Our next piece of writing commissioned from sex workers is from Sophie. Sophie is a sex worker of mixed East Asian descent. She has always been interested in how her mixed heritage and race interacts with her work, and her relationship with clients. Below are recollections of time spent with clients, across a period of around a year.
A room at The Wesley, Euston, 10:24pm
“Say it again” he growls, with his hand on the inside of my thigh.
I oblige – broken Mandarin, terrible accent, feeling the pangs of guilt.
“No. Do the accent” he commands.
“I can’t” I plead.
“don’t make me do something which is not authentic to me”
A flash of anger at first, which then subsides.
“Fine”, he says with his hands on my hips, turning me around with another sigh.
A room at the W Hotel, Leicester Square, 6:15am
“Hold on one moment” he says, swinging his legs out of bed,
“I have to take this, it’s work, order yourself a breakfast, O.K.?”
He smiles, ruffles my hair, and walks away.
“Wèi?” he answers, and starts speaking at speed.
I watch him as he speaks, blonde hair falling softly around his face.
The conversation is quick, he’s done before I get a chance to order.
He emerges from the bathroom, “did you catch any of that?”
I shift uncomfortably, he can tell I didn’t understand.
“I guess I’m more Chinese than you” he laughs
“don’t worry, maybe one day I’ll take you there.”
“Maybe” I answer.
A room in a shared house, Brockley, 2:27am
“You’re not really what I expected” he says, pulling one bra strap down.
The only thing I can think of saying is to ask what he means.
But I already know it’s going to be one of a handful of things. “You’re hāfu” he leers, hand-cupping one breast.
I cringe inside:
“That’s Japanese” I say.
“Hmmm” he says, reaching round to undo the clasps.
I know that he’s thinking
“You’re all the same.”
An arts club in Bermondsey, 12:27am
“You don’t fit the typical body type – you know that right.”
I feel enraged and ashamed all at once.
My mother’s jibes enter my head
“Pàng zi” she would say, poking at my soft belly.
“My pictures are all there for people to see, they can decide.”
“I just saw ‘Asian’ and assumed, you know…” he trails off.
He sounds disappointed.
He never once stopped to think how much he disappointed me.
A room at the Travelodge, Manchester Central, 4:30pm
“After we’re done, we can go and eat – wherever you want.”
“Are you sure you want to pay to watch me eat noodles?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes” I say, honestly.
“Then we will go eat!”
We get to the restaurant, and he looks excited but awkward.
“Tell me what to order, you choose, please!”
I can tell he’s interested in my culture, my heritage
but he’s too shy to ask.
Its moments like these I suddenly feel like I have the upper hand,
the power in a transaction.
But in reality – I know I hold no real power at all
A serviced apartment, Old Street, 11:15pm
As he shifts around inside me, moaning and writhing
‘Your skin, your eyes’ he mutters, hands suddenly all over
“These” he says, eyes widening, looking down to my chest.
I switch off – not always – but for him.
I think of my future daughter,
raven hair, brown skin, almond eyes.
I think of how I’d kill anyone who did this to her.
What I’ve accepted for me, for her, I would never abide
