Broken record

I know I keep harping on this high-end prostitution thing, but it's totally under my skin. Please bear with me while I continue to try to sort out my thinking. Yesterday, I read yet another article-- this one, ostensibly, about the sort of economy that supports an asking price of $5500 for sex. I read it, hoping that it would be an objective account of how the flesh-for-cash thing really works, as an industry. But the article isn't that at all. It's really just another subjective puddle of moralizing, dressed up in economic theory. For the most part, the assertions that underpin the article are wholly debatable, and therefore, not particularly relevant to the topic it's trying to address. What a shame.

Allison Schrager, the author of the piece, begins describing how she's been called on the carpet before for her preconceived notions of prostitution. She says, "while most people consider it an extremely undesirable job, on the high end 'it can be quite lucrative and requires few skills (though a fair helping of unequally distributed natural endowments).'
'Inferior skills?', commented someone under the name 'spairme'. 'Obviously, you have not visited one...To be able to command premium pricing an [sic] any market, a service must be superior.'" And even though someone is clearly trying to call attention to her bias, she's already making assumptions. Who says "most people" think whoring is "an extremely undesirable job?" I mean, I don't guess anyone grows up dreaming of giving $45 fellatio from the passenger seat of an Oldsmobile, but I can think of worse things that being paid on an hourly rate that exceeds my monthly net income for looking pretty, keeping up my scintillating conversational skills, working out and getting fucked. I mean, set aside all moral squeamishness that you might feel about renting out your body to someone you don't love-- and quite possibly, don't even like very much-- for just a minute. Seriously. Put all that aside. Think about what a plummy deal that really is.

Again I turn to debauchette, who has a much more educated perspective on this than my own. Here's something really smart she recently said in a comment thread:
"This is where the press consistently gets it wrong: they suggest that all sex work is oppressive and dehumanizing, when it isn’t. Dehumanizing sex work is dehumanizing, just as any work that treats human beings as automata is going to be dehumanizing. Or they suggest it’s empowering, which it can be, but only empowering sex work is empowering. There’s tremendous range. And within that range, it’s easy to feel valued only for your sexuality, as if you have nothing else to offer the world. But then, that’s not limited to sex work alone."
It seems really odd to me that the "range" to which debauchette refers isn't just a given-- it seems so obvious! I balk at Schrager's denial of that range-- or, I guess, her ignorance of it. Though I'm chiding HER for making assumptions here, I, myself, am going to hope that Schrager's assumption has bloomed forth more out of that exact ignorance of the real women participating in this industry, rather than from plain old judgmentalism. But what do I know?

So, next, Schrager breaks down the demand side of this economic equation, citing the idea that everyone wants access to the deluxe edition, the elite brand, the super-duper fancy. Hence, the more a woman charges, the more she is able to charge. It's more or less a marketing argument-- if a woman is able to establish herself as a premium brand, she's automatically worth more on the free market. I can't really quibble with Schrager about how that works. I assume it's essentially an accurate assessment.

But then she launches into a really weird analysis of the supply side. She starts out saying these women can charge a lot because it's illegal and stigmatized. One commenter mentions, however, that women are able to charge just as much in places where prostitution is legal, though-- so there goes that argument! And the stigma? Well, I would think that, if you're in the industry, it becomes your community. And there's only a stigma against it OUTSIDE of the industry... so, I would imagine that these women are able to shelter themselves from the glare of The Moral Majority fairly easily within their daily goings on. So, I don't think that's really what jacks the cost up either.

But then she goes on to discuss prostitution as though it's utterly antipodal to marriage. And that's just laughably poor logic in this here early 21st Century. She starts out quoting this economic paper called "A Theory of Prostitution." Here's the quotation: "[A] woman cannot be both a prostitute and a wife. Combine this with the fact that marriage can be an important source of income for women, and it follows that prostitution must pay better than other jobs to compensate for the opportunity cost of forgone marriage market earnings." Now, the first problem I see with this quotation is that I don't quite follow WHY prostitution and marriage are mutually exclusive. It is because both Schrager and the authors of this paper assume that the default setting for every emotionally committed relationship is proscribed sexual monogamy? True enough, for many marriages, the monogamy is a prerequisite for any aisle-strolling activities-- and, of course, I've often wondered, in this very blog, how often people pause well before ring purchases and cake selection to ask each other whether thoughtlessly blundering into monogamy is really the best thing for either of them-- but marriage and sexual monogamy are not synonymous. Neither are commitment and monogamy. I've said that before, too, haven't I? God, this stuff's taking up so much room in my head that I feel I repeat myself in virtually every post these days. Forgive me.

So, as I was saying, why can't a woman be both a prostitute and a wife? Regardless, Schrager takes the assumption that she can't as gospel and runs the whole rest of her argument accordingly.

Here, I suppose, I must admit that I also bristle at near-seismic levels at that "marriage can be an important source of income for women" business. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know it's true. A lot of girls never put much effort into making any real money because they'd rather marry, have babies and let their husbands pay most of the bills. I don't have anything at all against women who choose that for themselves. I personally think it's impractical-- what happens if the marriage doesn't last or something becomes of the husband's job? It wasn't an atypical occurrence for women in generations prior to mine to find themselves widowed at 55 and, having been out of the workforce for 35 years, completely unable to support themselves. Asking a man to provide for my financial stability would foster a sort of dependence with which I'll never be comfortable. Beyond that, I don't know too many guys of my generation who don't make the assumption that the girls they marry will do their share to keep the household afloat. Perhaps more, uh, "old-fashioned" guys exist-- but they're busy floundering in the shallow end of my personal dating pool-- due, in no small part, to my utter lack of interest in them. So, basically, the idea that marriage is a source of income makes my chest get all tight with panic. I could never see marriage as an economic transaction and I get real effin' skittish when I entertain the idea that I might ever have to ask a man for money. *shudder*

Ultimately, Schrager's underlying question is why would a woman who is smart enough to be a sophisticated companion to some schmancy men (i.e., could support herself based on her intellectual capacity) and who is exceptionally beautiful (i.e., could snag a husband just by bending over to pick lint off the carpet) choose to fuck for money? There is judgment implicit in that question, no? That judgment is kinda why I think the question (and thus, the article as a whole) is irrelevant. The reasons are, by their very nature, specific to each individual sex worker. And these women are each responsible for their own choices, particularly on the high end of the spectrum. So, again, I ask, why cannot we not respect these women's personal agency, and respect their decisions about their livlihoods, enough to knock the stone-throwing event off the schedule of public discourse reindeer games?

Ah, but doesn't Schrager have a theory as to why these girls do it even anyway? I'm not saying it's a GOOD theory, but it's a theory. First, she says, "Ultimately, the decision to become a high-end prostitute is often not only an economic one, but is determined by a woman's attitude toward sex." And I was finally on board when she made that statement. I mean, it does seem logical that a brilliant and beautiful woman who was open to prostitution would have some unconventional attitudes about sex-- ostensibly, sex-positive and open and adventurous attitudes (but, there I go assuming again!). But then Schrager craps all over her own little glimmer of enlightenment. Here's the rest of that paragraph: "For many women no amount of money would ever entice them into prostitution. (Because, I presume, prostitution is evil, dirty, degrading, and dehumanizing and can be seen in no other light?) You cannot deconstruct the economics of selling sex without acknowledging that, sadly, many women who enter the trade, even at the high end, have at some point in their lives been victims of abuse. (Yes. Of course. The only way to explain a why a woman would like sex so much that she'd pursue a career in it is if she's got some psychological pathology. How could I have forgotten that? (I do not mean to imply that I'm not aware that a number of whores really are damaged, but I'm intending to imply here that I think Schrager's statement is just oozing with unctuous superiority and is therefore unfair to the women she's discussing.)) Economic reasoning has little sway over how a woman values her body. (Right. Because a woman who values her body would never rent it out. Because market value and moral value are two hopelessly divorced concepts... aren't they?)"

Now, having absolutely no actual experience with prostitution, it's likely that I've been talking out my ass for the entirety of this series of posts. Luckily for me, some smart people who DO know about which they speak left comments on this article. Here's what some guy named 5BuckYoBet says: "My wife and I are both prostitutes. We work separately and neither of us brings home less than $3K CDN from a 4 hour engagement. Weekend engagements earn $10K. There are 3 reasons we are able to command the price we do. 1) We are educated and well read. Pick a topic and we will engage you in an interesting, entertaining discussion. We know the world and people. We see that the world is a very screwed up place populated by very frustrated people who experience little real joy and often have nobody to talk to. We just talk to them. No cliche, no pretentiousness, just honesty. For that they like us. Like us a lot. Once the heart is warm the libido is open to ultimate satisfaction. If you can't make the client feel warm and fuzzy you're doomed to street walking and $100 quickies. 2) We are the best f*cks most people will ever have. We are that because we took the time to study the arts of arousal, stimulation, maintenance of the high and multiple orgasm. People are not born with that talent and 99.99% never learn it. Yet we all yearn for more than our partners or a $100 McLay can give. Hint: study Arabic arts and traditions, don't waste too much time on the Oriental. 3) We do anything the client wants except eat feces and receive severe pain. Usually, we end up doing what we want and the client simply goes along with it and asks for more of the same. We were not always prostitutes and neither of us has ever been abused. If we had been abused I don't think we could be the professionals we are. We decided to go into the business after we realised that we were the best either of us had ever experienced and that others might be willing to pay dearly to experience what we studied hard to learn."
Well, Mr. 5BuckYoBet, with that tight little paragraph, you pretty much rendered this whole post redundant. I got nothing left to say!

Ha! Yeah, we'll see how long THAT lasts! Now, where'd I put my copy of The Perfumed Garden?

Who's the rube?

As I often praise films that are joyous and refrain from moralizing about sexuality, it should come as no surprise that I have a wee soft spot in my heart for John Waters. To be fair, I'm not all that wild about watching people eat dog poo, as per the infamous Pink Flamingos scene, but the purity of his unapologetic sexual glee in a movie like A Dirty Shame, in which the notably flat-chested actress Selma Blair is transformed into something of a mammary anomaly, in which Tracy Ullman works her campiest, leopard-printiest charms, and in which Johnny Knoxville peers deep into my soul, well...it's a comedy that actually made me laugh. He's somehow managed to key into a counter culture for which I can think no term more apt than "queer," in a manner that plays to a kitsch sensibility of the highest order. He's like Pedro Almodovar without the Spanish heartbreak. And with more poo-eating.

And while Waters' stories do seem to well up from the Baltimore queer underground, they somehow don't alienate an audience the way that films made via the vehicle of queer-culture pastiche, for a exceedingly insular queer-culture audience alone, most certainly do. Of course, over the years, assorted write-ups testify to the fact that Waters is capable of riling up an audience now and again. But what strikes me as so ridiculous about all those uptight, prudish, scandalized reviews is that they pretty much feed Waters' fire. He's pressing buttons just for the fun of pressing buttons. And he's something of an equal opportunity button-presser-- by which I mean, surely, at some point, you'll see yourself (no matter what variety of stereotype in the smack-dab middle of which you find yourself) depicted in an insulting manner in one of his films. But then it's on you, dear audience member, to decide whether or not you can take a joke.

Now, one might imagine that I'm writing a post about John Waters so soon after the release of the big-budget remake of Hairspray because I have something to say about THAT movie. Really, I'm not. I don't have too much interest in seeing the new Hairspray. The Waters' version was campy and full of lousy acting and had a message about how segregation was bad and we shouldn't judge fat girls. The new one looks fizzy and watered-down. And altogether too sparkly and expensive. Also, Waters' grassroots approach to casting means that half your laughs are aroused by poorly delivered lines. How'm I supposed to laugh at Queen Latifah in such a manner? Casting the damn thing with real actors spoils a good portion of the fun.

So, instead, I'm gonna talk about Pecker, which is quite possibly the best John Waters film ever. And it was on cable night before last. Oh, how I love this movie. And upon repeated viewing (well, 3rd or 4th, this time) I think I began to appreciate it on a whole new level. Lately, I've been reading Greg Bottoms' new memoir/art response (it's not exactly criticism or history, either one) book, The Colorful Apocalypse: Journeys into Outsider Art. It's an interesting text because, pervasively throughout, Bottoms seems deeply and personally troubled by questions of intended audience for religious fundamentalist art and the commodification thereof. And truly, he's not sure which is the more sinister force: the artists who are espousing a bigoted, often illogical-bordering-on-clinically-insane, fundamentalist Christian perspective or the liberal hipsters who buy the stuff because they think it's cool to be cultural tourists in the overwrought world of revelatory religious visions and quirky, obsession-generated art.

Now, perhaps it's just that I happened to watch Pecker once again during the course of my reading of The Colorful Apocalypse, but I really do think two resonate with each other, both in terms of sensibility and by mere coincidence. For those who've not yet seen this 10-year-old film, Pecker is the story of a cheerful, ostensibly culturally oblivious kid who finds a crappy 35mm camera in his mom's thrift store. He begins taking grainy black-and-white pictures of everything in his life--rats fucking, his laundromat manager girlfriend yelling at people, his big sister playing emcee at a gay bar, his creepily sugar-crazed kid sister, his best friend shoplifting, the pubic hair of strippers from the local lesbian stripclub, and other assorted scenes of glorious depravity. By chance, some schmancy agent from NYC happens into the sub shop dive where he's having a "show" and voila! he's the toast of the New York art scene. Of course this proposed persona of innocent and uninformed "outsider" artist is a pretty disingenuous conceit on the part of Waters--Pecker's eye for underworldly seeminess and basic photographic composition are clearly far too accomplished. The photos in the film are actually pretty great.

When Pecker's fame begins to accumulate, his family and friends back in Baltimore (home-base for all Waters' cinematic confections) begin to give him the whole "you're a sell-out, Pecker!" song and dance. And so, he relocates his operation to his very own gallery/lesbian strip club/pit beef stand/gay bar in his Baltimore neighborhood. On the walls, he hangs revealing and insightful and slightly insulting pictures of the fancy New York hipsters, taken on the night of his New York debut. Again, the knock-you-over-the-head message of the photos is far too clear, given the keenly cultivated innocence of the Pecker character. But, the point is still made.

Pecker's family and friends are, as is the case with pretty much every Waters protagonist ever, ridiculously provincial in their perspectives while simultaneously being happily liberated about and accepting of all things queer. For example, Pecker's Memama (uh, grandmother) has devised her own interpretation of the Catholic liturgy, such that a giant puppet of the Virgin Mary (whose "miracle" is that she repeatedly squeaks "Full of Grace!" while Memama's lips mysteriously move) becomes part of her very own sacrament. Meanwhile, Pecker's sister Tina calls everyone "Mary," attributing the term of endearment to the Baltimore-specific gay scene. While the artists that Bottoms profiles in his book seem to be pretty universally anti-queer, they are otherwise very similar to these characters. They're prone to interpreting fundamentalist religion in intensely idiosyncratic and non-capitalist ways. They sometimes seem comically insular and bumpkinish, despite Bottoms' valiant--and mostly successful-- effort towards portraying them with dignity.

And while it's troublingly tempting to make folk heroes out of these people, both Waters and Bottoms manage to resist that old impulse towards fetishization. Waters characters ARE goofy, awkward yokels. And the Bottoms' artists ARE scary in their rabid views that lean, not just towards a conventional brand of homophobia, but also towards a very weird revisionist-history version of anti-Semitism that contends that the people commonly denoted as "Jews" are actually merely dirty, money-grubbing Hebrews, while the term "God's chosen people" really refers to "white people." Whew! I'm sorry, but talk about crackpot! Still, they are passionate, creative and steadfast, not only in their beliefs, but also in their drives towards artistic expression. And the Pecker's rift with his family that results from the onset of his fame is hardly atypical. Though they do not intentionally model their lives after the Romantic idea of "the ArtEEST," certainly, these folks make personal sacrifices for their art. It would be difficult for me to NOT respect that.

Bottoms and Waters also have virtually identical presentations of art world vultures. In the film, a busful of citified Pecker-enthusiasts (hehehe) take a little jaunt down to Baltimore, and upon arrival, someone at the front of the bus yells, "This! Is! Baltimore!" And all the New Yorkers cheer. They're so horrendously excited about their little venture into the wilds of urban Maryland. Similarly, Bottoms describes a couple of encounters with various art critics and buyers who are trying to apply the vocabulary of art criticism to work that comes out of a very different impulse than the more usual sorts of gallery art, which he describes as "fueled by aesthetic concerns." Outsider art pretty much always defies art criticism, and so, the folks that seem so committed to putting it into an art-world framework wind up making themselves appear to be pretentious assholes.
The real kicker, however, is that Bottoms is an English professor, well-versed in the business of critical writing, and John Waters is really no longer the cinematic pariah he once was. Both of their oeuvres are well-informed by all the rest of the critical and creative work that has come before them and continues to happen around them. I would hedge my bets that the both of them are more likely to identify with this latter group of derision-attracting sophisticates, rather than the former pack of impassioned hayseeds. So then, my question with which I've titled this post becomes absolutely central to both of their concerns. Waters never really needs to make a decision about who he thinks is the biggest asshole, because he is so democratic in his parcelling out of light-hearted ribbing. Bottoms, though, tortures himself with guilt over his own discomfort with fundamentalist Christianity. He doesn't WANT to judge these guys... but it's so HARD not to, especially when they are so open in their hatred of queers, Jews, Masons, Buddhists (how do you hate a Buddhist?) and everyone else who isn't a card-carrying Jesus freak.
And so he does that clever liberal-guilt-absolving thing (dammit, I'm pretty sure I'm good and guilty of this one myself) wherein he saves up all his best critical skewers for the folks most like himself, in a show ever-so-slightly tinged with self-loathing, while offering a moderately cool reportage of his interviews with the artists themselves. Midway through the book, he virtually interrupts himself to quote Janet Malcolm's book, The Journalist and the Murderer:

"Every journalist who is not too stupid or too full of himself to notice what is going on knows that what he does is morally indefensible. He is a kind of confidence man, preying on people's vanity, ignorance of loneliness, gaining their trust and betraying them without remorse."

In all honesty, if I didn't so easily identify with Bottoms' writerly plight, I would, perhaps, find it a little overwrought. After all, it's just the next iteration of the age-old artistic concern that, if your subject matter is something other than your own innermost, most abstract thinking, you necessarily open yourself to the criticism that you are an "exploiter." For me, however, this awareness makes the landscape of Bottoms' memoir one in which I feel pretty comfortable. Were it handled any other way, I'm not sure I could say that.
As one final point of ironic comparison, I'd like to point out that Waters presents his hometown of Baltimore as the anti-New York. It's homier and more rustic and appears to be stuck in the 70s, even though the film is ostensibly set in present-day and was filmed in 1998. And all of its denizens are blissfully unaware of their lack of sophistication. Meanwhile, the real Baltimore is home to what is probably this country's biggest hub for outsider art: The American Visionary Art Museum. Bottoms spends a good chunk of his book in this museum, generating a running commentary on how everything therein has been so absurdly commodified, manufactured, spun and spat out for the consumption of the average outsider-art-museum-goer (a decidedly different crowd than the outsider-art-makers, themselves). I daresay, Baltimorians probably aren't so removed from New Yorkers as Waters might have us believe.
Can I just say that I love the serendipitousness of the manner in which I receive aesthetic input? As I've been reading The Colorful Apocalypse, I never would have stopped to relate it back to Pecker, had it not, just by chance, graced the cable listings late on a Tuesday evening.