Alphabet of Hookers - 'P' is for Penny

I want you to take a look at that girl in the navy blue work out clothes, the one with her hair in a ponytail. She's wearing no make up, and she's sweaty and messy and flushed. It was a hard class, and she takes things like this seriously. She's pretty, with wide hips and thighs. Maybe she's here trying to lose a little weight, or maybe she's just trying to stay fit. You've seen her here before - she's a regular in the Tuesday step class, you think, or maybe it was Pilates. Either way, you've seen her around, just another cute girl in not-too fancy sweats.

I want you to observe the girl next to you on the subway. She's got her hair pushed under a baseball cap, and iPod headphones in her ears. You can hear country music playing, and you notice she's reading a copy of 'The Great Gatsby'. She's got a knapsack next to her, and all of it adds up to 'student'. You can just tell, can't you? Put all the pieces together, and they spell out 'college girl', plain as can be. Maybe she's on her way to class, or just coming back from the research library. Women's Studies? English Lit? It's hard to say, but the book makes you think English. You might even be right.

I'd like you to pay attention to the girl sitting next to you in lecture hall. She's been sitting close to you on and off, for most of the year. She's pretty, but you have to pay attention to see it, because she's not the kind who shows up in full make up for morning lectures. She's serious, that's pretty easy to tell. Asks a lot of questions, takes a lot of notes. It's obvious that this class means something to her, she's not just here for the easy credits. Her mind is agile and curious, and she gets a lot out of today's lecture. You think to yourself that she's the right girl to borrow study notes from, down the road.

I want you to see that girl over there, on the edge of the playground. See the boy she's with, the blond one? Is it her brother, a nephew? No, it must be her son - look at how close they are, how much she touches him, how she follows him with her eyes. She's paying attention to everything he does, seems actually interested in what he has to say. That man she's talking to, near the gate? That's his teacher. She seems a little bit pissed off about something, her voice is raised. Something about class size, or better reading materials? Whatever it is, you can tell she's not the kind to let details slide, not when it comes to this, to her kid's education. You don't want to get on the wrong side of a mom like that. The smile she sends to her son as he swings higher is luminous and breathtakingly beautiful. She's beautiful.

I want you to see this girl, this mother/student/average girl, and take her in, all of her, all of the dichotomous parts of who she is. Now, enfold this - that girl, dressed in a white baby doll, on her knees sucking the cock of a man in his fifties. Earlier today, she fucked a nice, quiet guy who wanted her to call him 'Uncle' while she was riding him. Maybe this was before you saw her at the gym, or just after she finished her last lecture. Enfold this - her fucking these men, for pay, into everything else you saw her doing.

What has changed? Nothing about her has, but for you - what has changed? Is it suddenly more 'surprising' that she's a good mother, a good student? Is she no longer just that 'average' girl you see at the gym, on the subway? Do you think you are complimenting her when you say 'Wow, full time mother and student, too? That's really great for an escort'. That is the brick wrapped in velvet, the slap masquerading as a caress. 'He's really smart for a black person' is the same, or 'She's pretty rational, for a woman.' It's no compliment, and it's not really meant to be one, either.

So again I ask you - what has changed? Can you accept that this girl, this woman, can be all of these things, and a hooker as well? A good mother, a good student, an average girl, a hooker - and not need to modify it with false amazement or praise? And, if you can't, don't expect her to wait around for your good opinions. Penny is too busy living her life to care whether or not you approve of it.

- Morgan

Alphabet of Hookers - O is for Ophelia

What's a sweet little hippie chick like Ophelia doing working as a hooker? It's simple, really. Ophelia is spreading her own brand of peace, love and understanding, one fuck at a time. Idealistic, somewhat daffy and with her own kind of sensuality, Ophelia twirls through a world that some consider sordid, making it a better place for her friends and her clients.

She radiates peaced out bliss, along with almost tangible clouds of patchouli. Swirly indian skirts and peruvian sweaters covered in cat hair, she's not really what one would consider a fashion plate, but it works for her. Ophelia never shaved her legs or arms until a few clients complained. Even then, she just didn't see what all the fuss was about. "The Goddess wants us to have body hair" she mused "and I'm sure she has her reasons. It's natural and beautiful, and I keep it unless I'm seeing one of my fussier guys. Most of them don't mind at all." Ophelia gets a lot of European clients, who seem to dig her au natural look. She must save a fortune on waxing, one of her friends once said rather enviously. Ophelia's hair is a tangled mass of mini dreads, which she keeps pulled back with rubber bands. For formal occasions, she sometimes piles it up on top of her head, like a crown of red and gold strands. It's beautiful, just like she is.

Ophelia believes that the world is an overwhelmingly good and decent place, and that karmic justice is served by simply being the best person each of us can be. Ophelia has rather unusual screening methods for clients, relying on a combination of auras, 'inner vibes' and cat psychics. "I had a client show up once, and his aura was just black. Like a storm cloud. I just couldn't see him - even talking to him made me feel physically ill." At other times, Ophelia believes that her inner spirit guide tells her which calls to turn down. "I listen to her voice, and she always tells me which calls will be good, and which to say no to. It works really, really well." But what about the cats, Ophelia? Where do they fit in? "If my cats dislike someone - really dislike them, to the point of hissing? I'll ask them to leave. Cats can sense things that we sometimes miss, I believe that completely. Mine guard and protect me, and I trust what they tell me." Ophelia is bemused when clients object to her cats wanting to wander into the bedroom during appointments. "They're just curious!" she tells me with a laugh. "They live here, too, so they like to check things out. Lately I've had to start shutting the door, though. Some people are just not in to cats, I guess."

Ophelia's bedroom is like a combination opium den and head shop. On her dresser, hand blown glass bongs compete for space with her collection of Goddess statues. She's the only person I know who really has a pyramid over her bed, a small one she picked up at some outdoor festival. I sometimes enjoy imagining the guys who've shown up for a simple fuck and run, and are confronted instead with Ophelia's special brand of earth mother sexiness. For each client, Ophelia throws in a chakra alignment, whether they want one or not. "Sometimes, they aren't that into it, but if I can tell they need it I just do it quietly. They might not know what I'm doing, but I feel better sending them off more balanced. I think that's why some of them keep coming back."

In spite of her dreamy weirdness, Ophelia is pragmatic about the business she's in. She works to fund her art, and her travels, and does so only until she raises enough cash for the next trip or installation. Then she'll disappear for a while, keeping in touch with special clients through cheerful emailed notes and cards. At her last opening, five of regulars showed up, and two of them bought pieces. Ophelia travelled to India with a client two years ago, and in the spring she and another one are heading to New Zealand.

"I don't just give them sex, you know" she confides in me, while making me a cup of tea. "They think that's all they need, but it's really the least of it. I help them be less lonely, and less sad. It's positive energy, and it all flows back to us. I've been blessed with so much of it that I can't help letting it flow on to others. I've had a truly spectacular life this time around." Her wise eyed cats twine around her ankles, and look at me silently, daring me to disagree. I wouldn't dream of it, though. I just smile back at her, and hope that some of Ophelia's kind karma spills over me, making me a better person, as well.

- Morgan

Alphabet of Hookers - N is for Nora

Nora is almost a cautionary tale for hookers, a boogie man (boogie person?) who personifies everything that the media, the authorities and the rest of the world wants to believe we are. I almost didn't want to write about Nora, because girls like Nora make it so incredibly easy for the world to pigeon hole us all into a neat little box.

Nora was an abused, junkie, former street whore with a boyfriend who beat her, a kid in foster care, and a heart, if not of pure gold, at the very least of gold plating. If I hadn't known her myself, I'd assume she was the creation of a really bad Hollywood script writer, but she was real, and she was flawed, and she still deserves to be known as a person, not just a victim.

I met Nora when she was about nineteen years old, through friends who worked at an escort agency. Agencey work was perfect for girls like Nora, who wanted to be able to phone in, grab a shift and turn some tricks, and then bugger off until the money had all run out. It beat street work, as she liked to say, although she claimed to have made up to $500 per night in the summer trolling the corners and working the bars. Street work was cold and dangerous, though, and agency work had some stability. Nora was funny and cute, and came across as a world wearied child who'd seen it all but could still manage to laugh about it. She told a group of us about how her stepfathers - all three of them - had molested her over years. She even seemed a little proud when she told us how she'd started making the last one give her extra pocket money for every blow job she gave him, and extra for the fucks. "Pretty smart for a 14 year old, huh?" she laughed. "I was making sure I got paid when he got laid, just like now."

Nora was something alien to me, a world I'd never seen. She'd been in foster homes, group homes and homeless shelters, all before the age of seventeen. She'd had a child and lost it to Children's Aid, although she swore it was just a matter of time before she got the baby back again. She had a photo of him in her wallet, and she'd show it to us, a mother's maternal satisfaction on her face. "He's going to be huge. All the guys in my family are huge. His dad was, too." Nora never talked about his father, though, and something made me afraid to ask.

Nora loved to complain about her "asshole boyfriend" in the sort of fond tones one usually reserves for a pet that insists on peeing on the carpets. "He's a fucking jerk, you know? But I love him." According to Nora, it was never his fault when he hit her, and she never held it against him, or at least not for long. "Hey, I'd have hit me too" she'd laugh. Once she explained away a black eye and bruised jaw by telling us "I stole his last dimebag and fucked off to Niagara for three days with the rent money. Spent it all, too, and when I walked in the door he fucking decked me one. So we're even."

Nora chipped around with what friends told me was heroin. When I asked her about it, Nora just laughed and said she didn't play with needles, skipping the part about doing rails or smoking it. I didn't know her well enough to ask anything deeper, and left it be. Nora was the kind of girl who you could call if you needed someone to pick you up from jail, but she was also the kind who'd toss your purse if you left it lying around unattended. I found that lesson out the hard way, when she lifted $200 from me after I'd left my purse on the seat of my car beside her. I could never prove it was her, but my friends laughed and asked what did I expect, leaving cash next to a junkie? Even I couldn't hold it against her for long. No matter how battered or bruised or fucked up Nora was, she was always fun to be around. I liked her very much, but I never trusted her again, and it's hard to base a true friendship around that.

Nora and I drifted apart when I was in school. I didn't mean to, but I was busy, and she was increasingly spacey and out of it when I did see. Driving with friends one night after a pub, I saw Nora standing on a particularly bad corner, working the traffic. I didn't say anything about knowing her, and she didn't see me as we passed. I felt bad about that, as if I was lying to myself and to the other girls who knew nothing of the shadier friends I'd once hung out with. Like I said, though, I was busy, and I only heard about Nora rarely, from people who'd seen her, or had heard a story.

Nora slipped from decent agencies to the rougher ones, that ones that get angry if you miss a shift or take extra cash without telling them. Her latest agency had a reputation - they were 'connected', you didn't want to piss them off. Nora had a habit of doing things like finishing a call, going home, and then slipping back in a cab to see her client, off the clock, with the agency not getting a cut of what she charged him. Some places take things like this seriously.

Nora's body was found in a field in the middle of no where. Rumors started to fly, almost instantly. The field, so people claimed, was on the edge of some property owned by bad people, people who were connected. People who had interests in some escort agencies, agencies that don't like being ripped off. Nora had been beaten, brutally, but what killed her was exposure. She was alive when they dumped her out there, and she died alone and cold over what has to have been the longest night anyone ever suffered. Daily phone calls flew between those of us who'd known her, and everyone was waiting for the arrests to be made. When they came, it was her boyfriend who they brought in. None of us believed it. None of us do still. He was an asshole, but he was too fucking lazy to drive out to the country and kill her. He'd have done it at home, we laughed cynically, and then smoked enough dope that he wouldn't have been able to run when the cops came. Of course, maybe we were wrong. It's possible he's the one who killed her, that we'd misjudged the brutality of a guy who'd always seemed like a more simple form of idiot abuser. Maybe there was no conspiracy, no cover up. Since he was killed in prison just a few months after he started sentence, I guess no one will ever really know.

I doubt anyone really cares who killed Nora, except those of us who still remember her as more than a news story. She deserves a better legacy than just another headline in another paper saying 'Hooker Murdered'.



Morgan