I'm twenty-two years old, and when I look at my present life, I can't say it's too bad.
I've got my own office. Are there many twenty-two-year-olds who can say they have an office? It's beautiful. The rent isn't cheap, but it's mine, at least, for as long as I can afford it.
It's not a typical office. No. This office doesn't have succulents or ferns. This office doesn't have motivational quotes on the walls. It doesn't even have a water cooler. No. My office has a bed, and it has a drawer full of condoms and lotions.
I have colleagues, and sometimes we talk. We don't talk about the game or about a series we watched. We don't talk about family events. We speak about smelly clients we've had to eject.
There isn't an invasive white light that leaves your brain scrambled by 5PM. There aren't complicated blinds. There is, however, a passionate red light that illuminates me. There are beautiful red velvet curtains.
You can take an office selfie with you and the whole gang in your office. In mine, you cannot. No, apart from memories, there will be no trace of me ever being there when I leave. No hard evidence.
I am a sex worker. I used to be called a Prostitute. That word, like many others, has gone out of vogue. In Amsterdam, they just call me a Whore.
No one here knows my name. I don't believe they ever will. Not even you. My name isn't Irini. Yet, my story will be told. I want you to read it. It might never be told again.
I don't want to write sordidly about my experiences. This isn't erotica. My work should never be treated as such. This is a memoir.
The world might consider me a sleazy sideshow. A stop in a back alley. I'm not. I'm a woman. I'm a working woman who is surviving.
Even you, reading this now, might think that I am disgusting. You might believe that I could have chosen to be anything, but by sin of a poor nature, I decided to be a whore.
It might never be seen, but my words, they are there. They will always be here to be seen. I will be known even as a shadow. The story of my life is now in the hands of these words.
I am the sixth child out of fifteen. Yes. My parents had fifteen children. As a youngster, I wondered why they continued having children, even without bread. There was never any bread. Yet, when I came of age, it was my responsibility to bring home the bread. Easier said than done when you are Roma. A Cigány, or Zigeuner as they so love to call us.
In my country, youth unemployment is at an all-time high. I'm a gypsy, and people can see that. It's like in my homeland, they can smell it, and they didn't want to give me a job. From maid to secretary, I was rejected.
Soon, my siblings started moving away. To Germany, France, England - anywhere in the West. They dispersed. The scene was like a crew of squirrels eating nuts that became startled by oncoming footsteps. They became pickpockets, thieves and charlatans. Out of good conscience, I could not do this. I could not take from good people.
My eldest Brother became a teacher. I'm very proud of him.
A friend told me that her sister lived in Amsterdam. She rented a window for €100 per night, and she sold her body. I consider myself attractive, young and more than willing to rent out my body to strangers if it meant leaving this life behind. If I have no money, I die.
I'm not cocky. I am just self-assured. I know macabrely that my body is a commodity. I know that it is desired. I know that it is my ladder.
I saved the money up to rent a room to work for just one night. I didn't have the money to travel. I could have saved for longer, but it was winter in my country, and winter is the worst time to be poor. I did not have the patience for another winter.
If I didn't leave then, I never would. I would never leave the hell of a frozen city. I would pick fruit in the summer and hope for the best in the winter. That was not the life I wanted.
I left one day after my eighteenth birthday. I packed a small bag with a change of clothes, feminine wipes and bottled water. I said a brief goodbye to my parents. I told my mother what I was doing, and she disapproved. There was no changing my mind. I had to do it.
It took three days and three trains from my country to reach Amsterdam. I hid in the toilets and under the foldout beds in carriages. Sometimes, I was underneath someone without them knowing.
I was discovered in Austria by a conductor who threw me off the train in Vienna. He inspected the carriages before departure and noticed my feet sticking out. I've always wondered how he could find me, yet the border police could not.
Luckily, an old American guy brought me a coffee and asked me what I was doing. He witnessed my ejection. I told him I needed to get to Amsterdam for work. He paid for my ticket and gave me a little extra.
That was an act of kindness that I shall not forget. I wish we could be friends. I wish I knew where he was. Maybe we were supposed to be friends just for that moment.
I arrived in Amsterdam at eight in the morning. I went straight to the agency, handed them €100, and worked that night. It was a success. I profited by €200. I could afford another night. This is a cycle I have repeated for four years. It is an endless quest for survival.
Money dominates my entire thought process. I have to cover the rent of my office. Some days are quieter than others. I will drop the price from €100 to €50 to break even. I'm still poor, but not as poor as at home.
The rental company provides good security and has a great relationship with the police. The regulation of the sex industry dictates that we are protected. We are considered workers like any other worker under Dutch law. This is invaluable. This keeps us alive.
I still have to choose my clientele carefully. I have become an expert in reading people. If the worst goes wrong, my office has an alarm, and help arrives immediately. If there is someone overly intoxicated, they're not coming in. I have the right to choose who I let in. If I don't like your look, or my mind tells me no, you will not come in.
I am known as The Asshole Girl because I can often be heard shouting, "Get out, you asshole!" or "I can see you filming, asshole!"
I fear drunken tourists and whatever other dangers the red-light district has to offer once the gangs are out and about, trying to sell bags of teething powder to Australian tourists. It's dangerous. It's a volatile world.
Although I'm selective, I try to score as many clients as possible. I blew kisses. I dance. There is a feeling of freedom while being completely tethered to financial need. Sometimes it works, and sometimes people look at me with disgust. I know I'm not disgusting. I know that I am surviving. Some people laugh. It's a novelty to the tourists. I laugh with them.
Some men even hire me for the girlfriend experience. They will pay me, and I will pretend to be their girlfriend for one day. I find this job harder than the regular sex work. I find acting very difficult. The emotions that are required to be convincing are draining.
Acting satisfied comes easily to me. When the timer is up, I breathe a sigh of relief.
Still, this remains my choice. This is how I choose to make a living. I am confident that the plumbers who clean your pipes don't enjoy scraping your waste from them but do it as a survival tool. Modern society needs clean pipes. Modern society needs sex. Sex is recession-proof.
I dream of going home, having children, and finding a husband. That cannot happen here. I work all the time. Surprisingly, this was not the life I had envisioned as a child. I realised early I would not be an astronaut.
Being here has many benefits. I better myself each day. I stay here and educate myself. I read books, and I watch people. Sex work in Amsterdam is an exercise in anthropology. I've learned much.
Coming here was the wisest decision I have made. I am looked after. I am cared for. The police care for us, and this is why regulated sex work should be global. Work is a right.
We're not all sex maniacs. We don't do this for the sex. We're not immoral. We humans need to survive, and you need to know that.
It's been four years. I'll just sit here a little while.
Thank you.
- Irini