Good Sunday! I've been figuring out some structure of how I'm going to format my weekly newsletters. I will release one free newsletter a week and two paid newsletters. You're blessed this week because you've had two free ones. I will post my paid newsletters on Monday and Fridays. My free newsletter will be released on a Wednesday.
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I have covid, and I've been thinking a lot. A lot about life.
A recurring theme in conversations with men detached from the industry is the notion that I can be saved. What do you want to save me from?
I met this guy in a bar once. It was one in the morning, and I had just finished work. I like to have a beer after work. I go to the same spot. It's good because this place doubles as a hostel, and I can talk to people worldwide. I get chatting to this guy. I told him we could watch a film and cuddle in his room. That was all. A cuddle. I told him about my job. I'm honest about my work. I have no shame. We cuddle.
I awake. I say goodbye, and I expect never to see this guy again. I confess there are a lot of consequences to that modus operandi. I'm not going to answer those questions. Goodbye.
He spent the whole day walking around De Wallen looking for me. He turned up at my window that evening and offered me tickets to return to Australia. He's offering to 'buy me out' of the industry. I freaked out and told him that I didn't need it. I don't need saving.
It's interesting. There is always this romantic notion that sex workers are just waiting for some man to come along to save them from a gritty life. There are a few girls who want that. They want a man who can offer them security and stability. A man who doesn't see them as tapped sex. I find some aspects of this dynamic appealing. I'm not sure it is practical.
A girl works the window next to me in the same building. She waits by the door, looking longingly like a cat that senses their master's return. The next man who knocks will be the man who changes her life. The man who will feed her dreams. When the next man arrives, he asks, 'How much?' the dream becomes much more elusive. That elusive butterfly of hope.
After two hours of playing this game, we close the curtains. We close that dream, just for twenty minutes. Before we got COVID, I asked Ana why she was looking for that man. Why did she invest so much energy into finding that saviour? She flicked some ash into a coffee cup and told me that a little bit of hope is like a general anaesthetic. I felt that.
There was once a man I loved, but he was scattered with the wild winds, and now I know not where he roams. My heart turned cold when he left, and I vowed never to love again. During that time, I was into the notion of being saved. He could whisk me away to the cold north and keep me warm on frozen nights. He could chop wood with a tempered axe, and I could prepare fragrant goulash over a fire. Yeah, right.
Now, I take the notion of a saviour to be a slight against the strength of character I know I have. A friend told me he "Wanted to save me from myself" - I was offended. That was quite a hefty assumption. Sure. You can save me, but you better be prepared to subsidise my life after I take a big pay cut. Money binds. I'm not a material girl, yet I am.
The same friend said that it was tough for him to understand me. I get that. It is a job. There is nothing else to it. Some will work in Albert Heijns, some will work as a tour guide, and I am a sex worker. An essential occupation.
Accepting that I do this by my own free will is hard. Again, I understand that. I must have been trafficked. I must have been forced into this. I was trafficked, not by a human, but by a much greater beast, capitalism.
I would leave for love. If the right person came along, they knocked on my window and asked, "Come on, chica, let's go get a coffee. It's time to go home." - I think I would. I'm not all leopard skin and lace. That situation is just a dream, much like the one Ana has. It's a challenging dream to wake up from. I'm getting used to it day by day. I'm becoming hardened to it, though. I'm growing colder with each long day of winter. With each passing day, the dream fades.
My dream isn't to be saved because the whole purpose of the saviour after he has saved me is made redundant. There is no point. Those with a saviour complex must always find a damsel in distress. I am not that.
So, what, if not a saviour?
A friend. I would like a friend. I've recently met two charming people who understand me. Who would never question how I make my living. Who understand why. The why is very simple. The money keeps me afloat, and to just leave would be suicide. I don't want to work in a bar. I don't want to clean hotel rooms. I don't want to work in retail.
When a man has a saviour complex, it has much less to do with helping you but more with how it makes him feel. It's paradoxical. Really, it's just this person wants to know that he is enough.
Do I really need saving? No. I'm a big girl. I live by my decisions. A friend would be lovely, though.
-Irini- x
I think this is your best essay yet, Irini! I thought of writing a long response full of musings, but it’s not necessary. You gave us the perfect answer - you provide an essential service. That is all any of us can hope to do. I look forward to reading and learning more about your life.