Growing Up.

Yesterday, I met a young lady who talked a lot. I mean a lot. Not to say that what she was saying wasn't interesting or that the girl was unintelligent. But at 22, I suppose it's hard sometimes to understand how much you can learn by just being quiet.

Now there are a few things that make this New York chicadee slightly unique. 1) She is a sex worker. She is not a prostitute or strip joint stripper (are those considered sex workers or is that just entertainment industry?). Honestly, I'm not even certain if what she does is considered sex work exactly. But I think it is. 2) She is a writer.

Now I'm not going to lie to you. At times, this young self-assured woman touched upon a few topics that I felt she rather flippantly dismissed. Things that perhaps if she had a better understanding of, she wouldn't speak so authoritatively on. Because I can promise you that going through any type of storm as the ones she spoke of, you seldom come out with your thoughts and opinions so firmly in place. In retrospect, I find it rather unfortunate that I let these few comments get in the way of me seeing why I met her last night, at the time. Because young people talk—that's what they do. Moreover, it made me think of my own tendency still, when talking close with someone who makes me nervous and uncertain, to talk too much myself. Finding that I'm terrified that a silence will leave that person certain of my absolute ordinariness. Convinced that I will be remembered a bore if for one second the conversation turns to silent stardust. So truly, I should have empathized more with this girl. Looked past the seeming composed persona and remembered that people only talk that much when they feel they have something to prove. I've been there myself and still go there in certain company. (Goodness knows what maybe I've missed out on learning because being quiet seems so scary.)

But looking back, there was no real need to be upset. I've really tried to remember lately that we meet people designed to teach us something. Given the present state of my personal affairs, that's something I have to believe in—that there's a reason for every person that enters into our lives even if we misunderstand their purpose at first.

So perhaps I misunderstood this girl's purpose for entering into my life at the moment.

Sex work is something that fascinates and confuses me. Without a doubt, I agree to someone's right to offer whatever they want of themselves for sale. I mean—is a prostitute really giving more by sharing her body than a writer does by sharing her words? Because I would consider both rather sacred parts of us. And I find that as a writer, the more I give to the page, the less I find myself able to offer at the end of the day. So my issue with sex work (I suppose I am including exotic dancing a la lap dances and physically interactive stage work in this) is not whether it should be legal or any of that jazz. My issue is my own personal feelings about it—how I feel interacting with people who perform these services as well as my reasoning for not engaging in said professions.

Sometimes no matter how many years you've been gone from church, you find traces of its effects on your thought processes. I've always felt there to be something just innately wrong about sex work for my life and I guess at times this has led me to avoid relationships with people involved in the industry. Simply because something I can't understand makes me uncomfortable. As I've become more and more involved with burlesque, I have definitely started to release some of these boundaries of meeting people involved in selling sex—whether it be at a strip joint or in a hotel room or on the internet in porn or fetish. But as I met and talked with this girl—as I've gotten to know people involved in various alternative careers—really there's just a lot of envy in a way. Not only is she financially secure in a way that my college degree and nine to five position have yet to secure me, but she also seems really happy with her life and occupation. Similarly, I've met many women who used to be involved in a sexual type industry that seem a heck of a lot more together and happy with themselves than I ever have been.

So what does this all mean? I really have no fucking clue. I guess the lesson I'm trying to learn at this point is why I feel this ambivalent animosity when I first hear that someone is involved in the sex industry. This slight repulsion mixed with traces of jealousy. When I know that on paper I do not deny someone's right to sell themselves—any part of themselves whether it be their body or their minds. When I know for a fact I have met many individuals involved in different industries, including the young lady I met yesterday, that are intelligent and beautiful and well put together.

Perhaps it is their ability to say, "Fuck it, I'm embracing this ability of myself—to secure economic stability and freedom with my own body. Something gifted to me and meant to share as I please." I mean here this girl was touching on a few subjects that I felt were somewhat like war—don't talk about them unless you have experienced them. And I couldn't even open my mouth to say, um, excuse me, I've been there and I object. I can't even embrace the power of my own words. How on earth can she embrace her power every day to take control of her sessions and clients? To work on her own terms and have ample time to write and travel. That's a pretty cool power, and I guess in a lot of ways it does strike a chord of envy in me.

Maybe it's the appeal of knowing that you are wanted. That people will actually pay money to partake in you physically or sexually in some way. That's also a pretty awesome prowess. A confidence that I have yet to really carve out for myself—knowing that I'm desirable and demanding respect for that desirability.

I'm mighty confused on the details, but I think maybe the general lesson is I need to figure out that confidence. Find that self-assured-ness. Without actually partaking in those types of occupations. Because although I respect anyone's right to do so, even find myself envious at times of their ability to do so, sex work just isn't for me. I share enough of my thoughts. I don't want to share my full sexuality as well. Or even part of it really. Although I do love to tease ;).

But here's why I'm really grateful to have made this young lady's acquaintance. There is perhaps nothing else like the stories of another writer's success to light a fire under me. It kinda goes in phases. First, there is that overwhelming fear that because this person is being published, I will never find success of my own. Absurd, I know. But also true. Once I calm down a bit, settle back into reality, and realize that my own success is not prevented by someone else's success, I generally turn to wondering what is wrong with my own writing. Why it hasn't caught enough eyes yet.

But the final incarnation of this writer's jealousy I find myself so susceptible to (thankfully it never appears when it is people I already know and love that find success), makes it well worth the feeling of panic and inadequacy. It is when I realize, my words are good because they are not my own. And that when the timing is right everything will come out. For now, I just have to keep working toward being the best instrument I can for the writing muses that I firmly believe ink my pen for my long-handed love-making with words.

And with that, I've got a few stories to get back to now.

(Funny how a good night's sleep can completely rearrange your thought processes. I swear at times my Gemini twins work in shifts; bringing optimism to my mornings and sorrow to my evenings. I'm hoping to get them on some sort of new sleep schedule ;).)