Siouxsie Q - Truth, Justice, and the American Whore

Every week since January of 2014, I have cranked out 700 words about sex in America today. My first big assignment for the SF Weekly was to write a 4,000-word feature story that would introduce me to the readers and launch my column, The Whore Next Door. I took the month of January to write Confessions of An American Whore, a mini memoir of my sex-work journey so far.

Ive wanted to be a writer since the second grade, but I went the route of plays, poems, and rock n roll tours. I had never written something for the newspaper before, so there was a pretty steep learning curve.

When I think about that first draft I sent to my editors, I cringe with embarrassment. I barely had any clue what I was doing.

Luckily, there were plenty of people holding my hand along the way.

My incredible partners and friends, who graciously listened to my caffeine-crazed ideas and helped me craft my voice, have also wiped my tears and steadied my hand when it all felt like too much. Thanks, guys.

I have also had the privilege of working with editors that believe in me, even when my first drafts were basically terrible: Kate Conger, Brandon Reynolds, Giselle Velasquez, and Peter Kane have all gone above and beyond the call of editor, by giving me a shot, and putting the final polish on my pieces so that the world thinks Im much more eloquent than I actually am. Thanks, yall.

And of course, my perfect parents, who cheered me on even when they didnt understand. My dad who never pulled any punches when it came to constructive criticism and was keen to point out when I had knocked it out of the park, and also when I only got a single. And my mom, who often reminds me of the spell she cast during her pregnancy, wishing and praying that someday I would be a writer. Careful what you wish for, Mom. Thanks, you two.

This book is an opportunity to step back and really look at the story Ive been telling. Its a love story, for sure. There are sad parts, and even a few scary parts. Navigating love, sex, and money in this great nation is no small feat.

Doing sex work where it is currently criminalized is bold, and putting your face on every street corner in San Francisco next to the word Whore is possibly stupid. And yet, this feels like it is, without a doubt, exactly what I am supposed to be doing.

In Rilkes Letters to a Young Poet, he tells the novice writer he is in correspondence with,

Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple I must, then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse.

For me, the impulse has never been about the craft, but rather, the purpose. In the wee small hours of the morning, I know in my bones that what I must do is not simply write, but rather make this world a more beautiful, true, and just place.

In the most silent hour of night I ask myself, Must I do this? And the answer is always strong and simple: I must.

Dearest reader,

Americans are obsessed with talking about work. When strangers meet on the train, at a party, or on a date, one person will almost always inquire about the others profession within the first five minutes. And when the pervasive attitude about my job is negative, backed up and reinforced by laws that criminalize me and my profession, coming out as a sex worker is a terrifying prospect.

My mothers reaction when I told her I danced naked for a living was one of excited fascination, like I had just told her Id been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (which, truth be told, was kind of what working at the late, great, Lusty Lady Theater felt like but more on that later).

My husbands mother, however, chose to never speak to me again.

Perhaps you, dear reader, would make the same choice if your son brought home a girl like me. Many would.

But here we are.

I dont know you.

You could be a cop, a serial killer, or my mother-in-lawyou could wish me harm, think that I should be thrown in jail or, at the very least, look down on me because I have sex for money.

Maybe youve never met a sex worker before.

Perhaps most of your information about sex work has come from Law & Order and you think that something about the sex industry is inherently harmful and dangerous. Maybe you think Im nave, annoying, or, at the very least, misguided.

And maybe you dont think any of those things. Maybe you are a whore yourself, or maybe you have loved a whore. Maybe you still do.

Or maybe you just liked the photo of me on the cover and wanted to know more. Thats okay, too.

For whatever reason youve chosen to take my little book into your hands and sit with these words, thank you.

People fear what they do not understand, and many people do not understand sex worktheir feelings about it, the realities of it, or the people who do it.

So the fact that you are brave enough to look at these issues, ask the hard questions, and sit with the feelings of fear or discomfort that may arise, is commendable.

So lets begin:

Hi. My name is Siouxsie Q, and Im a sex worker.