This is the first in our series of writing commissioned from sex workers, to celebrate our new website. We hope you enjoy this beautiful piece from Jack Parker.
Image by Sophie Bass Illustration
Every few months, I go to a trans clinic to get a free blood test to check my hormone levels. It’s a test that my GP should be offering me regularly, yet doesn’t, because they don’t want to be involved with my HRT prescription beyond prescribing it each month when I put in my request. My only other option would be to pay to chat to a private endocrinologist and get them to request blood tests for me, and I’d have to fuck at least 3 clients to afford it. So, I go to the clinic.
The first couple of times I attended, I was overwhelmed by the crowd. They allowed walk-ins and some people couldn’t find a seat even though the waiting room was full of chairs. Although I was stuck to reading a book the first time I went, I noticed that the people around me were very sociable with each other. Total strangers were striking up conversation, usually over shared experiences being trans.
After attending a couple of times, I overheard a conversation that captured my attention… A few women were discussing how expensive breast augmentation and facial feminization surgery are. When one mentioned selling sex to save up for it, another responded that she had a sugar daddy who was exclusively paying for her time with laser hair removal appointments. I waited for someone in the room to become outraged or show visible shock, but no-one reacted.
As they talked, one of the young women mentioned narrowly escaping being attacked by her client. She understandably didn’t want to go to the police, but she told her friend that she was worried he might harm someone else and felt conflicted about not reporting it. I couldn’t keep to purely eavesdropping and felt I had to interject.
I told her that I was sorry to interrupt, and that I knew of a few places she could report the client without police involvement. Spreading information about blacklists is best done by word of mouth. It was clear that these women weren’t connected with other sex workers. Suddenly I was sharing every safety tip I could think of and recommending every resource for sex workers that I’d used in the past few years. I admitted to being a sex worker myself in a room full of people and no-one batted an eye. People were eavesdropping on our conversation, like I had been, and by proxy the safety tips were being soaked up by others.
By the time I was called in for my blood test, we’d all exchanged numbers and I’d added the sex workers I met to several group chats. I couldn’t quite believe it. Years into selling sex, I’d never shared information about it so publicly. There was always too much fear of harassment or harm by people who take issue with sex workers. Such is the stigma against us.
Meeting these sex workers was a catalyst for me, in terms of how I approached community building with other sex workers. I realized how prevalent selling sex is among trans people in particular. I became the person who would strike up the first conversation about escorting or making adult content online to pay for HRT or surgery, because I’d inevitably find that it caused other people to reveal that they were sex workers too. I shed my shame about it by recognising that someone has to speak up first, or we can’t find each other.
In the smoking areas of bars, people would ask me what I do for work and I’d tell them the truth. This has led to prying questions from drunk people who fail to consider how inappropriate they are being. But has also led to people confiding in me that they or their friends are sex workers too. These groups brought more bigotry with them but I powered through because I was emboldened by the safer environments I had come out in already.
Spaces that are full of trans people have remained the lowest risk for me to reveal that I am a sex worker. Part of what makes the trans people I meet so supportive is that even among those who have never done any sex work, they are far more likely to have considered it or to know someone who has done it. The prominent figures we remember who demanded rights for trans people in the recent past, like Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera, were sex workers themselves. Our communities are supportive of sex workers because of our history by necessity.
Unfortunately, this level of support, even from the trans community, does not come without risk. Many people will share that I am a sex worker with others alongside personal information about me because they don’t realize the danger that puts me in. Some still judge me and view me as dirty or immoral for selling sex. I have simply realized that it’s worth it. The relatively low cost of the whorephobia I experience from trans people, compared to the reward of making isolated trans sex workers aware of resources makes sharing this part of myself an easy choice. From there, I gain the strength to keep doing so in the face of greater hostility.
No sex worker, whether they’re a hooker (like me), or a porn actor, or a stripper or something else, is obligated to risk their safety by outing themselves. We are not responsible for the stigma that keeps so many of us quiet. Despite that lack of obligation, I want to encourage the sex workers who can justify taking the risk to tell others about their work. There is nothing that brings me more comfort and joy than being the person to connect a lonely sex worker to our vibrant community. Any of us can do it with just a few words.
Sex workers can be found anywhere, we’re just not always making ourselves visible. Someone has to take the first step to reach out, for us to make connections and build community with sex workers who wouldn’t otherwise find us. I hope to see more of us becoming willing to be that catalyst.