Nothing is more distressing than the sound of a sad prostitute.
I regularly visit Darlinghurst and Kings Cross whenever I’m in Sydney – there are fabulous restaurants and bars along every road, convenience is never too far away. These two areas are also frequented after 7pm by ladies of the evening, whose services are offered to a diverse range of the male species: businessmen, married men, lonely men and adolescents desperate to lose their virginity to name a few. Had I not known any better the first time I walked up Bourke Street, it would have been easy to mistake one of these ladies with any of the other young females out for the evening. (As years go by, hemlines get shorter… and there are many females who wear skirts so short you can see what they had for breakfast… yesterday.) The only thing distinguishing the two is that one walks up William Street on the way to the Cross; the other just walks it.
I was walking out of the Cross on Friday with my friend Matt after a fantastic night out, and we were witness to a car full of rowdy young males who screamed “Show us your tits!” to a sex worker outside a bar. Other cars made a chorus as they drove by also, honking their horns and yelling obscenities at her and another young woman just a little further down the street. We both commented that these women are not stupid: one car carrying four males went so far as to stop in front of the first woman but she knew better than to get in. I heard her sigh as we walked past.
These were the same types of idiots who, to some degree, kept me awake in the wee hours of Sunday morning as they persisted in harassing the sex workers outside the apartment I am currently staying in (whether they were the same ones we encountered on Friday, I do not know). These people are the kinds who holler “WHORE!” but probably don’t know how to spell it. (Even as I write this, I hear them. Every night.) With their ridiculously souped up cars and mammoth exhaust pipes (disproportionate to the size of their genitalia I’m certain), they hurled sixth grade insults at these women. Trying to understand the point of this behaviour, one has to wonder if it is as simple as one of the many consequences of too much liquor… or, really, if they are attempting to woo these women into spending an hour with them (or, judging by their sense of style, twenty minutes). To the latter, I can only respond again that they are smart enough not to get in a car with assholes.
I had written an entirely different piece on prostitution earlier that looked at the need for decriminalisation to provide a safe environment for sex workers and prevent the spread of sexually transmitted diseases, and taking control away from pimps who, as investigations have proven time and time again, rule the trade by way of drugs, money and violence. Perhaps my outlook on this topic, as in many other aspects of life, is influenced by two people in particular: Terence and Dolly Parton.
Terence, in Heauton Timoroumenos, wrote “Homo sum: humani nil a me alienum puto.” Nothing human is alien to me. Dolly Parton has said throughout her career that her image was originally based on the “town tramp.” The title track on her latest album Backwoods Barbie brought this to mind: “I’ve always been misunderstood because of how I look / Don’t judge me by the cover ’cause I’m a real good book / So read into it what you will but see me as I am / The way I look is just a country girl’s idea of glam.”
This goes deeper than the law. End rant.
