Wednesday, 28 March 2012

Sex workers and Spanish Ladies


Good evening and greetings from Belfast where I have had a belting day. I don't want to brag about having had a particularly busy day but suffice to say that if CSI came in here, my bed would light up like a Christmas tree. So firstly, let me get announcements out of the way, I have done my diary until the end of May (I know, but I have two longer bookings coming up so I wanted to plan around them). Anyway, good news, I shall be visiting London (central, Bloomsbury) on the 21st and 22nd of May. I expect bookings for this visit to book up rather quickly so do get in touch if you fancy a bed picnic. I love London, I haven't been this excited since "Steps" announced their reunion.

This week The Met came under fire, overall they're not having a very good time of it at the moment, are they ? This time it was concerning their handling of looking for trafficked sex workers in the run up to the Olympics. A report commissioned by the London mayor, Boris Johnson accused officers of a "heavy handed" approach to brothel raids and of failing to find victims of trafficking. In his report, Andrew Boff said -
"The information I have gathered … demonstrates that police have been proactively raiding sex establishments without complaint nor significant intelligence that exploitation is taking place."

He went on to say -

"I believe the police have spent a lot of time trying to find victims of trafficking in the places where they are unlikely to be. The political drivers have been wrong on this. SCD9 is barking up the wrong tree.

"One of my starkest findings was the absence of west Africans among the women found by SCD9. These victims won't be found by going into a massage parlour and asking everybody whether they have been trafficked.

"By going in, in this way they are driving some of these women further into the shadows. There is evidence of increasing fear of the police amongst sex workers which has resulted in a reluctance to report crime."


He called on the police to rethink the way they investigate sex trafficking and to build better relations with sex workers.

Sorry to bang the proverbial drum, but is that not what I said verbatim in "The Skinny" ? Why don't the police open up communication with us, the sex workers and our clients also, specifically to combat trafficking ? We can help, we meet these people first hand. Although I am not a trafficked woman ( although under the current legislation, actually I am ... ) I come into contact with guys who have seen something they weren't happy with.

Solution - Throw an open invitation out to sex workers and their clients and allow them to come forward and report what they know, without having to give their real names or face the fact that they will forever be on some invisible register as a known sex worker or for that matter, "punter".

Meanwhile, this story really tickled me, Spain's high-class escorts are refusing to have sex with the nation's bankers - until they open up credit lines to cash-strapped families and firms.

Madrid's top-end prostitutes say their indefinite strike will continue until bank employees 'fulfil their responsibility to society' and start offering bigger loans for struggling Spaniards. GO GIRLS !!

LL xx

Tuesday, 20 March 2012

Rottweilers and Rolf Harris


See, here's the thing. When I was growing up, I thought ( I really did ) that when you reach 18, someone on high presses a magic button and you suddenly become uber sensible. No more "wedgies", prank phone calls, sniggering at sex scenes, that sort of thing. When there was no change, I assumed I'd set the bar too high and it must be 21 when the magic happens. Much to my dismay, I still found phoning the personal loan department of a bank to request a loan for a flock of sheep ( because I couldn't be arsed to mow the lawn ) hysterically funny, so adulthood had clearly missed me in the queue. I did the only thing I could do in the circumstances, I decided to wing it. When I think back now to how much of a gobshite I must have sounded it makes me cringe, because I thought that now my clothes actually matched and I had a handbag and car keys I had truly arrived. Err, naw.

At some point through my twenties I had a startling revelation. "Adults" aren't adults at all, simply fatter children with a mortgage. I was thinking this evening ( randomly ) about a visit to my local supermarket in the not too distant past with Claire and Amanda. Never having been one to resist a dare, Amanda got down on the floor of the shop and threw a full on tantrum, much to the dismay of La Princess who placed herself several aisles away from us, (it ruins her street cred apparently, in fact the ongoing threat in my house is a big squishy kiss on the cheek in the middle of Asda). The tantrum had to be seen to be believed, it was enough to make any toddler green with envy, there were balled fists, kicking feet, the LOT. Claire and I were just about standing, with tears running down our faces. The best of it all was the rather rotund woman who wandered past us with her trolley, she said; "Do you know, I've always wanted to do that."

Moving swiftly on, anyone who knows me well will tell you, I'm constantly "greetin'" (crying). I cry when I'm angry, sad, frustrated, happy, in fact for any reason that you care to mention. One instance which comes to mind is that TV show which was on a number of years ago and featured Rolf Harris in a vet's hospital. In this particular episode, a HUGE skinhead turned up at the surgery with more piercings than sense and if you met him down a dark alley you would certainly clutch your handbag to your side. With him, was his very large Rottweiler, just to add to the schema. The vet gave him the terrible news that she was really suffering and in pain and the kindest thing to do would be to put her to sleep, so he asked if he could have a few minutes with her before she had her injection. In the end, he was crying, the vet was crying, Rolf Harris was howling and even the camera crew were sniffling. I was beyond consolation and howled for an hour. *sigh*

It's very seldom that the written word can reduce me to tears though, it usually has to be visual. I just found the exception to that rule. A number of ladies have collaborated on a blog where they can post anonymously about their lives as escorts, their backgrounds and anything they like really, it's called "Stories from behind the red light" and the link is here. The particular piece which got me is here. Now, I could go into a long rant about how if there was less stigma attached to the industry then she wouldn't have had to lie etc. etc. but the story is so powerful that it says all it needs to.

LL xx

P.S : I've been asked to do a guest blog once a month on a US site, how exciting is that ? I'll need to get my thinking cap on and change my spellcheck to the US version ;)

Saturday, 10 March 2012

Pasta and Parenting


Good evening and greetings from home where I am awaiting the abomination known as "cheesy pasta" to be served, compliments of my (now) 11 year old. With increased age comes increased responsibility I suppose, so I will let her use the cooker provided I can lurk in various doorways with a tea towel handy, just in case. Where I couldn't lurk this week was when she went on a group outing to see "The Muppets" at the cinema. There was a group of 8 of them, all duly dropped off and collected by parents, who had been nominated by text - "Feck off, I did the birthday party last week". You'd think, wouldn't you, that I would relish the thoughts of a couple of hours alone in the house, to maybe get some study done, a little ironing or in reality, visiting THAT place on You-Tube, when you've followed a link from a link and end up ( as I did ) in an animated "discussion" with some semi-literate gobshite from Tennessee as to the rights and wrongs of coon hunting. I digress.

The reason I couldn't settle down into any of my favourite activities, (yes, even Porn Hub and my Magic Wand were foregone ) is because herself was on a date. Yep, a DATE. He's 12, so obviously she prefers the older gents like her Mother. On first appreciation of the horrid fact that she was "going out" with someone, I flew down to the school like a woman possessed. No way was my daughter going to land in my kitchen at the age of 15 with some tracksuit wearing clown to announce that I was going to be a Grandma and further, that we were booked to appear on Jeremy Kyle the following week, I THINK NOT.

My fears were appeased by the very wonderful teacher therein, and he assured me that these "relationships", (such as they are) are usually over before they have started and are entirely innocent. Hmmm. Nevertheless, I sent her off to the cinema with a stern warning that were she to kiss a boy, there are enzymes in her mouth which mean her tongue will turn black and I will know, instantly. You might think it's mean to send your child to the cinema in a state of irrational fear, I call it a pre-emptory strike. Parenting at this level is new, and difficult too. I could deal with hands down toilets, toast in the DVD player and decking other toddlers, that was easy peasy.

Anyway, as it happened, she came home to announce loudly that he had been "dumped". Yes, four days into romance of the century and it was all over, there goes any notions I had of negotiating deals with "Howya" magazine and securing several white doves, (all cared for and with the best of welfare, of course). My feverish search for a "Mother of the Bride" outfit can wait, apparently of more importance this week coming rather than the broken heart she has heartlessly walked away from is the forthcoming cheer leading try-outs, deep joy.

I'm off to Inverness on Monday and will catch up with you from there, there are some fantastic blogs I want to draw your attention to when I am finally alone in a hotel room, devoid of any newly emergent hormones or the zoo that surrounds me here.

LL xx

Friday, 2 March 2012

Articles and Archives


Good evening and greetings from home, where I am chilling out with the motley crew, it's very fecking difficult to write and concentrate when there is a large beige coloured hamster scooting all over the desk, intent on committing repeated hamstercide by leaping from the edge. Before I forget to mention it, I am no longer touring to Brighton ( I am going there, but I will have La Princess with me ), instead I have decided to visit central London in May, dates to be confirmed.

The recent interview I did for "The Skinny" magazine was published today - link here. Overall I'm very pleased with it, most importantly I got the piece in about the legislation although I dearly wish I hadn't being quoted as saying "for fuck sake", hahaha. Don't think that the irony of being included in a magazine called "The Skinny" has been lost on me for one minute, I think it's delicious.

Moving swiftly on, there are many blogs belonging to academic writers whom I admire greatly. I am often in awe at their knowledge and their ability to articulate it too, with particular reference to Laura Agustin. Recently on her blog, there appeared a letter from a lady purporting to be a prostitute, dating back to 1858 and addressed to The Times. The reason I say "purporting" is because according to the critics at the time, a woman who chooses to be a prostitute couldn't possibly be lucid, never mind articulate and pugnacious, so it was deemed from many quarters to be fictitious. Regardless, I think it's stupendous, and it serves to illustrate that in spite of the chasm of time between us, she speaks of the same problems that we as sex workers encounter today, the presumption of a particular social status, the stigma, the misapprehension of her job, the affiliation in the minds of most of all elements of the industry, it's all there. She speaks to the notion of the "rescue industry" too, her approach to them is quite robust and very encouraging given the times she lived in.

Although it's long, it's well worth a read -

Sir, Another ‘Unfortunate’, but of a class entirely different from the one who has already instructed the public in your columns, presumes to address you. I am a stranger to all the fine sentiments which still linger in the bosom of your correspondent. I have none of those youthful recollections which, contrasting her early days with her present life, aggravate the misery of the latter.

My parents did not give me any education; they did not instil into my mind virtuous precepts nor set me a good example. All my experi­ences in early life were gleaned among associates who knew nothing of the laws of God but by dim tradition and faint report, and whose chiefest triumphs of wisdom consisted in picking their way through the paths of destitution in which they were cast by cunning evasion or in open defiance of the laws of man.

I do not think of my parents (long in their graves) with any such compunctions as your correspondent describes. They gave me in their lifetime, according to their means and knowledge, and as they had probably received from their parents, shelter and protection, mixed with curses and caresses. I received all as a matter of course, and, knowing nothing better, was content in that kind of contentedness which springs from insensibility; I returned their affection in like kind as they gave it to me. As long as they lived, I looked up to them as my parents. I assisted them in their poverty, and made them comfortable. They looked on me and I on them with pride, for I was proud to be able to minister to their wants; and as for shame, although they knew perfectly well the means by which I obtained money, I do assure you, Sir, that by them, as by myself, my success was regarded as the reward of a proper ambition, and was a source of real pleasure and gratification.

Let me tell you something of my parents. My father’s most profitable occupation was brickmaking. When not employed at this, he did any­thing he could get to do. My mother worked with him in the brickfield, and so did I and a progeny of brothers and sisters; for somehow or other, although my parents occupied a very unimportant space in the world, it pleased God to make them fruitful. We all slept in the same room. There were few privacies, few family secrets in our house.

Father and mother both loved drink. In the household expenses, had accounts been kept, gin or beer would have been the heaviest items. We, the children, were indulged occasionally with a drop, but my honoured parents reserved to themselves the exclusive privilege of getting drunk, ‘and they were the same as their parents had been’. I give you a chapter of the history of common life which may be stereotyped as the history of generation upon generation.

We knew not anything of religion. Sometimes when a neighbour died we went to the burial, and thus got within a few steps of the church. If a grand funeral chanced to fall in our way we went to see that, too—the fine black horses and nodding plumes—as we went to see the soldiers when we could for a lark. No parson ever came near us. The place where we lived was too dirty for nicely-shod gentlemen. ‘The Publicans and Sinners’ of our circumscribed, but thickly populated locality had no ‘friend’ among them.

Our neighbourhood furnished many subjects to the treadmill, the hulks, and the colonies, and some to the gallows. We lived with the fear of those things, and not with the fear of God before our eyes.

I was a very pretty child, and had a sweet voice; of course I used to sing. Most London boys and girls of the lower classes sing. ‘My face is my fortune, kind sir, she said’, was the ditty on which I bestowed most pains, and my father and mother would wink knowingly as I sang it. The latter would also tell me how pretty she was when young, and how she sang, and what a fool she had been, and how well she might have done had she been wise.

Frequently we had quite a stir in our colony. Some young lady who had quitted the paternal restraints, or perhaps, had started off, none knew whither or how, to seek her fortune, would reappear among us with a profusion of ribands, fine clothes, and lots of cash. Visiting the neighbours, treating indiscriminately, was the order of the day on such occasions, without any more definite information of the means by which the dazzling transformation had been effected than could be conveyed by knowing winks and the words ‘luck’ and ‘friends’. Then she would disappear and leave us in our dirt, penury, and obscurity. You cannot conceive, Sir, how our ambition was stirred by these visitations.

Now commences an important era in my life. I was a fine, robust, healthy girl, 13 years of age. I had larked with the boys of my own age. I had huddled with them, boys and girls together, all night long in our common haunts. I had seen much and heard abundantly of the mysteries of the sexes. To me such things had been matters of common sight and common talk. For some time I had coquetted on the verge of a strong curiosity, and a natural desire, and without a particle of affection, scarce a partiality, I lost—what? not my virtue, for I never had any.

That which is commonly, but untruly called virtue, I gave away. You reverend Mr Philanthropist—what call you virtue? Is it not the principle, the essence, which keeps watch and ward over the conduct, the substance, the materiality? No such principle ever kept watch and ward over me, and I repeat that I never lost that which I never had – my virtue.

According to my own ideas at the time I only extended my rightful enjoyments. Opportunity was not long wanting to put my newly acquired knowledge to profitable use. In the commencement of my fifteenth year one of our be-ribanded visitors took me off, and introduced me to the great world, and thus commenced my career as what you better classes call a prostitute. I cannot say that I felt any other shame than the bashfulness of a noviciate introduced to strange society. Remarkable for good looks, and no less so for good temper, I gained money, dressed gaily, and soon agreeably astonished my parents and old neighbours by making a descent upon them.

Passing over the vicissitudes of my course, alternating between reckless gaiety and extreme destitution, I improved myself greatly; and at the age of 15 was living partly under the protection of one who thought he discovered that I had talent, and some good qualities as well as beauty, who treated me more kindly and considerately than I had ever before been treated, and thus drew from me something like a feeling of regard, but not sufficiently strong to lift me to that sense of my position which the so-called virtuous and respectable members of society seem to entertain. Under the protection of this gentleman, and encouraged by him, I commenced the work of my education; that portion of education which is comprised in some knowledge of my own language and the ordinary accomplishments of my sex; moral science, as I believe it is called, has always been an enigma to me, and is so to this day. I suppose it is because I am one of those who, as Rousseau says, are ‘born to be prostitutes’.

Common honesty I believe in rigidly. I have always paid my debts, and, though I say it, I have always been charitable to my fellow crea­tures. I have not neglected my duty to my family. I supported my parents while they lived, and buried them decently when they died. I paid a celebrated lawyer heavily for defending unsuccessfully my eldest brother, who had the folly to be caught in the commission of a robbery. I forgave him the offence against the law in the theft, and the offence against discretion in being caught. This cost me some effort, for I always abhorred stealing. I apprenticed my younger brother to a good trade, and helped him into a little business. Drink frustrated my efforts in his behalf. Through the influence of a very influential gentleman, a very particular friend of mine, he is now a well-conducted member of the police. My sisters, whose early life was in all respects the counterpart of my own, I brought out and started in the world. The elder of the two is kept by a nobleman, the next by an officer in the army; the third has not yet come to years of discretion, and is ‘having her fling’ before she settles down.

Now, what if I am a prostitute, what business has society to abuse me? Have I received any favours at the hands of society? If I am a hideous cancer in society, are not the causes of the disease to be sought in the rottenness of the carcass? Am I not its legitimate child; no bastard, Sir? Why does my unnatural parent repudiate me, and what has society ever done for me, that I should do anything for it, and what have I ever done against society that it should drive me into a corner and crush me to the earth? I have neither stolen (at least since I was a child), nor murdered, nor defrauded. I earn my money and pay my way, and try to do good with it, according to my ideas of good. I do not get drunk, nor fight, nor create uproar in the streets or out of them. I do not use bad language. I do not offend the public eye by open indecencies. I go to the Opera, I go to Almack’s, I go to the theatres, I go to quiet, well-conducted casinos, I go to all the places of public amusement, behaving myself with as much propriety as society can exact. I pay business visits to my trades­people, the most fashionable of the West-end. My milliners, my silk­mercers, my bootmakers, know, all of them, who I am and how I live, and they solicit my patronage as earnestly and cringingly as if I were Madam, the Lady of the right rev, patron of the Society for the Sup­pression of Vice. They find my money as good and my pay better (for we are robbed on every hand) than that of Madam, my Lady; and, if all the circumstances and conditions of our lives had been reversed, would Madam, my Lady, have done better or been better than I?

I speak of others as well as for myself, for the very great majority, nearly all the real undisguised prostitutes in London, spring from my class, and are made by and under pretty much such conditions of life as I have narrated, and particularly by untutored and unrestrained intercourse of the sexes in early life. We come from the dregs of society, as our so-called betters term it. What business has society to have dregs—such dregs as we? You railers of the Society for the Suppression of Vice, you the pious, the moral, the respectable, as you call yourselves, who stand on your smooth and pleasant side of the great gulf you have dug and keep between yourselves and the dregs, why don’t you bridge it over, or fill it up, and by some humane and generous process absorb us into your leavened mass, until we become interpenetrated with goodness like yourselves? What have we to be ashamed of, we who do not know what shame is—the shame you mean?

I conduct myself prudently, and defy you and your policemen too. Why stand you there mouthing with sleek face about morality? What is morality? Will you make us responsible for what we never knew? Teach us what is right and tutor us in what is good before you punish us for doing wrong. We who are the real prostitutes of the true natural growth of society, and no impostors, will not be judged by ‘One more unfortunate’, nor measured by any standard of her setting up. She is a mere chance intruder in our ranks, and has no business there. She does understand what shame means and knows all about it, at least so it seems, and if she has a particle left, let her accept ‘Amicus’s’ kind offer as soon as possible.

Like ‘One more unfortunate’ there are other intruders among us—a few, very few, ‘victims of seduction’. But seduction is not the root of the evil—scarcely a fibre of the root. A rigorous law should be passed and rigorously carried out to punish seduction, but it will not perceptibly thin the ranks of prostitution. Seduction is the common story of numbers of well brought up, who never were seduced, and who are voluntary and inexcusable profligates. Vanity and idleness send us a large body of recruits. Servant girls, who wish to ape their mistress’ finery, and whose wages won’t permit them to do so honestly—these set up seduction as their excuse. Married women, who have no respect for their husbands, and are not content with their lawful earnings, these are the worst among us, and it is a pity they cannot be picked out and punished. They have no principle of any kind and are a disgrace to us. If I were a married woman I would be true to my husband. I speak for my class, the regular standing army of the force.

Gentlemen of philanthropic societies and members of the Society for the Suppression of Vice may build reformatories and open houses of refuge and Magdalen asylums, and ‘Amicus’ may save occasionally a ‘fallen sister’ who can prevail on herself to be saved; but we who never were sisters—who never had any relationship, part, interest, or com­munion with the large family of this world’s virtues, moralities, and proprieties—we, who are not fallen, but were always down—who never had any virtue to lose—we who are the natural growth of things, and are constantly ripening for the harvest—who, interspersed in our little, but swarming colonies throughout the kingdom at large, hold the source of supply and keep it fruitful—what do they propose to do with us? Cannot society devise some plan to reach us?

‘One more unfortunate’ proposes a ‘skimming’ progress. But what of the great bubbling cauldron? Remove from the streets a score or two of ‘foreign women’, and ‘double as many English’, and you diminish the competition of those that remain; the quiet, clever, cunning cajolers described by ‘One more unfortunate’. You hide a prurient pimple of the ‘great sin’ with a patch of that plaster known as the ‘observance of propriety’, and nothing more. You ‘miss’ the evil, but it is existent still. After all it is something to save the eye from offence, so remove them; and not only a score or two, but something like two hundred foreign women, whose open and disgusting indecen­cies and practices have contributed more than anything else to bring on our heads the present storm of indignation. It is rare that English women, even prostitutes, give cause of gross public offence. Cannot they be packed off to their own countries with their base, filthy and filthy- living men, whom they maintain, and clothe, and feed, to superintend their fortunes, and who are a still greater disgrace to London than these women are?

Hurling big figures at us, it is said that there are 80,000 of us in London alone—which is a monstrous falsehood—and of those 80,000, poor hardworking sewing girls, sewing women, are numbered in by thousands, and called indiscriminately prostitutes; writing, preaching, speechifying, that they have lost their virtue too.

It is a cruel calumny to call them in mass prostitutes; and, as for their virtue, they lose it as one loses his watch who is robbed by the highway thief. Their virtue is the watch, and society is the thief. These poor women toiling on starvation wages, while penury, misery, and famine clutch them by the throat and say, ‘Render up your body or die’.

Admire this magnificent shop in this fashionable street; its front, fittings, and decorations cost no less than a thousand pounds. The respectable master of the establishment keeps his carriage and lives in his country-house. He has daughters too; his patronesses are fine ladies, the choicest impersonations of society. Do they think, as they admire the taste and elegance of that tradesman’s show, of the poor creatures who wrought it, and what they were paid for it? Do they reflect on the weary toiling fingers, on the eyes dim with watching, on the bowels yearning with hunger, on the bended frames, on the broken constitutions, on poor human nature driven to its coldest corner and reduced to its narrowest means in the production of these luxuries and adornments? This is an old story! Would it not be truer and more charitable to call these poor souls ‘victims’ ?—some gentler, some more humane name than prostitute—to soften by some Christian expression if you cannot better the un-Christian system, the opprobrium of a fate to which society has driven them by the direst straits? What business has society to point its finger in scorn, to raise its voice in reprobation of them? Are they not its children, born of the cold indifference, of its callous selfishness, of its cruel pride?

Sir, I have trespassed on your patience beyond limit, and yet much remains to be said. . . The difficulty of dealing with the evil is not so great as society considers it. Setting aside ‘the sin’, we are not so bad as we are thought to be. The difficulty is for society to set itself, with the necessary earnestness, self-humiliation, and self-denial, to the work. To deprive us of proper and harmless amusements, to subject us in mass to the pressure of force—of force wielded, for the most part, by ignorant, and often by brutal men—is only to add the cruelty of active persecution to the cruelty of passive indifference which made us as we are.

I remain, your humble servant, Another Unfortunate.



LL xx