The Smells Of Sex Work

One small whiff and I’m transported to worlds past…

Body Shop Vanilla and I’m backstage at the strip club.  The wall-length mirror above the makeup counter and Ikea stools, cosmetics, costumes, cigarettes, purses, snacks and wrappers tossed everywhere.  Ashtrays overflowing with half-smoked butts and piles of ashes, cigarettes hovering over them as girls gossipped or touched up makeup.  I still remember the one man I talked to during one of my last shifts, the handsome guy in his 30’s who sat alone and a few minutes in our conversation abruptly asked "Why do all strippers wear vanilla perfume?"

Hairspray and I’m sitting in the staffroom of a local massage parlour.  Anywhere from 3 to 15 girls crammed into a tiny room with a table, 3 chairs, 3 stools, a draft under the door, and a heater that gets turned off when both morning and night shifts are working ("Heating costs a fortune – we need to turn this off when it’s warm enough in here during the day" – it was never fucking warm enough).  Competition is fierce in a massage parlour, where the lineup where the client gets to pick pits each girl against every other to get him to pick her for his time…. and money.  With about 5 seconds to make an impression it’s crucial to look absolutely phenomenal the entire time on shift, because you never know when the door will open and a client will come in – meaning your hair has to be secured in place, 95% of the time with at least some amount of hairspray.

Incense from the local 24-hour grocery store and I’m working on call for the escort agency this past summer.  My home lit with ambient low lighting, filled with the sounds of trip hop or Kanye West, talking to friends closer than anyone I’ve known in the past, waiting for the phone to ring with the news that I have a client waiting and a driver is on the way.  It was a summer of intense, quietly possessed, educational life experiences, often spent either relaxing or recovering in the comfort of my ideal home.

Without a word being spoken or any visual being witnessed, I’m reminded of my past regularly.