For some reason I’ve decided tonight is the night that I am going to start to roam the after-hours-streets. Increased panic at my non-shooting and an encroaching deadline have probably set me off. But also it’s taken me a while to formulate the ‘why’ of needing to photograph, to locate the gaps in the story.

The women are taking some magnificent photos but the night time is largely untouched. It’s shrouded in dark and mystery. They work, ergo no photographs. Even after years of this, I’m intimidated by bringing a camera out in public and shooting. I certainly can’t expect the women to feel comfortable to raise it on the corner and scare off clients. The truth is that night is where it really happens. It’s not so much a gap as a gaping hole.

I head down Greeves Street, which is quieter than I expected. No one on the big speed hump. I expect it’s a bit too dark at night, more of a daytime area. Still, there are lots of cars moving down the street so I keep moving too, not keen to meet a mug in the shadows. I hear voices and stop to photograph fluoro lights reflecting on the water of the canal, busying myself in exposure. It’s Scary Guy and Silent Friend, and they seem to have picked up another sidekick. They don’t seem to recognise me out of context and march past, briefly throwing me curious glances. It seems somehow fitting that they are the first ones to cross my path.

I’m almost at the other end of the street and I spot Dani. I hear her reeling off prices to a client and, not wanting to interrupt, I lurk behind a 4WD waiting for the transaction to be over. To be honest, I’m hoping that she won’t get the job so I can go over and say hello. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her, and I know she won’t care if I stop to talk. A guy wanders past and makes a comment about the camera. Because I presume every man who walks Greeves at night is a mug, I make a polite noise and studiously ignore him.

Dani doesn’t get the job and I cross the road and hug her hello. I ask if she minds me standing with her, stressing that I don’t want to scare off clients. She tells me she’s out until the first train back to Geelong so she doesn’t mind. We natter on. She’s a talker and it’s been a while. Her daughter has started crawling and she’s moving house. She also tells me about all the photographs she has been taking and I tell her why I am photographing the nights. She tells me I can photograph her anytime.

They are like vultures closing in on their prey. En masse they do laps around the corner. I start to recognise cars as they go around again and again and I wonder out loud why they don’t just stop and pick her up. It’s always like this, she says. Some of them drive in circles all night, round and round and round and never stop. Never? She shrugs. She doesn’t seem to care.

It’s interesting because I’m used to hiding behind a camera. It detaches you somehow. A passport to the strangest situations, it’s like a marker that you don’t belong, that you are an outsider. I expected it to mark me here too, but the mugs don’t seem to notice much. I realise very quickly they think I’m working too. They leer and they ogle even though my t-shirt is on inside-out and I’m wearing daggy jeans. I’m a woman on a corner.

It doesn’t unsettle me, perhaps because there are two of us, but I get an insight into how vulnerable it is to stand alone selling your wares. Cars pull up full of drunk guys and Dani shouts at them to piss off. ‘Huh?’ they ask stupidly and she shouts that there are too many of them and to PISS OFF. She reassures me she wouldn’t go with more than one client at a time and I’m relieved. Lots of men walk past too. Some stop and she shoos them on. I get the feeling she likes me hanging out with her.

Then the drunk guy stops. He stinks of booze and engages me in chat. I don’t know why but I chatter on to him about Russell Crowe and photography until he asks me for sex.

Oh.

I’ve always been The Girl Who Talks To Strangers and I need to shelve that personality pronto. Dani tells him to piss off. He’s a regular and he’s too drunk for her liking. After he’s shuffled round the corner she tells me it’s because he’ll take far too long to cum and she doesn’t want to waste her time. Fair enough.

Occasionally other women I know walk past and wave or say hello, but it dawns on me that I’ve been here too long. She needs to work and I move on. But now I’m walking alone down Grey Street and the men keep lapping. I realise I’m still on display. There are beeps and yells and I roll my eyes. The men who walk past let their gaze linger on me for too long. Curious, I meet their eyes, which are questioning: issheaworker? issheaworker? issheaworker?

A very quiet ‘Excuse me’ comes from a parked car. I almost miss it and take a step further before my brain catches up with my ears, turning me automatically. A neatly trimmed guy, about forty, with a bald head and blue jumper, leans towards the passenger door. I put my hand up to ward him off and say, ‘I’m not working, Mate. Sorry.’ Before I’ve even turned away I start berating myself for the sorry, starting an internal debate on whether I should be apologising.
I hear his van start up behind me and move out and wonder if he’s one of those persistent dudes. Nope. He drives past and I note, doubling over with laughter, that his number plate is VAG ***. Vag. Vagina. Mr Vagina. I giggle all the way down the rest of the street at the vision of Mr Vagina trawling for precisely that. He drives past again later, looking mournfully out of the window at me.

I’m done with testosterone and I cruise home, passing the drunk who asks me again if I’m working. No dude, I’m not.
I feel for the woman that takes him on with his boozy breath and alcoholic impotence. I spot S. when I’m almost at my door. She is one of the most beautiful women I’ve met here and it’s always a pleasure to see her. We stop for a chat and I tell her about Mr Vagina. Eager to share my experience, the words spill out and she laughs. I tell her about the men who have stopped to ask me if I’m working and we talk about if women find it intimidating.

Some girls puff up with pride, she says, and some cower under the male sex gaze. She tells me that she’ll heckle mugs if they upset non working girls and tell them to piss off. I like her even more. She’s cheery tonight and her eyes are lined with black. She really is beautiful. We make our farewells and I head inside to sleep as she heads down Greeves to work. We are living different lives right next to each other and as I drift off, I’m glad I’ve made the effort to get a glimpse of what her life feels like.