Prose & Lore, Issue 3: Memoir Stories About Sex Work

by Audacia Ray

The problem was, they’d almost always ask why I chose to work as a stripper. Such a pesky question loaded with judgment. Um, for money, isn’t that obvious?

was turning patriarchy on its head by using the money men

spend on pussy to get a degree.

You DEGRADE yourself for shoes and handbags and drinks? Yes, Manolo Blahniks and gin and tonics. Mere frivolities. The bottom tier in the hierarchy of morally-sanctioned purchases.

but what kind of woman strips for discretionary income alone?

He didn’t trust me.

Any time we had an argument—especially about money—he would bring up my stripper past.

but living with my generous, patient, and loving parents has helped.

Even though I can’t spend all my money on fun like I did in university, dancing sure beats what I got paid as an office drudge.

why I would go back to an occupation that “exploits” women over a nice, respectable office job. As if stapling, photocopying, and answering phones for barely above minimum wage and no benefits isn’t exploitation.

professional fetishist, just like I’m a professional fetish-teller.

A corset feels like an in-between thing, halfway between armor and display case: or an ultra-padded bra (armor) and a binder (display case).

nothing to do with my father.” Find the thing that’s supposed to be black and white, and translate it.

My enthusiasm was forever flagging. It needed a fluffer.

Then I would notice that they wanted measurements. 36D-24-38. I didn’t even know what my measurements were.

For the millionth time I thought, vaginas and penises have no natural complementarity whatsoever.

and his blue eyes caught the streetlight and gleamed

“Right. So why would I rape you now?” “Probably because you’re going to kill me afterwards.” “Hmmm …well, no one would know you were gone, right?” I stopped walking. “Hey, pal. Kink would know when I don’t show up tomorrow.”

“Are you familiar with The Seven Summits?” he asked. “No, but I can guess. You climb the highest mountain on every continent?” “That’s right.”

My roommate is a radical butch queer—“ “Everyone’s college roommate is a radical butch queer.“

My father never makes reference to the period of his life he spent away from my mother, never mentions what he did or why he did it or why he came back. But he still talks about San Francisco. He talks about it like an old lover, and if it bothers my mother, she never says a word.

This desire for death was different. It grew inside me. It started in my bones and suffused my muscles and my skin. It was genuine and warm and without fear.

There was no panic, just a dizzy obsession.

It always came back to warmth, to self-love.

I was aware of being aware, aware of a small part of me sitting at the top of my mind and looking down at the rest of it, passing judgment.

Or, I conceived of where to find it: in every movie ever made. If one frame was taken from every film—pornographic movie, shitty blockbuster thriller, art house masterpiece—and placed in the correct order, the most profound tale in human history would be revealed, more profound than any individual could conceive.