Ignoramus, Or Several Short Stories About Sex Work
The boy directly across from her could not stop popping his gum. He could not, as he cited when she’d asked him to stop, because of a severe case of lockjaw. To avoid this annoyance, she took to staring to her left, towards Mr. Greene, who obnoxiously paced back and forth at the front of the square formation of tables.
Mr. Greene never stood at his lectern, which meant he hardly took to actually lecturing. Instead, he opted for “open-minded, open-ended,” discussions. Rather than teach, he’d lob some softball questions and hope they’d rile up the crowd of despondent-hungover-I’m-only-taking -this-for-my-liberal-arts-credit sophomores.
She supposed Mr. Greene was of the mind that if he didn’t seem to be the authority in the room, then his position as a man teaching a Woman & Gender Studies course would be less offensive. His position was offensive.
All of this was on her mind as he started with the following questions: “What are the perceived dangers of sex work? Is there a way to make sex work safer?” And finally, he asked as he rubbed his brow bone, “Is the legalization of sex work ethical?”
They were ready-made questions he might as well have pulled from a Woman & Gender Studies-Teacher-Easy-Bake-Oven.
Selorm’s hand shot up, despite the fact that hand-raising was discouraged in the “community.” Another tactic Mr. Greene put in place, to remove responsibility from himself.
Selorm put it down, without any indication her turn had been granted, and began, “First, Mr. Greene I’d like to thank you for implementing the suggestions I made last class regarding our discussion time.”
Selorm had asked to move the class tables into the square formation, to “better face one another’s differing ideals head-on.” She hated Selorm for this, as she now had to face the lock-jawed Gum Chewer.
“Secondly, I’d like to acknowledge that these questions feel rather dated, sex work is relatively safe these days, considering a majority of sex work takes place on sites like Only Fans.”
The blonde, whose name she could not remember, interjected, “Well, while it makes it physically safer for prostitutes to work over subscription-based sites like Only Fans, it still isn’t entirely safe. We have to take their online privacy into consideration. Like, what stops some AI freak from taking a prostitute's online content, right—and feeding it into his algorithm, and using her image in his Virtual-Reality porn?”
The blonde’s reply elicited some “mmm’s” from the class.
Selorm counters, “That’s a good point. Can I voice an ‘ouch’”?
Mr. Greene waved his hand, to accept the ‘ouch.’ An ‘ouch’ in this context refers to when a student’s feelings have been hurt, typically by an aggressive conversational rebuttal, or by the use of an antiquated term.
“Cassie,” the blonde’s name was Cassie, “I want to note the use of the word ‘prostitute’ typically only refers to women who are paid to have sex with another party, in exchange for money. In the case of Only Fans creators, the correct term would be ‘sex content creator,’ or ‘sex worker.’”
Cassie replied, her eyes sparkling with a quieted rage, “Oops!”
An ‘oops,’ was an acceptable reply to an ‘ouch,’ as it was a way to apologize, without further pandering or explanation. The conversation could continue.
A man, a Super-Senior, had the gall to speak now. It should be mentioned that the Super-Senior had taken this class before, and had passed. He was taking it a second time because he found it inspiring to listen to the rantings of nineteen-year-old female English majors.
He drawls, in his Frat Boy Vocal Fry, “Now what I’m always wonderin’, right—is what happens if a prosti—excuse me, a sex worker—” he flashes finger guns at Selorm, who pacifies his attempt at allyship with a smile, “what happens if they get pregnant?”
The Gum Chewer sits ups, “Oh yeah, like with Stormi Daniels?”
“That was a hush money payment,” she finds herself correcting him. “We don’t know for certain if that was to pay for an abortion.” She sits motionless, unyielding.
Selorm chimes in, “Right! And, you know, sex workers have to deal with that reality often, but there are ways to protect themselves from pregnancy. Birth Control, Condoms, Plan B, and of course, abortions.”
Cassie, “Except, the right over our bodies, that’s been threatened as well now. Which really hurts the sex worker.”
The Super Senior nods, “So, if I wanted to employ a sex worker, the best way would be, like, through an Only Fans. Not saying I am! But ya know—in theory.”
This solicits boyish giggles from the men in the class. She can’t help but scowl.
“Well you watch porn, right?” She stares right into his eyes as she asks this.
He looks about the room. “Well, yes.”
More middle-school giggles.
“What’s your poison?” She over-enunciates poison, for dramatic effect. “PornHub? Chaturbate? PornTube?” She leans forward, aware that her cleavage pours over the desk now. This is her poison, watching him squirm.
He stammers, stuck on the forward nature of her question, and her chest.
Jackie, a mousy-haired 16-year-old, clears her throat. She graduated early from high school, and if she didn’t tell you that within the first five minutes of conversation (which she almost always did,) you’d be able to tell by her Chamberlin Coffee tote bag.
She croaks out, “Well, do you guys remember when Tumblr had porn?”
The female and queer students start to speak all at once. The straight men look around, puzzled.
There’s an exchange of sentiments like “I can’t believe they got rid of it,” “That’s the whole reason I was on Tumblr,” and “I think they’re gonna bring it back.” Before Mr. Greene interrupts, trying to take the conversation by the reins.
“But, and correct me if I’m wrong—creators on apps like Tumblr or PornTube, don’t necessarily make their money from those sites, right? Only if a viewer were to pay for an extra service do they necessarily see any money?”
Selorm answers, “And most often, sex content creators work under—for a lack of a better term, ‘pimp,’ or yeah, like a manager, who takes a significant cut of their profits made off of those shoots. So there’s no guarantee we as the viewer are effectively paying these workers.”
“Right, so it is better to reach out to creators directly, through services like Only Fans?” Mr. Greene makes the mistake of including himself in the discussion.
The Super Senior teases, “Yeah, G, what sites do YOU use?”
Mr. Greene closes his eyes to the classes’ uncomfortable laughter. “Oh-Kay,” he sighs.
Cassie, her face scrunched like an irritable French Bulldog, questions, “Isn’t porn also banned from Only Fans now, though?”
The Slutty Starbucks Barista earns his participation point, “Right, because of Bella Thorne. She uh—she started an O-F, saying if she raised a certain amount within 24 hours she’d post her sex tape, or some shit, and then sexually rick-rolled everyone. Oh, and crashed the site.” He slumps back in his chair, disguising his enthusiasm for having contributed knowledge.
Selorm rolls her eyes, “No, they reversed their decision to get rid of porn, and it had nothing to do with Bella Thorne.”
Cassie giggles, “Kind of serves the incels right, though. Here’s a child star who’s been oversexualized for years, and then she gives everyone virtual blue balls? Kind of badass.”
“Bella Thorne did end up posting content.” She tastes blood on her tongue, she’d been biting her cheek.
The Slutty Barista shrugs. Cassie blinks. Selorm seems confused by this comment. She continues on her chest hot, bile at the back of her throat.
“And she actually fucked over a lot of sex workers’ income because of that ordeal. I mean, Only Fans creators couldn’t access their earnings after the site crashed. They had to be on customer service for hours to even file a claim of loss of funds, and then had to find a way to prove that the figures they were citing were their actual earnings.”
The ignorance of these
up-tight,we-weren’t-rich-we-were-comfortable-undersexed-undergraduates had gotten the best of her.
There was no way to hold her back now.
“Talking about privacy, right, creators had to literally reach out to their following, personally, to have them send them receipts of payment. Like— ‘Hey H0rnE4GirlZ2, remember when you were on my co-stream the other day? Yeah, the one where CumMummy Caitie and I pretended to be stepmom and daughter? Yeah, remember the $150 you sent for her to call me “a dirty orphan bitch?”’ Yeah, can you please screenshot your receipt for that?’ These dudes, are either fuckers like you,” she stares at the Gum Chewer as she says this, “with Daddy’s Amex, boys, who can’t even fathom what they did while under the influence of near orgasm, OR they’re these investment-banker-Yale-fucks, who won’t message you back because they're at a wedding-cake tasting with their fiancé.”
She took a breath. Her knees shook underneath her. “But please, go on about the dangers of sex work, as you all attempt to champion prostitutes with your degrees paid for by Mommy and Daddy.”
She sat down with a huff. She hadn’t even noticed when she’d stood. The room was red and quiet. Mr. Greene had an erection visible through his khakis, his sickening kink for powerful women getting the best of him. He leans against the lectern, crossing his legs.
Selorm, with tears in her eyes, chokes out, “Well this is why we should have a sex workers union.”
Raucous agreement. Claps on the backs. A shaking of hands. These college students had done it. They’d saved the sex workers and they tucked their pride in between the pages of Bad Feminist by Roxane Gay. Copies of which, they toted under arm as they crossed the idyllic campus green. They’d slap a “Respect Sex Workers,” sticker on their iMac Air, for all to see in the campus library.
All of this to quiet the shame they’d feel as they masturbate to faceless, nameless girls on a screen, wondering “Are these girls in a safe, supportive environment?”
And in their post-orgasm bliss, they’d think to themselves, “I truly, respect sex workers. I am their champion.”
Dianne and Dawn did Yoga in Strawberry Fields every Thursday morning.
Dawn had started to incorporate Tai Chi into her practice.
Dianne thought this pollution of their flow to be disrespectful.
Dawn took to swaying her arms through the air, instead of pausing in tadasana.
Dianne pursed her lips at this.
Dawn confessed while in down-dog, “I think Isabelle is doing porn-o.”
Dianne cackled. “Izzy!?”
Dawn reciprocated the laughter, “She keeps bringing up that site!
Dianne reached her leg up to a low lunge. “What site?”
Dawn groaned, her joints ached. “Ah—sugar daddy.com?”
Dianne looked at her friend. “Da-awn! That’s for websites!”
Dawn almost collapsed in giggles. “Die-Anne! You idiot!”
Dianne’s mouth fell agape, with confusion and laughter. “Wha-at!?”
Dawn corrected her, “That’s GO DADDY, stupid!”
Dianne keeled over in laughter too.
Dawn and Dianne do Yoga in Strawberry Fields every Thursday morning.
Dianne and Dawn dog-piled, laughing at each other, every Thursday morning.
I met Harper while doing a community theater production of Cabaret.
I figured she was like every other adult in the cast; she worked for Verizon Customer Appreciation, or for Geico Accident Prevention. But, instead, she surprised me one day, as she snapped on a pair of fishnets before going on for “Willkommen.”
“These my stripping tights!” She grinned at me through the mirror, where I’d been observing her, as I messily applied red lipstick.
She slapped her thighs and spun out of the room on her heel.
I was a cool almost-eighteen-year-old, I wasn’t going to ask any further. I was going to pretend being friends with a possible stripper was old news to me.
But as anyone would know, being an almost eighteen-year-old in a community theater production of Cabaret was inherently uncool. So, I asked her in a whisper during notes that night, “Are you a stripper?”
She smiled and declared in a decidedly-not-whisper, “Hell Yeah!”
This received a ceremoniously bitchy “Shhh,” from Lisa, the stage manager.
After that night, I found and followed Harper on Instagram. Sure enough, most of her posts were videos of clean executions of impossibly impressive pole-dancing feats.
Some were filmed in her home, and some were filmed in her club. Some with patrons in the background, chatting, ogling, but mostly robotically dropping bills onto the stage.
But her work wasn’t reliant on the men who watched. She was a coy fish circling a pond, she was effortless, fluid. To watch her was to fall into a meditative trance.
On my eighteenth birthday, which happened to coincide with the opening night of our run, she took me to her club. She brought me with her through the back entrance. She introduced me as her baby sister to a dancer named Symonye, who was chain-smoking in the parking lot.
“And that’s Symonye, with two-y’s.” She smirked as she brought the cigarette to her lips, “How old is this sister, Bea?”
Harper went by “Bea,” at the club. She stuck her tongue out at Symonye, making a fart sound, and ushered me inside.
It smelled like a mixture of Malibu Rum and Victoria Secret’s Bombshell.
Harper brought me a Rum and Diet Coke to the dressing room, patting my head.
“We’re splitting that, ok? Can’t have you hungover at tomorrow’s matinee!”
This reminded her to berate Valentina and Charity about when they were coming to the show. As they discussed which show they could go to, and ticket prices, I picked up a loose copy of Cosmopolitan and flipped through its pages.
But I was distracted by the dressing room itself. There were AZO pills littering the stained vinyl countertop. A red silk scarf had been draped over the makeup lights, dying the room pink.
A box of Tampons sat on top of a duffle bag, full of pumps, on the box in big black Sharpie read, “MARNIE’S, DON’T STEAL!”
Harper let me watch her stage time through the beaded curtain that led to the backstage area. Her manager spotted me almost instantly though, and as a punishment for risking their liquor license, he took a heftier percentage of her tips that night.
I begged her to let me pay the difference as she drove me home. She waved her manicured hand, her nails short but polished.
“Oh shut up, I know Kevin, he’ll give me my share back tomorrow. He’s just being dramatic. Something you’d know a little bit about.”
She punctuated this with a wink.
The pavement was slick with summer rain, and Harper had a bad habit of lurching to a halt at every yellow light.
Once on the highway, she turned down the radio.
“I love the roads at this time of night,” she looked at me. “Deserted, like this ya know? Helps me think.”
I nodded, the rum taking its effect, rendering me drowsy.
“You did good in the show tonight,” she offered. I gave her a half-smile, “Maybe you could have a future, dancing!” She laughed at herself. I sat up in my seat.
“It looks like a lot of fun, what you do.” She rolled her eyes.
“I like it, let’s me have a lot of freedom, ya know?” She sucks in her cheeks, her dimple piercing glinting in the street light. “You’re going to school in the fall though, right? To college?”
I slouch, nodding my head.
“That’ll be a lot of fun.” From the look on my face, she launches into her defense. “No, really! I—I had tons of fun in school.”
“You went to school?” I hear myself ask, and I sound like an asshole.
“Yeaaaah!” She says this with an elongated “a” sound like she was Snooki from the Jersey Shore. With a swallow, “I was at USF, for Politics.”
“Oh.” I am an asshole.
She sighs, and sings, “dropped out due to finances.” She laughs, “That’s what I had to write on the ‘Intent to Disenroll,’ form.” She pauses a moment, as though lost in thought. “It’s not tragic though. I’m happy where I am.” She grabs my chin, pinching it gently, and in a goo-goo voice, “Happy I get to make friends like you.”
I shoo her off, trying to hide my smile. She giggles at my skittishness.
“Well,” she thwacks her hands on the steering wheel, “what’s my little sister gonna study?”
“Uh—” I was still getting used to her referring to me as her sister, “I think, English.”
She grins, “She’s gonna be a writer.”
And after a long moment, a moment I was not a part of because Harper was alone in her train of thought, her eyes glazed over, staring out the windshield, she whispers,
“Just don’t write about me.”
