Welcome
to Charity Sunday for May. This month I’m supporting what some
people may view as a controversial cause – an organization that
supports the rights, safety and well-being of sex workers around the
world. SWARM (Sex
Workers Advocacy and Resistance Movement) is
a sex worker led collective based in the UK. The project was founded
in 2009 to advocate for the rights of everyone who sells sexual
services. Their
goal is to build a diverse and inclusive community of sex workers who
cooperate,
educate and legislate
to improve working conditions and resist violence.
Why do I care about sex workers? That’s not a cute and cuddly sort of charity. There are some who believe that sex work is immoral, that prostitutes are inherently sinful and wicked, that selling sexual services should be completely outlawed. Yet many research studies have shown that criminalization of sex work does nothing to reduce the number of people involved. It just increases the risk for both workers and their clients. The WHO has called for all countries to make progress toward making sex work legal and recognizing it as a legitimate occupation.
Meanwhile,
the COVID-19 crisis and resulting lockdown have had a truly dire
effect on sex workers, around the world. They have no source of
income and no safety net. Most countries won’t provide unemployment
benefits or emergency assistance to sex workers. Even in places where
sex work is legal (for instance, in Germany), many prostitutes have
been evicted from their apartments, provided by their brothels in
return for a monthly fee which, now, they cannot pay. In some cases
they must choose between likely contagion and starvation.
Their
situation is truly desperate. And I want to make at least a token
effort to help – and to both acknowledge their humanity and their need.
Of
course many people are facing terrible physical and economic hardship
at the moment. But they’re respectable. Sex workers aren’t. A lot
of people would like to believe sex workers don’t exist – or to blame them
for their own plight – but that’s both unfair and unrealistic.
Anyway,
I’ll get off my soapbox and just say that I’ll donate $2 to SWARM
for every comment I receive on this post. I hope you have the courage
to speak your mind.
Meanwhile,
I have an excerpt from my erotic thriller Exposure. Stella
Xanathakeos, the heroine of that novel, is a stripper, not a
prostitute, but she faces a lot of same dangers and the same
prejudice.
I
strip for the fun of it. Don’t let anyone tell you different. It’s
not the money. I could make nearly as much working at the mill and
keep my clothes on, but then I’d have to suck up to the bosses.
Here at the Peacock, I’m the one in charge, and I like it that way.
Sometimes
I think it’s a sort of revenge, for all the times I heard those
nasty calls trailing after me: Honey Jugs, Monster Boobs, Bouncer.
Not to mention those sweaty, awkward clinches in back seats, trying
to please. Trying to be popular. Now they can’t take their eyes off
my breasts, swinging back and forth in time to the music. Their
tongues are hanging out. I can see the tents in their laps. They all
want me. I know how to make them want me. I’m an expert. But I’m
off limits. They can look, they can drool, they can beg me. But my
job’s to turn them on and bring them to the bursting point, then
send them home unsatisfied.
That’s
my view, anyway. Some of the other girls think different. All in all,
though, the Peacock Lounge is a pretty classy joint, not like some of
the sleaze pits down near the railroad.
I
love the moment when the lights come down, and the DJ introduces me.
There’s this strange pause, as if I was floating. I can feel them
out there, the audience, holding their breath. Then, I hear the first
notes of my routine. Energy surges through me. I’m one hundred
percent alive. My nipples get hard and my sex tingles when I step out
onto the stage and meet their eyes.
That’s
my secret weapon: eye contact. Up close and personal. I can bump and
grind, shake my tits in their faces, bend over so they get a good
look at the G-string settled in my ass-crack. It doesn’t do any
good without my stare. I try to see their darkest fantasies. This one
pictures me sitting on him, his mouth burrowing in my bush. That one
wants me to hold his dick while he pees. That guy in the back, oh,
he’s bad news. He aches to tie me up and beat me with his belt.
Tough luck, feller. Dream on.
I
don’t know whether what I see is real or just my imagination, but
it has a real effect. They feel my eyes. They think I know them. They
get all flustered and embarrassed, wave to me, stick their tens and
twenties into my G-string. Watching me, anxious-like, all the time.
Meanwhile,
it turns me on. I dance a lot better when I’m horny. Sometimes I
play with myself a bit before my set, to get myself into the mood.
Then I hold my fingers under their noses, and watch their reactions.
I
feed off their desire. The more they want me, the hotter I get, the
better I dance. The more outrageous I become. So, it’s particularly
annoying tonight that this one guy in the front row doesn’t react
at all.
It’s
early, and it’s Monday, slow. He’s the only one sitting close
enough for me to use my stare, and it isn’t working. He’s
good-looking in a clean-cut, straight-laced sort of way. Blond crew
cut, blue-eyed, muscles that show even under his expensive suit. At
least it looks expensive to me.
He
has not taken his eyes off me since I strutted onto the stage, but
his face is without expression. It’s like he has walls behind his
eyes.
I
can’t see into him at all. Now it’s me that’s getting
frustrated and hot under the collar. I’ve already stripped down to
my pasties, boots, and thong. I peel one of the tassels off my nipple
and dangle it in front of him. He looks only at my eyes. He’s
measuring me, sizing me up for something.
I
prance around on my stiletto heel boots. I shake my hips, do a slow,
sensuous shimmy, cup my tits in my palms and offer them to him. No
reaction. I take off the other tassel and attach it behind, where my
butt cheeks meet, a lewd little tail. There’s a whistle from a
table in the back, but Mr. Clean just continues to study me.
Damn
him. I’m sweaty from the effort. My cunt is throbbing in time with
the music. I can feel that the shred of nylon running between my legs
is sopping. Fixing him with my best stare, I sink onto my knees in
front of him, thighs spread wide. Then I slide both my forefingers
inside the G-string and start to touch myself. We’re not supposed
to do really explicit stuff like that. If Joey, the owner of the
club, saw me, he’d give me hell. But this is a desperate case. I
will not allow this guy to get the better of me.
I’m
actually quite close to coming, when finally I see him give a little
smile. So maybe he is enjoying himself after all. My music is ending.
Time for the grand finale. Standing up, I unsnap the sides of the
thong and pull it back and forth through my crotch a couple of times.
Just to make sure it’s totally saturated. Then I drop it in the
guy’s lap and strut off the stage, naked except for my boots.
I
can hear applause and yells from the table near the back. I’m
shaking, pissed off, and horny at the same time. Who does that
character think he is?
When
I calm down a bit, I put on my kimono and go check out the crowd. A
few more tables are occupied now, and there’s a rowdy group at the
bar. Meanwhile, Mr. Clean hasn’t budged. When he sees me, he
beckons me to come over.
“Good
evening,” he says, very polite. “I enjoyed your performance.”
Oh,
yeah? I think to myself. “Glad to hear it,” I say out loud.
“Can
I buy you a drink?”
“Thanks,
but I don’t drink.”
“What’s
your name?”
“Stella.”
“Stella
what?”
“Stella
Xanathakeos,” I say, smiling despite myself at his reaction.
Not
your typical stage name. But why should I pretend to be somebody
else?
“Well,
Miss Xana—Xanathakeos, I have a business proposition for you.”
“Look,
I’m no hooker.”
“That’s
obvious, Miss Xanathakeos. You have a presence on stage, a special
flair that marks you as a true artist.”
Bullshit,
I think, but his politeness is softening me up anyway.
“I
have an associate who has a particular fondness for voluptuous women
of Mediterranean complexion, like yourself. I’d like to engage you
to give him a private performance.”
“I
don’t know...” I begin.
“I’ll
pay you five hundred dollars,” says Mr. Clean. “Two hundred fifty
in advance and the rest after you dance for him.”
Well,
that stops me for a minute. Like I said, I don’t do this for the
money. But five hundred dollars would bring me a lot closer to that
trip to Greece I’ve been saving for. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve
wanted to see the Parthenon, the island of Rhodes, the ancient ruins
at Salonika. My dad used to talk about Greece all the time, how the
sky was blue as crystal and the air smelled like wine. “All I have
to do is dance?”
“That’s
right. Your usual routine, or something more creative, if you like.”
“Where
and when?”
“Tomorrow
night, around eight o’clock, at the Hyatt downtown. I’ll give you
the room number.”
“How
long will it take?”
“An
hour at most. You can be back here at the Peacock by nine thirty.”
I
consider the question. Can I trust this guy, with his closed-up face?
He’s already holding out two C-notes and a fifty, confident that
I’ll accept. What the hell, I decide finally. I’ve got my Mace,
and I can deliver a mean kick in the balls. I can take care of
myself.
If
Exposure sounds
interesting, you can pick up a copy at Amazon,
or Smashwords,
or Excessica.
You might also like the audio
version.
Please
don’t forget to leave a comment! And I hope you'll visit the other bloggers participating in today's event.
