Tricks and Treats

Sex Workers Write About Their Clients

Matt Bernstein Sycamore

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2014
• Print ISBN: 9781560231622
• eBook ISBN: 9781317712992
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Gender Studies
• Index: Social Sciences

Learn about the real lives of sex workers by exploring the sex industry from the inside!Explore the insightful--and oftentimes intense--accounts of sex workers who look squarely into the eyes of their clients, the sex industry, and society as a whole. Tricks and Treats delivers private stories about homo- and heterosexual encounters that sex workers usually confide only in each other. Not another "why I became a prostitute" book, it provocatively turns the tables on the buyers of sex, giving you a window into sex workers'lives. Tricks and Treats gives you straightforward accounts by sex workers to help you understand the pleasures, attractions, and truths of this profession. Tricks and Treats tantalizes with its powerful collection of tales from a diverse group of male, female, and transgendered sex workers. Their commercial, cultural, emotional, sexual, (il)legal, and even spiritual relationships with their clients are discussed in intimate detail. You will explore accounts from streetworkers, escorts, strippers, porn actors, masseurs, dominatrixes, phone sex operators, an adult-video store clerk, an outreach worker, a sex educator, and even a sperm donor.Tricks and Treats will ignite your imagination and answer questions few people dare to ask. You'll learn firsthand, of:

• how male, female, and transgendered hustlers turn tricks--in their own words--from sado-masochism and watersports to stripping, scat, foreplay, and fisting
• how sex workers face their own mortality when confronted with the AIDS virus
• a porn star's compassion and understanding for her fans
• a sex worker's coming-to-terms with his/her transgendered identity
• a male escort's attempts at dating
• a young man's experience of finding a family and home when living at a brothel
• a woman's story of spending thirty years as a prostitute
• the experiences of hooking on the streets and in clubs, cafes, and homes

These engaging and shocking testimonials will entertain you and offer a unique understanding of the sex industry. Revealing and intriguing, these poignant talks will certainly not disappoint your imagination. Tricks and Treats is a testament to the lives of sex workers, a manifestation of their spirit, and gives them a chance to turn the tables on their clients, exposing their erotic tastes, turn-ons, and fantasies.

TRICKS

–1–

Shut Up

Ann Renee

Longshoreman

He’s lonely, he says. Rich and lonely. Big, hulky kinda guy, dressed sloppily in a shirt without a tie. Sloppily, he comes up to me at the fancy filigreed bar, talking low and fast and seamless. He’s a seedy kinda guy, talking seamless.

“I’m so lonely. My wife died just last month.” He puts his drink down next to mine and rubs his finger along the stem of my glass. I gulp my Johnny Walker and look at his shoes.

“I’m a longshoreman,” he continues, without prompting. “Just here for the weekend. I’m lonely—lots of money and nothing to do.”

Something’s seedy here; this guy’s a portfolio trick, a textbook john. Easy bait I’m supposed to swallow whole. Swallow whole and tough, not chewing. I look at his shoes.

I look at his shoes, cuz I hear Johnny inside. You can always tell a cop by his shoes, baby. Just look at those clumsy black shoes.

So I’m not biting or chewing, and he is pushing his textbook lines and starts to get huffy, challenging me. “What’s in your briefcase?”

“My poetry and a book on metaphysical art.”

“Oh yeah?” He snorts slightly and leans back on his elbow.

“Yeah.” I pull out my book. “Do you know De Chirico’s work? His paintings have really inspired my writing. I love his use of the architectonic design as a means of making the space potent and the form empty.” I open the book to one of my favorite paintings. “Have you seen his work? Check this out.”

He looks blankly at me. No responses prepared. He clears his throat and huffs out an exhale.

I smile. “Well, gotta go.” I gather my things, touch his sleeve. “Sorry about your wife.”

Out in the street, I hear big, black shoes clacking clumsily behind me. I slip down to the subway and lose him in the crowd.

Little Black Book

I swallow some wine down. Something’s off today. Something’s strange as I park the car. Something’s strange. But I’m back. I’m back in the Copley Plaza lounge again after more than a year with a little black book and lists of men. Lists of men looking to be my slave, looking to lick my boots. Looking to pay me a hundred or more for a few chains and rationed touch. I’m not back here to lay up in their rooms. I’m here because this time I’m going to do it right. I don’t want to be touched by the cops or the johns or the bartenders, so I’m screening these guys with public interviews in this classy café. Screening these guys to choose the few special ones.

My 12:45 p.m. appointment approaches, wearing the blue striped shirt as described. “Alexa?” He approaches hesitantly, scans his eyes to my boots. “Alexa?” I nod and swoop my head slightly to indicate his seat. I check my book: #33, 12:45 p.m., Wally, blue striped shirt.

“You must be Wally?”

He moves his slight body around in the wide chair, unable to find the right spot. I lower my chin and fix my eyes on him. “Tell me what you like, Wally.”

He shifts around again, then leans forward, rolling the napkin and absently rubbing his fingers along the Copley Plaza Logo.

“Wh—what do you mean?”

I lean back, exhale. “You know what I mean, Wally.”

His forehead begins to shine with sweat. “I, I don’t like pain, only light whips.”

I nod, write “lght whps” beneath his name.

“What are you writing?” He looks around the empty foyer bar, up to the elaborate vaulted ceiling, and then back at me.

“Just notes to remember you by. Go on, Wally.”

“I don’t like—I don’t like dresses.”

I jot down “no tv” and look up with mock impatience.

“I want to—I like toilet training.”

“Water sports?” I ask.

“Yes, and …”

“And?” I ask him directly and calmly, as if I’m asking him what cocktail he prefers.

He blurts out, “And shit too. Do you do that? Will you?” I jot down “eats shit” as Wally drops his head, twisting his napkin around his index finger.

When I look up from my book, I see two men behind Wally at the opposite table. They are a mismatched pair. One is a well-dressed black man with an overcoat and silk scarf. The other one is white, dressed sloppily in a shirt without a tie. He’s got big black cop shoes. I recognize him. Two years ago, same beat. This is the cop who tried to frame me while posing as a longshoreman. The two have caught my eye and are making a poor theater of indifference.

Fuck, I think, acting unaffected. “Wally, I’ll be contacting you.” I hold out my hand for the twenty-dollar interview fee.

“Is your apartment nearby?” he asks, as he fumbles through his wallet.

“I’ll let you know.” I remain cool and matter-of-fact, my mind frantic.

“Look, Wally,” I say and lean forward. “If someone asks you what we were talking about, tell them … tell them I was interviewing you for my thesis on art history.”

I have no idea if Wally has a clue about art history. Terror bonds up poor Wally’s throat. “Why should anyone ask?”

I’m genuinely sorry he has to be subjected to this. “Don’t look behind you, but I believe the two men sitting there are cops.”

Wally sinks back in his chair. “Wh—what should I do?” He grips the arms of his chair, confused, utterly deflated. I’m sorry for his terror, but I’m impatient that he can’t meet the intervention with more calm. I’m a stranger, I remind myself, and he’s just told me he likes to eat shit.

Finally, Wally gets up stiffly and walks out the door. The “longshoreman” quickly and clumsily rises and follows him. The other man with the silk scarf walks up to me and spreads his leather badge carrier in front of my face. “Police. You’re under arrest.”

Godammit, I think. “Why?” I respond with indignant surprise.

“Didn’t you just take money from that man?”

“So now it’s illegal to take money from someone?”

He doesn’t respond.

“You’re under arrest. Give me your purse.” He goes through my purse and wallet. He picks up the black book. I hold my breath. He puts it down.

Longshoreman comes back into the lobby.

“Cuff her,” he says, triumphantly. “She propositioned him.”

“That’s a fucking lie!”

“Come on, get up.” The scarved one holds my elbow. I stand up. They cuff me. Then, flanking either side of me, they proudly parade me through the entire lobby, their slave for the afternoon.

Shut Up

You can always tell a cop by his shoes, baby. Just look at his clumsy black shoes. Johnny knows. Johnny’s caramel lips would tell me. Look out for those black shoes.

But this time I didn’t catch the shoes in time. They’ve got my purse with the black book in it, and I’m shut up in this cell, being held.

“One call. You got one call, honey.” The cop, indifferent as a waitress on her twelfth hour, unlocks my cell, points his ink-stained index at the phone. One call, one call. I dial Jack’s beeper cuz he’s got cash and he’ll know what to do. “Will. It’s Alexa. I’ve been arrested. Fifth precinct.”

There’s an excited raising of voices behind me. One of the cops grabs my arm from behind. “She just used a pseudonym, Joey; let’s book her.” He looks at me, still holding my elbow, speaking slow and labored. “You just used a pseudonym, girl!”

I don’t respond. He shoves me back into the holding cell. I sit on the bench, leaning against the side wall, staring at the opposite wall, legs and arms crossed.

“A pervert!” The cops are now passing my black book back and forth between each other, reading, smirking, and then looking over at me. I stare ahead blankly, pretending to be unaffected as they read. Which client profile are they reading about now, I wonder?

“# 25, 10 a.m., Eric, blue shirt, whps, chains, tv, no pierce?” “#29, 2 p.m., Clyde, tv, no marks, blk stockngs?” Have they realized yet that the man who says I propositioned him was “# 33, 12:45 p.m., Wally, blue striped shirt, lght whps, no tv, ropes, no chains, eats shit”?

One cop comes to eye me. He paces back and forth in front of my cell, amused. “A pervert. We have a sexual pervert locked up here.”

“Fuck off,” I say, still staring at the opposite wall.

“Well, she’s definitely getting shut up in the women’s jail now!”

I stay mute, expressionless, waiting in this cell. The air is hot and thick, smells like boots, black boots.

“Hey,” a soft, patronizing voice calls to me. “Hey, man, how are you?” Here’s a soft-talking, plain-clothed man dressed in jeans and a corduroy jacket. The one with the Velveeta voice. The one that studied psychology as his cop training. The one who’s learned how to get me to talk. The one who’s supposed to get me to talk is talking to me now.

“Hey, man.” He makes these bread-dough eyes at me. “It really hurts me to see you locked up inside there like this.”

I cross my five-inch-heeled boot the other direction and recross my arms, turning from the wall to look out the bars at him. “It really hurts me to see you out there.”

“So, why did you use a pseudonym? Who’s Will? It will be easier for you if we know who Will is.” He pauses strategically. I push my back tighter against the cold cement wall and continue staring ahead. I remember Johnny telling me, “They’ll make you talk, Alexa. They’ll try to make you talk. So don’t talk. Whatever you do, don’t talk.”

I’m good at not talking. I can shut up and stay shut up. I’ve stayed shut up about some things for years. So I can sit here with Mr. Persuasion. I can sit here with Mr. Velveeta Voice in this cell smelling like black boots. I can sit here and not say a thing.

Bang the Pipes

The cops have little patience for lying perverts. They take me on a handcuffed paddy wagon ride to the women’s jail. From one jail to the next, a blind drive.

“Get out.” The female cop unlocks the wagon, grabs my arm, and sneers at me, up and down.

She looks at me like I’m sleaze, and she greases up my fingers and prints me and sets me in the photo cell to mug me front and side.

Lady cop takes me upstairs to the cells. “Take off those boots.” I take them off. She rips out the lining. “Fred, will ya just look at what they spend their money on.” Tosses the one boot on the floor and goes for the other one. “Take off your dress.” Standing there with lady cop and Fred watching, I undress. She puts her hand down my underwear.

“You’re lucky you’re clean this time. Next time you won’t be so lucky.”

They shove me into the piss-covered cell. I wait. Does anyone know I’m in here? Did Will get the call?

“Hey, honey.” A drawling voice calls to me from the adjacent cell. “Hoannny? You hear me? Wha’syer name?”

“Ann. M’name’s Ann.”

“Bradie, here. I’m dyin’ fera cigarette. Damn. Been in here all day. Hey, hey!” She starts banging the toilet pipes. “Let’s bang the pipes. Bang the pipes, Annie, so’s we can have a smoke. C’mon, Annie, bang the pipes.”

“Bradie?”

She keeps banging.

“Bradie, I don’t want any more bullshit than I already got.”

“Hey! Hey coppers! C’mere—I want a smoke!”

A cop yells through the outside bars, “Shut up, Bradie!”

Bradie mumbles for a while and then says, “Whatchu in here fer, Annie?”

“Prostitution.”

“Hah. All the good time folk’re locked up tonight.”

“Yeah. Good time folk, that’s right,” I say.

Hours later, Will brings the bail. He’s not talking. Back home, he’s bothered. I’m crying and he doesn’t want me to bug him. He pushes me over to my side of the bed.

“Get over it,” he tells me, turning to face the wall. “You weren’t even in overnight.”

Gray Flannel

My lawyer’s gonna clear this up. Tells me I have a strange case. It’s not illegal to make plans to whip a consenting adult. There’s not even a law on the books about eating feces. He tells me to buy a gray suit and get a job. In an insurance company, he says. Something like that, really straight.

So I buy squared-off pumps and a gray flannel suit and I get hired the next week at American International. High-risk insurance. Kidnap and ransom, bombs, and satellites.

I walk in my suit to City Hall, the hall of justice and piss and musty books of law. I find the courtroom where I’m to be tried with the other hookers and transvestites who all know one another. It’s a family thing—getting arrested every few days.

The silk-scarfed officer who arrested me approaches. “We’ve never had a case come up like this before. In fact, I don’t know if the witness will show.”

I laugh. “That man Wally? Probably not. You know, I didn’t proposition him. In fact, he didn’t want to get fucked at all.”

“Yeah, I know; we figured that. That little black book—” He tilts his head to one side. “What are you really doing in this business? You don’t have to tell me, but what else do you do in your life?” He shakes his head and can’t understand why I’m here.

“I don’t want to see you convicted,” he says. “I’ll see what I can do.”

My lawyer escorts me into the courtroom. We sit down, waiting in the pews of the law. Finally, we’re called to the bench; the arresting cop comes up, and the judge says some convoluted verbiage meant to obscure truth—something about “insufficient evidence.” We leave.

“Have to come back next week.” My lawyer says. “They get three times to come up with evidence.”

Next week, we come to City Hall. We sit, wait, and leave. Insufficient evidence.

The following week I come to the great hall of the city. My lawyer comes in the courtroom, looking concerned. He leans over to me, touches my arm. “Wait here. There may be trouble.” He goes outside for a while.

My gray flannel’s sticky. I recognize a wigless transvestite with shaved eyebrows. He winks at me and says, “In here again, honey? You know,” he waves his long-ringed hand by his face, “I just want to go up to the bench and say, ‘Yes, Mr. I Judge Your Honor, I did suck him off, and it was gooood!’” A number of us chuckle.

My lawyer comes back, smiling. “Let’s go, Ann. You’re free.”

He loops his arm through mine as we walk out. “Whatever you do,” he warns, “don’t look to the left.”

Of course, I look to the left. The arresting cop sits next to the “evidence.” He’s sitting next to Wally. Wally, the evidence. Insufficient evidence—doesn’t like whips but wants to eat shit. Wally’s hunched over. Must’ve made a deal.

–2–

My Path to Sanity

Vernon Maulsby (Mikki)

I started making porn loops to pay off a gambling debt. I can still remember the scent of competing disinfectants that filled the air of the musty building, crammed with prop walls, lights, and strangers with dead eyes. After a few moments, I was on a double bed, my back sweating from the hot lights, and my phallus was buried deep inside some small white guy, his smelly feet against my ears. A director ordered every move from offstage. I remember the director had to tell the guy under me to get the bored look off his face.

Having to come on cue was tough—hell, just keeping it up was hard—this guy felt like his ass had no sides to it. He was a pro and was kind enough, once he saw my problem, to clamp down some. That gave me enough feeling to finally come to orgasm. Even when I came, over the guy’s plain but unlined face, his eyes remained dead, as if we were on an elevator together. Once I was done, I was given a hundred in cash and pointed to a very mildewed shower stall. I was amazed to see a pan of blue disinfectant right in front of the shower, but not too shocked to use it. As I got out, my film partner went in. The stall didn’t have a curtain, so I looked the guy over. When I reached his eyes, I clearly saw the distaste there and hurried into my clothes and out the door.

I was a big, hulking bear of a black man, over six feet tall, and a lot over two hundred pounds. This was the seventies, and black aggressor movies were in vogue, so I got a lot of work. The plots were generic: I would enter some little white guy’s room, usually with a silly plastic gun in my hand, then I would pretend to rough him up a bit, tear off whatever prop undies he had on, and “rape” him.

The silliness didn’t end there. Usually, I had to grab a handful of greasy hair and act like I was forcing the guy to go down on me, being careful not to come, as this would have wasted time and film. Then I always had to force the guy into a position favorable to the camera and fuck him, making it look as rough as possible by slapping his buttocks, grabbing his hair, or forcing his feet up to his (or my) ears. Finally, I was allowed to come on the guy’s face or chest, depending on the director. The ultimate silliness came next, when the guy I was supposed to be abusing had to act as if he’d loved the experience, usually by kissing my lubricant-and-feces-flavored phallus.

There was some variety. I did a few outside locations, usually on rooftops, where we could film undisturbed. These had the added feature of allowing me to get even more physical, as I had to tear more clothes off the “victim,” and there was the added discomfort of a gravel-topped roof, which was no good on my knees. I even did a few scenes at night, where I had to force myself on guys in an alleyway. What sticks most in my memory were the silly smiles ordered by the director at the end of these things.

I was doing drugs—I had been before I started porn loops, but now I could afford a lot more. Soon I was a real mess, of no use to anyone, and found myself out of work, homeless, and addicted to speed. My dreams of a college education were a wreck at my feet. It would be an understatement to say that I had a lot of anger within me, at everyone and everything but myself.

I wasn’t much of a hooker at first. I’d go ...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Half-Title Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Front Chapter
• Table of Contents
• Acknowledgments
• Tricks and Treats: An Introduction
• TRICKS
• TREATS
• TRICKS AND TREATS
• Contributors