SEX WORKERS IN BRIGHTON, THE MEME
I went to Brighton on Tuesday for the evening. I went to a STRIP CLUB. THE stripclub. I could ad nauseum complain about the Strip Club but it was an honestly intended attempt and I admire that.
The adult industry has been missing me, I can tell.
Actually no one really misses me. I prefer it that way.
There is a tone of voice – that my sex addict stalkers are not going to ‘read the tone’ in this post in but someone, somewhere, out there, gets me. They are laughing with me. If I explain myself too much they’ll take notes.
I wrote recently in a condolence book fashioned after the old fashioned hand written diary, in cursive of all the possible handwriting styles, ‘your world or mine – you win, you win, you win’. It is a dare, though. Everyone suffers for it. Good. Suffer. Thats what I want.
After a night at the strip club – I had a local come up to me and ask if I was a prostitute, not out of any kind of apparent personal judgement but out of genuine inquiry. Which I thought was nice.
My inner feminist enjoyed this dialogue, my inner contemplative prostitute would not have, because my inner prostitute obsesses after love, beauty, anti-static old lady fabrics to drape on the walls, cotton everything and writing books for young girls who refuse to not-live-in-PTSD-land, and art and maybe poetry to some extent – and yet: not poetry because at the back of her mind she knows that some terrible, funny man will find her poetry’ and even if it is good it is not good because he is that-kind-of-evil. My inner prostitute has no friends but if she had friends, her friends would have to be mean to cope with her hormones and heartbreak, the latter of which is a luxury and pasttime for all aspiring prostitutes. The former of which is ‘book an abortion once a month if you eat and do that work’
My teenage self would’ve been very amused by that assumption, and played upto it – not realising that sometimes the exchange of the thought of the interaction is more than enough – but no I’m not a prostitute.
I don’t accept money or payment in exchange for sex. That includes all the before-sex stuff too. I can talk about all of that with all of the specifics, which is sad and at this point I’d have to charge a person to have that conversation.
Which is sad, because none of it contributes to my personal sexuality but I overestimated everything.
Actually I really, really don’t want to talk to you about the sex-stuff I want to do with you, if I am sexually interested in you. I would enjoy doing drugs with you and watching cartoons. That is the ultimate fantasy. You are not boring. You make me laugh. You do not judge me when I do not shave my legs. You know that shaving my legs is very tiring and you give me presents as a reward for shaving my legs. I will be your live in pet kittie but I need the presents. He doesn’t call back but pretending he means to is nice.
I can talk very openly and very specifically about all of the possible sexual favours, from a sex-workers perspective (as you would attempt to market a property for sale) because it is work I have considered many times.
For the young girl boasting ingenue looks: men like it when you say “Oh but I am so inexperienced, vulnerable and naive” and actually, let them like it. You know that angry girl face I make when I fancy people? Do not do that. They will assume that you are evil and that means they can do ‘evil’ things to you. If you convince them that you can cope with their being ‘evil’ they will
because a very significant aspect of that which men have built their egos upon involves their convincing themselves that they are not protected for being terrible. The police pity one another, fraternity first: a woman can make your life hell and it starts with “I have been through worse than you are capable of”, they do not like that. You are frightening. You are a scary man. They like this, don’t say it though: think it. It arouses them. But so does washing your hands apparently.
I do not exchange sexual favours for cash either. I enjoy that you’d assume as much from how I dress or act, but that is my feminist persona. My feminist persona would attempt to convey to someone that assumed I was a prostitute (because I was not wearing a cagoule or cropped jeans) that if I were a prostitute and a destitute one, I would still decline the advance. Just incase love is real and one day someone attractive loves me for who I really am. I laughed at my own joke. That was a joke. No, I mean it.
Truly. Any boyfriend I have ever had (my relationships generally last 3+ years) will confirm that I am adequately vanilla and eye-closing and that I only wear cute underwear or sexy pyjamas if they’ve been cheating on me and have an attractive friend staying over or I’ve put some make up on and I’m taking selfies. I’d be a very boring prostitute.
I am – however – the kind of person to charge for conversation. That is how good I am at it. But you will fall in love with me and you will think I am a robot because I break down all of your weird walls because I have more weird walls than you do.
I am an advocate for ethical, ethically taxed and ethically moderated sex work and sex workers and I believe it’s important for women to feel comfortable walking around dressed provocatively without feeling that they are inviting male attention.
I’m not afraid of male attention, or polite interactions.
I retract this: Everyone in Brighton is fucking hideous and you cannot exchange well intended pleasantries with anyone because they will convince themselves you would want to have sex with them. I have a collection of pubic hairs belonging to an old man that I was very unkind to, but let me continue. Apparently that is what they do here.
Like Denmark, You cannot risk making eye contact with men in Brighton, even if you have had a very, very specific dialogue exchange wherein you clarified the following with your neighbour:
“You know i don’t find you attractive” (he replied “yes”)
“You know what rape is” (he replied “yes”)
“You know I don’t want to have sex with you” (“yes”, again)
“You know that it is rape, because you know I am not sexually attracted to you” (he indicated to convey that he understood)
“you know that rape is illegal” (I also told him that if I caught him and took him to court that I would inform them that I had had this conversation with him, so he knew I was quite serious about it)
People here are so desperate for something to observe, so desperate for interaction that affords them some feeling of intrinsic significance that removes them from their background-story appearance (trust me, that is what you really want, to be not-noticed) to be famous/to recieve attention that it becomes a vague concern that they do these things for attention.
I went so far as to confirm: “you know that I don’t find you attractive, even if you see me in a state of undress, which happens on flat lobbies that separate the living space and the toilet”, verbally and aloud.
And back to the original post:
If you see me – I’m new in town as of next month. COME SAY HI. INVITE ME FOR A DRINK. TAKE ME SHOPPING.
Edit: Actually don’t take me shopping. There is one good shop here and I am not taking you to that shop, no matter how fond I am of you. My stalkers stock that shop. ‘It’s for me’, to quote one of my stalkers.
I dressed up and everything.
Humour aside: I was treated like a prostitute in this outfit.
Here’s how I dressed the following day. I was sitting outside a cafe called Chapter XIII.
A ruffled dress with dead daisy print, an Isabel Marant rara skirt, a knitted snood (Asos, 2005) and a faux fur stole.
A local lady told me I looked beautiful and my heart fluttered. No man that has ever complimented me has had the same heart-response. She made me remember how much I enjoy telling beautiful women that they’re beautiful.
I’m moving not far off Brighton’s coast in March, ifffff I don’t get the job as a youth worker in Haringey.
Haringey council apparently wants people who have degrees in social work. Spare me the absolute fucking insult of the hint or suggestion that I’m under-qualified. I grew up with the most emotionally abusive family you can imagine, watching my sister have thousands spent on her and getting £20 or so spending money a month for a travel card to go see my then-boyfriend on the weekends while she shopped/frequented expensive clubs/went on yacht trips with her friends – and a severely autistic brother who was so fucked up about our home life that he had to abuse drugs to find happiness. His only decent memories involved being on drugs. The only good time he has ever had has been at quarry raves with kids. He was robbed of being the coolest person in the World to being abused by the police from Dubai to London town and reduced to the false help that psychiatrists still endeavour to pretend they’re offering by forcing spiritual masters to take pills. And my “father” was too cowardly to know how to protect him, my “mother” too fixated on the sad 50s borderline BDSM housewife-protected-by-men dynamic that advertising companies were selling to women (it’s the WOMEN in the 50’s you wanted to be afraid of) and my sister too invested in being given everything she wanted to notice how fucking terrible she looked to anyone that knew what was going on.
The people with “degrees” who’ve been “helping” my brother for sixteen years of his stolen life still haven’t done anything to help or make a difference. And then years later I realised I’d been a victim of a pedophile ring in a block of police flats in Ealing when I was being child-minded by a family my mother thought of as born again Christians. It’s okay – it’s FUNNY to me – it HAS TO BE.
At the very least I can teach society’s victims to LAUGH about it. Thats what got me through the kind of bullying and abuse that most people would’ve ended up committing suicide over. I grew up with a compulsive liar for a sister too – I mean she really can’t help it and whats worse is that my mother sent her to a performing arts school.
If you knew the average salary for one of those ‘ward nurses’ and what their actual job description entailed (stuff I’d do for free but sadly I gotta live and I gotta eat) you’d be absolutely furious about how your taxes were being wasted.
These little boys who run away from abusive homes and being bullied in school to join gangs deserve better than someone with a degree, who had to be taught what they need to reintegrate into a society that abused the fuck out of them in the first place.
I was a streetkid. You didn’t know but you know now. You couldn’t tell. Maybe you could. Some people have the eye, some people do not. We thought real pedophiles were hilarious – your local birthday party entertainers are NOT pedophiles. The last people that pedophiles want around them are families taking photos of them at their children’s birthday parties.
Kids in London have no where to hang out anymore because their families think that the only way to avoid pedophiles or a broken arm are to keep their kids at home glued to computers. Sad. I LOVE computers – I LIVE on them – but you won’t find many people with a more colourful life than mine. Even when I was little, at times quite possibly having been drugged before sleeping at relatives homes – I made time to walk around gardens and play amongst nature. I wasn’t scared to pick up insects or stick my hands into ponds to fish out the amphibians or follow a dog down a ditch in the British rain and the mud.
Society really needs scary people, you know. We keep you safer than your local police do. The only people that the police are loyal to at this point in time, are the police. They protect one another when they commit serious crimes and in that way they blackmail one another into dishonesty. If you think the police don’t stalk me, you’d be mistaken. (I actually feel it’s becoming embarrassing for the police for us to be in the same place at the same time – as it should be. Nothing dangerous happens when I’m around – and if it does the police are responsible. I’m also stalked by international diplomatic security. Our family warned you – but did you listen? No.) (The police ought to know how it works but they might need more time to accept it.)
My advice is to not let my brother’s circumstances get to this – (notice the little star of Davids on the military helmets?) (we’re subtle)
Don’t ever forgive a person who calls the police on you, or invites them into your life. Especially if it’s because you threw their shoes out of a window cos they were cheating on you with your “bestfriends”. Know better than to lazily buy little children toys with ‘cute’ police men on – that is mind control and propaganda. Teaching children to trust civil servants with subconscious imagery. It isn’t motivated by keeping society safe, it’s motivated to keep society under technically – illegal control.
And if the police pretend to be your friend, RUN. Or beg your scary friends (ones that have already been touched up by the police – stay away from the ones that haven’t) to watch out for you.
Or try to be a decent person, don’t go out for drinks with people you don’t know. Don’t make friends with people that only ever get in touch to ask for favours. Don’t be a person who only ever gets in touch to ask for favours. Iunno. Once the police start stalking someone they’ll find ways to keep trying to get in touch with you. Police men are weird/stupid and stalkerish. Don’t renounce the work of your great grandfather to make friends with people you don’t know. He was more educated than you and all of your friends combined. I’ll continue to pretend you and they don’t read what I write. It’s less awkward that way for both of us later.
Please visit this place if you are interested in permanent make up or hand poked tattoos. I’m going to have my eyebrows tattooed on – the lady at the shoppe kindly discussed microblading versus tattooing (which she prefers, as it affords more detail and precision – and lasts longer).
I do have further questions about the treatments she offers – but she was very decently priced, her face looked gooood – and a flip through her work made me feel positive about her standards. I will definitely be investing at a later date and I’ll let you know my thoughts. My grandmother had make up tattooed to her face at eighty. How epic, right?
My blog is the bestfriend I share my life with.
I think I’d like to join the beachside Gun Club. Apparently there are a few. I’ll make the rounds. I visited C&H Weston for an induction, it was an establishment run by really helpful gentlemen who kindly gave me an induction to some of their pistols and rifles – and gave me the details for a local instructor. I’d like to invest in a new hobby and apparently there’s a clay shooting club near my new home.
I visited a florists! These are painted gypsophila. Every nook and cranny of this florist’s shoppe was thoughtfully and beautifully decorated with unique art pieces and pressed flowers – and even if you find floristry a little bit morbid (I live for all things morbid) – if you’re interested in interior design I strongly advise you to visit. I didn’t catch the shoppe’s name but I’d know it if I walked in, so I’ll try to capture a photograph of the shoppe front next time. It was so colourful and exciting. I’d love to be able to budget to be able to invest in bunches of flowers to decorate my flat with.
It’s important for local economies that locals and tourists try to shop at independently owned establishments because it keeps them thriving and it keeps towns like Brighton interesting. I love Ealing when I don’t not-love Ealing, but the most noticeable locations are full of franchised shoppes (which are equally as important when you’re buying either sanitary items or necessities like water, because for some things – a company needs to be able to afford to be accountable for closely monitoring their produce.) that lack the freedom to express an interchanging character. Franchises have to adhere to visual merchandising standards, because it’s important for them to be visually consistent.
I bought some stamps from a local stamp collector’s shoppe. The gentleman who owned the shoppe selected them for me, and with perfect judgement too. You can read more about the shoppe >> here, on TripAdvisor. <<
If you’re the letter writing sort – I’m most certainly the bitch-fit by first-class-signed-for-correspondence sort – and you have a chance to visit Brighton – or you’re a local, please visit this stamp shoppe.
There is a stamp for EVERYONE. Something you didn’t know: as a child I really, really, really wanted to collect stamps.
I went to ‘Opposition’, an independent restaurant that imports Italian produce. They kindly invited me in, asking if I was looking for work. I was given a three day trial shift – for next week. So I guess I’ll be going back to that casino-side hostel over looking the beach.
I wanted to try some of their food prior to doing that shift. If you want to be a waitress for a restaurant, I advise that you try some of the dishes until you find one you truly like, so you have something to honestly recommend to customers.
The cafe had a tomato and basil pasta garnished with parsley, for under five pounds. I was really impressed that there was an option on the menu for people with lower incomes that might also like to go out for a meal. The Minnie mouse table cover was perfect too. I ate outside, so I could smoke and people watch.
I had my pasta with lemon. Fresh lemon always. I even put a segment in my tap water to make it fancy.
I had this lunch at about half past eleven, so I only ate a small portion and I took the rest home to finish later. (I added lots of mozzarella cheese, edam, sliced ham, mushrooms and spices to my version – and I reheated it in the oven – not the microwave.)
two independent cafes before catching my train home – I bought a book by Perle Besserman. This book touched my heart so deeply when I read through it the following day (in the Job Centre, of all places to start reading your new favourite book) that I almost on three occasions – started crying. Not out of any kind of sadness, but just because particular sentences in the text (THE INTRODUCTION. NOT EVEN THE MEATY BIT OF THE BOOK) resonated so deeply.
There was a page in the introduction that said that practitioners of Kabbalah ought to endeavour to try to actively live amongst their communities and it was poignant because I have spent so many years avoiding societal life. Walking around Brighton on my own prior to the purchase gave me the opportunity to greet, converse amongst and immerse amongst people I wouldn’t normally have invited conversation with. I’m sure some of them knew of me but the conversation never felt forced or unusual or creepy.
If you are around my age, that is – old enough to live alone, responsible enough to make decisions for yourself, old enough to buy yourself an alcoholic drink – if you want to learn how to speak like an adult, talk to older men. I mean – men over fifty. They are the best conversation. Don’t EVER make older men feel creepy for trying to actively contribute towards a vibrant society, if you feel uncomfortable around someone – learn to politely excuse yourself from conversation. I did not feel uncomfortable talking to anyone in Brighton – except for the creepy, fat security guard who was being unprofessional in a Strip Club and the guy serving drinks at the Strip Club.
“you picked the wrong sister and don’t think i’ll let you forget it”