I keep thinking about issues of consent like the post I’m working on right now doesn’t even cover half of it.
& like the gay guy last night who didn’t see a problem with being present and taking up space and not tipping, in a place where we only make tips, as if his lack of desire gave him a free pass when presence is supposed to equal paying.
Except it doesn’t and it never does; we have to talk and cajole and flirt people into paying—they’re there to see and interact with us but somehow that’s not enough, we have to work for it.
how many times a night do I hear “no no you have to work for it” as someone clutches a sweaty dollar that means absolutely nothing to me in the grand scheme of what I convince people to pay me. Work for your dollar? FUCK your dollar.
But the burden of proving my worth rests on me. I don’t even get a symbolic like, nod, like not even minimum wage. Even though we’re the reason the club exists. So I have to convince people. What am I worth to you? What is seeing me do a split and smile worth? What about when I play with your hair and tell you you have a great smile, and that I’m better now you’rehere. I walk in and that’s my consent, I consent in expectation of being paid, but only by a small minority of the people I’ll be interacting with, and a smaller minority of those who will be looking at me, just resting their eyes, “relaxing” but not tipping bc for whatever reason—maybe they’re gay!—they think they’re exempt.
So that quote strikes a chord.
when I was 19 I consented to a bondage shoot where I got whipped for 500$ bc my rent was almost due and the club had been slow. nps here, just thinking out loud I guess but my consent does have some meaning even if it’s given under constrained circumstances. what is looking at me worth? what about when I’m crying after being beaten and those pictures are never going to go away? I was paid but not nearly enough.