Sex tourism, twenty women, my apartment
A man from the realtor agency told me that my small, one-bedroom apartment used to house twenty prostitutes–or as Dworkin would correct–twenty prostituted women. There was no wall between the living room and bedroom then, just a block of flat space, a tiny kitchenette, and a bathroom. I imagine them resting here in between turning tricks, lying in rows and rows on the floor, exhausted and nursing various calamities, putting on makeup, taking off makeup, complaining, smoking, comforting or consoling or admonishing each other, sleeping, waking up, doing it all over again.
When someone asks me how I feel about prostitution, my half-chewed automatic response is, It should be legalized and workers should be given full health protections. There is so much more to say, and there is so much wrong with the question, but my mouth runs dry.