went through a shift, and in an infinitesimally small way is my tribute to those people who find themselves with no other option. I don’t believe in a god, but I hope and pray for the emotional and physical safety of each and every one of those folks who work the streets each night.

Lament of the Streetwalker

I don’t want to go, but I have no choice.
I’d do something else, but I have no voice.
There’s rent to be paid; an addiction to feed.
I have to work through the pain to satisfy the need.

I often wonder how it got to this point;
Turned down for work because I’d smoked a joint.
Sometimes life is truly unfair, and I hate that in a way.
But life deals us a hand, and that is what we must play.

I don’t look forward to it, turning each trick.
But I take comfort in knowing tonight will be over fairly quick.
As I get all dressed up and walk out the door,
I wonder if I’ll ever not have to do this any more.

I head out to my spot, my children left behind.
Off to work I must go; the daily grind.
It’s tough working the street, but it has to be done.
I’d leave in a minute, but there’s nowhere to run.

I see the stares from the windows as people pass by.
I dodge the eggs, the stones, and the words that fly.
They think they’re better than me, in their nice warm cars.
But they’re just lucky, they don’t have the scars.

Night after night, there’s an endless stream of men.
With each new john, I wonder when it will end.
I serve each one, some quicker than others;
Construction workers and lawyers, husbands and brothers.

Leaning down to the window to see what he has in mind,
I have to remind myself not to be blind.
Keep an eye on his movements so I won’t get tricked.
Is he a psycho? Am I the one who’s been picked?

Each time I get in a car I feel a sense of dread.
Will he beat me, rape me, or will I end up dead?
Would anyone report it? Would they care about me at all?
I pray I’ll make it out alive, and avoid the law.

When I am done for the night, I try to hold my head high,
As I walk back to the house, dawn drawing nigh,
I step into the shower to wash off the dirt,
But nothing I try will cast away the hurt.

I could rob, or steal, or cheat like many.
But I want to do right, and earn an honest penny.
I have to make money to keep us alive.
I have no other choice right now; I must survive.

I hide from my family what I do each night.
It’s best they not know how I deal with my plight.
Alone, I think of what I do and it makes me cry.
But I’ve forced myself to stop asking why.

So I’ll get up tomorrow and head out again.
I’ll go out to work next to the magazine stand.
I’ll walk, and I’ll wait, and I’ll pray for my boys.
I don’t want to go, but I have no choice.

No related posts.

 Email This  Print This

Tagged as: prostitute, prostitution