Posted on by Amanda Brooks

good job

The whole Spizter mess has thrown the division between civilian women and sex workers into high relief, moreso than the DC Madam thing. (Maybe I’m more aware of it.)

Growing up, I participated in school sports. At the end of every game, the teams would line up and pass each other, hands out at waist level, meeting palm-to-palm and say “Good game” or “Good job” (imagine a really gentle high-five at waist level). Prayer started every game; this little ritual ended it. Most of the time the coaches would join the end of the line. Sitting out of the line was unthinkable – I don’t remember anyone doing it (though some girls didn’t touch everyone’s hands). It would’ve been heresy. Both boys and girls teams did this starting in Little Dribblers or T-Ball and all through high school.

I have to wonder, if I did the line today and the other players knew my history, would they still touch my hand and say “Good game”? Would they refuse? Would they say other things under their breath? Would some of them turn away because they had secrets? Would they see me as an equal player, though not equal in life?

Of all the girls’ hands that I touched, how many of them would be willing to extend it again in the spirit of sportsmanship and acknowledgement of an equal?

Posted on by Amanda Brooks

a lech, a pimp and my rage

These two random memories surfaced a few weeks ago. They both happened while I was stripping, though the incidents were separated by a year or more. What I find interesting in revisiting the memories is my angry non-reaction. I think it’s a woman-thing more than a stripper-thing. You be the judge.

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Posted on by Amanda Brooks

sex work is the new black

I often compare the sex worker rights movement with the Civil Rights movement and gay movement. Most often, I see it closer to the Civil Rights movement.

I’e become used to conversations with people or business interactions with them — all behind the scenes. But I understand that in public they might not wish to be associated with me. It’s not a condescending remark. Not everyone is ready to stand up to prejudice or make logical arguments to refute knee-jerk morality. I understand. So if we meet in public I pretend not to know and do not burden them with social embarrassment.

Take the constant checking I have to do with publishing-related businesses. I can’t assume they’re going to want to do business with me, so before we get too far down the road I have to give background info, detailed explanations, legal disclaimers (and prove that others have worked with me before) — and this is just the introductory e-mail. In essence, I apologize for what I’m doing and for imposing on them.

My hat must be in my hand, my eyes down and I should respectfully step out of the way so they can pass. In case I make them uncomfortable, I should cross the street so they don’t have to.

Usually I get praised for checking their tolerance level before daring to engage in a business conversation with them. Before I dare to believe I’m a regular publisher like anyone else making a book about cats (or cooking or yoga or whatever has been done to death). Before I dare to act as though I have a right to choose my business partners, instead of letting them choose me and being grateful for it.

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Posted on by Amanda Brooks

is Las Vegas degrading to women?

Caution: I actually use a little naughty language in here.

When I went to Vegas for the first time in 2000, by myself, it took me all of 24 hours to figure out the city is made for money and women. If you have one or are the other, Vegas is your playground. To me, the secret of the city is that it’s a living monument to avarice and lust. I’ll go even further and say that pussy built Vegas and is its raison d’être. Aristotle Onassis understood that without women, money means nothing.

I spent two weeks there dancing. I never felt degraded in Vegas. I was constantly harassed by panhandlers, but that was it (I think I was a target because I looked harmless and was a single woman). I planned to go back the next fall, 2001, but those plans were curtailed. I’ve been back several times for vacations and I still feel the same vibe, although Vegas got whupped a little bit after 9/11 and lost some exuberance. I’m fully against it being a “family place.” That’s not why it lives and breathes.

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Posted on by Amanda Brooks

after the fact (stripping)

People often want to know how stripping and escorting affected me. I think I have enough distance from both to be able to begin to answer the question. Since stripping came first, this post is first.

The immediate effects of stripping were obvious: crippling knee problems, back aches, secondhand smoke, plenty of firsthand smoking, too much drinking, constant colds and coughs. And because I was never a good hustler, the constant rejection ruined my self-confidence. I was just too real in the clubs, too much myself. I never built the armor some other girls seemed to have. Of course, I also met plenty of girls who had the same problems I had. Stripping is not a job for everyone. (In escort work, my realness was an asset, not a liability.)

On the plus side, I was in great shape without having to work out and my skin was perfect all the time because of my constant care. I was the master of small talk, could out-dance anyone in a regular nightclub and learned a lot about music and rhythm. I loved having my daytime free.

I went right from stripping into escort work. Still, some things from stripping stay with me.

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