DATE & TIME:
Friday 7th of May 2010 at 10:32pm
LOCATION:
Fairfield, Brisbane.

It was my thirtieth birthday and I was sitting on the couch at my sister’s house with a couple of my best girlfriends. We were celebrating my birthday with champagne as their kids slept. I was warm, wrapped up in love, as I reflected on thirty years that I reckon I’ve spent pretty well. I will learn later that whilst I basked in friendship and memories, a sex worker was being beaten and raped in St Kilda. When I read the Ugly Mug report my stomach clenched at the very personal reference point of date and time, a stark reminder of the difference between my life and theirs.

The thing about spending time in a world where women are a commodity, and a cheap commodity at that, is that it makes you a bit strange about men. And I am a woman who adores men. I’ve always reveled in their company and I love the way men can be straightforward, easygoing and familiar. My mum says when I was born, they laid me on her belly and my dad called my name. I turned my head to his voice and we fell in love. He’s the grown-up I’ve always liked more than anyone else.

But as my friendship develops with these women, I find it hard to reconcile the images I have of the men in my life – soft, sensitive guys who love women – with the horrifying stories of kidnap, brutal beatings and rape, of men who pick on the most vulnerable and treat them like vessels for their rage. Of course not all mugs are like that – the women often tell how their clients are just sexually inexperienced or desperate to be given some love and affection, but I also hear the much darker stories with startling frequency.

I notice the skew in my feelings when I return to Brisbane for a visit and my mates and I go bowling. I’m almost hysterical with happiness at being surrounded by the boys that I adore, teetering on the verge of tears. I cling to them, stealing hugs, relishing the comfort of their familiar manliness. They are like anchors for me and I need them to reassure me that men can be beautiful, safe and respectful.

I am immensely appreciative of having so many generous and loving dudes in my life, but even then it’s a struggle not to be suspicious and judgmental of men, casting them in the same mould of the blokes who cruise my street, circling and watching, who sit in the warm comfort of Gatehouse as their women work the street for them, or the men who treat the sex workers like shit, degrading them with perverse sex acts for which they pay bottom dollar. I despise the drunk on the tram who tells his mate loudly – while hanging off the straps, gyrating and thrusting his crotch – what he is going to do with the hookers on Grey Street. I glare at him with disgust and shudder at the thought of the fate that befalls one of the women at his hands.

Women come in and speak of groups of three or four men who try to force them into accepting a wildly deflated group rate – like seventy five bucks – so they can all get off cheap (and because they don’t think she is worth any more than that). Or men who demand their money back in repayment for their own impotence. Or men who coerce them into situations that are demeaning, unsafe and terrifying. This degradation and mistreatment is expected, it’s a ‘normal’ part of life working the street. A woman came into Gatehouse crying this morning and the first question she was asked by another worker was ‘did someone hurt you?’ It’s always the first question that people ask because being hurt is a daily occurrence.

These dreadful specimens of the male gender get under my skin and make me sick. I need an antidote so I pick up the phone to hear Dad’s voice, Granddad’s voice, my mate’s voices. I have video calls with my beautiful nephews, drinking them in through the computer screen. I contact my closest friends to tell them I love and miss them. They are just regular dudes, my men, but in contrast to the men in the world I’ve walked into, their genuine goodness is brilliant; shining and luminous.

This contrast makes me appreciate them even more, but mostly it makes me sad that I get the lion’s share of beautiful, safe, loving men while there is a gaping absence of them in the lives of the sex workers.

Ugly Mugs is a program coordinated by Resourcing health & Education in the Sex Industry (RhED). Those involved in street sex work can report specific details of assaults and abuse. The information is then circulated by agencies involved with the street sex work community, and details provided to police.