Boundary Work: What Worked for Me

Disclaimer: I have no kids and no family members currently requiring care. What I write below might not be completely applicable if people depend on you for physical survival. But I really hope that anyone can find something useful here.

Having boundaries—in work, in play, in relationships—is extraordinarily important. I’ve been thinking about this topic a lot lately, and decided to put my thoughts into writing.

A lot of people I know are in the process of working on having better boundaries. I think the nature of the work depends on what kind of boundaries are your goal. In my view, there are three common components to the process of working on boundaries:

  1. Being able to identify either “This is ok with me” or “This isn’t ok with me.”

  2. Shortening the time interval between the an occurrence and knowing whether it’s ok with you, or if you need to draw a boundary.

  3. Turning up the volume on these internal messengers so they are louder than external stressors (social pressure, financial pressure, coercion, care for a loved one that outweighs a prioritization of one’s own wellbeing, etc.).

For example:

One doesn’t want the following scenario:

  1. A client asks if he can come at 10pm. I don’t realise that I’m too tired to make that work  and say yes.

  2. By the time I make the connection that I will be too tired to work at 10pm, it’s too late to cancel the date. The guy comes and the next day I can’t do anything because I’m so exhausted.

  3. Financial worry kept me from hearing my internal voice that him coming at 10pm wasn’t ok.

Ideally:

My mother calls when I’m having a bad day. She doesn’t ask how I am but launches into how stressful her French test was. Once I realise it’s going to be that kind of conversation, I turn down the psychological volume on her voice and ask myself,

“Is this ok?”

“No.”

“Ok, let’s get you out of this.”

Out loud: “Mommy, I’m sorry you had a stressful thing happen, but I’m not in a headspace where I can hold space for you right now. Can we talk about something else?”

Suggestions.

  1. Hearing pain.

In my travels, I’ve noticed that people with bad boundaries have usually been psychologically conditioned to negate pain signals. For me, some stretching is “good pain”—that muscle needs that gentle stimulus to lengthen—and sometimes it’s “bad pain”—muscle or connective tissue damage is occurring. This is how I got injured as a 16-year-old ballerina: An external voice (my teacher) “educated” me that the “bad pain” intuition that we are all born with was actually a “good thing.” So I had to reprogram myself. Once you’re in this terrible state of affairs—especially if you’re quite young—the leap to “emotional pain is ok or even ‘good’”—is just one step farther. 

(After exercising long enough to raise your body temperature at least 1 degree Farenheit—sweat is a good sign) start doing a stretch very gently. A seated forward fold is a good choice, because you are completely in control and don’t have to worry about balance. Go deeper until you start to feel resistance (not sensation, just stiffness). “Hello, resistance.”*

Go deeper until you feel discomfort. “Hello, discomfort.”

Go very slightly and slowly further until you find a level of sensation that’s not ok with you. In your little-kid voice**:

“Ow! That hurts!”

“Ok, sorry sweetie!” Back off. “Is that ok?”

“Yes, that’s ok,” or “No, that’s still too much.” 

How much pain is too much pain?

When I do this exercise, my body tells me what’s too much with not just sensation that feels unbearable but also a stress response: I suddenly feel hot and prickly. 

Our bodies give us physical cues to tell us that a variety of situations aren’t alright. I tend to try to ignore them. This is silly. Notice who makes you get a stomach ache. Notice when you feel suddenly dizzy or nauseous. Maybe it’s a coincidence; or maybe it’s your adrenal glands sending chemical messengers to parts of your body telling them to shut down, there’s a crisis, and all your energy is needed to fight the lion in the room. (The absolute best book on this is Why Zebras Don’t Get Ulcers by Robert Sapolsky.) It’s also important to notice these signs of emotional stress becoming physical symptoms because they can signal that your stress response is having a negative effect on your physical health. “Mental health and wellbeing, yada yada,” but when we start talking about an increased risk for heart disease…

*Boundary beginners can try actually saying this out loud. It helps with the process—but also, I find that externalizing my voice and creating the illusion that there are two (or sometimes three) of me having a conversation serves in daily life to make me feel more supported, less alone, and quicker to identify when people or institutions are being oppressive (rather than assuming it’s my own fault).

**Developing an internal little-kid voice is so useful in this work, because there was once a time for each of us before we were taught how to self-negate. Children are too intelligent to not tell everyone very loudly when they’re not ok.

2. Hearing pleasure.

One day per week*, do only exactly what you feel like. This requires being able to hear yourself. For me, that involves literally muting other people—turning off notifications and defending my weekends with tiger-like ferocity.

On weekends, I wake up when I feel like waking up. I read until I feel like having tea. I have as much tea as I want until I feel like eating something.

“What do you feel like eating?” Out in the world,

“I want to walk slowly.”

“Ok, but everyone else is walking quickly.”

“That doesn’t matter, I’ll walk on this side so they don’t bother me and I don’t bother them.” And, typically,

“I want to go into this shop and look at pretty things.”

“Ok.” 

On my ideal day off, I spend a very small amount of money on something pretty—usually yarn (books, magazines, journals, etc. are also nice)—then go to a cafe to play with this new toy, staying for exactly as long as I feel like, while people watching and noticing how everyone else is rushed or being performative or whatever, noticing things I usually don’t have time to notice.

“What a pretty dog.”

Enjoying the dog. Savouring the tea. Watching the pretty color of the yarn and feeling what kind of fuzzy it is. 

Not allowed: Phone noises (usually only family and close friends who are not being stressful, and vibration only), work, tasks, lists, Microsoft Word, news, social media, self-criticism about what or how much I eat.

Encouraged: Fuzzy, sleepy, noticing and allowing myself to be exactly as tired or as energetic as I actually am and not trying to fight against it with caffeine or force of will; kind, supportive people; trees, being outside, sunshine on my face; yummy food; slow, calm; treating one’s nervous system like a princess. No shocks, no jolts. 

Note: At first, you may feel overwhelming guilt for spending a day like this. That’s just the Protestant work ethic feeling you slipping away. Persist.

*I know I know. If you can’t manage one day, try half a day. However, I usually spend both Saturday and Sunday in this mode because “downshifting” into this slow, contemplative state takes me a good half-day, and, with my current stress load, I stop being able to sleep if I don’t take two days per week. But the more you do it, the easier it is to get there.

Practice.

Boundaries are also a muscle. Once you can identify them internally, practicing them with others is the only way to decrease the interval and keep the volume high enough to hear. If you have the right people in your life, it should go like this:

  • You will set a boundary

  • It is warmly received (at least with an “Oh, ok”) and respected

  • This will reinforce the muscle building and make it easier the next time

  • Once you’re used to overcoming the internal resistance to asserting what you need, it will become possible to assert them in the (ideally, rare) situations where people push back or are shitty. 

Turning points.

If it seems like no one is receiving warmly/”oh, ok,” listening, or respecting; or if you have to set the same boundary multiple times with the same person, it’s maybe time to evaluate:

Is what this person adds to my world worth putting up with them being shitty about my boundaries?

Maybe it’s worth a conversation with that person. Sometimes that’s all it takes to change the relationship. Sometimes not. Sometimes they’ll need reminding; then you can decide if you have energy for that much work in exchange for that relationship. Maybe it’s worth it, but only twice a year. Maybe it’s ok, but only if you only stay with them for 4 days this visit, not 2 weeks. With tricky people, planning boundaries in advance and clearly communicating that plan can be really helpful.

Children and family, as well as bosses, often land in the “tricky but necessary” category. Sometimes that price of admission is worth it because they’re your family or that’s your income. However, it’s ok to notice how much energy that work takes and calibrate other, “non-essential” quantities of tricky people accordingly. 

If you notice that the quantity of energy spent on tricky people is high, it might be time to either (a) allocate extra recovery time in your world or, if that is too expensive (or too boring), (b) consider some bigger changes.

Most of the people in your life want you to be happy (if they don’t, WTF are they doing in your life? No vampires allowed). Even if they don’t understand what healthy behaviour looks like, they will notice if you start to be happier and calmer and might climb on board in a way you don’t expect. But they might need to see the pudding first, especially if you have a long tradition of boundary-trashing in that relationship. 

You also might need to give people a little time to get used to your new behaviour. After all, if you never set boundaries to get what you needed in the past, that’s on you. It wasn’t that person’s responsibility, even if they should know better than to ask for too much.* So give them a minute.

You can also set boundaries around holding space for their freak outs about it. Sometimes, a third person can be recruited to support the tricky person and explain to them what’s going on and that it’s not personal. IT’S NOT PERSONAL!!! Make sure they know it’s not a change in how much you love them. “I just need to do this for me, because I’ve been really unhappy for a long time.”

*Of course, sex-worker and FLINTA* readers in particular will know all too well that certain people cross boundaries on purpose. I’m not talking about those people. That’s nowhere near your fault. Those people are toxic and should be made to fuck off immediately.

Motivation.

This shit is hard work, and it can require a lot of patience with yourself. So you’ll need a very solid “Why.”

If “I want to be happy” doesn’t get you there, try:

“This will make me a better partner, a better friend; it will increase the amount of good work I can do; and it will make me a good role model for the kids in my life, who should never have to pick up on self-negation” (because they’re kids, they’re smarter than us, so they will).

Burning out and crashing because we haven’t listened to ourselves and put out too much is very expensive. The recovery requires more external resources (that other people in our lives then have to show up for) than the amount of time you saved over-working so stupidly hard. It’s much more work to be friends (mothers, partners, etc.) to an unhappy or exhausted person. Unhappy and exhausted people are less fun to be around. 

Anticipation.

Boundaries aren’t static. Something that’s ok one day will not be ok the next day. Things you sign up for will sometimes no longer be reasonable a week later. Just like it’s your responsibility to articulate your boundaries, it’s also your responsibility to communicate when they change—preferably as soon as possible so others can adjust with enough lead time to adapt. If this happens, you can apologise if you want—or you can also just say “I’m human. Things shift.” 

What if I just can’t do it?

If your boundary process is overshadowed and impeded by feelings of guilt, self-criticism that won’t shut up, and feelings of worthlessness; if you don’t feel like you’re getting anywhere; there may be other factors to consider. I started my boundary work fresh out of the psych ward, and I wouldn’t be here without therapy and medications. There’s no shame in that. Depression turns the volume way up on every negative thought. This may make it impossible for your to hear yourself.

Sometimes, talking to a professional feels so scary and logistically and financially out of reach that considering your overall state of mental health may just seem overwhelming. One way to explore if depression may be at play for you is to educate yourself about it. I highly recommend this podcast.

It’s the best synopsis I’ve ever heard of the biology of depression by the guy who invented SSRIs(?) Stigma-free and highly interesting. Maybe once you’re armed with a bit more information, you will feel empowered to seek professional help, if that’s what you need.

Resources.

You may have noticed that my recommendations are basically mindfulness exercises. The statistics about the efficacy of mindfulness meditation on a huge number of health conditions is insane. The Insight timer is a free app with a lot of guided meditations. This is my favourite for boundary work.

Thanks for reading, and best of luck with this!

Fondly,

Ernestine

How I Came Out to My Parents As A Sex Worker

Part I: The Part That’s Going to Be Hard


Dear Parents,

 

            About 6 years ago, I made a decision for the first time in my life to do something to protect you instead of letting you protect and take care of me. Previously, I loved having the kind of relationship with you guys in which, as an adult, I shared—and sometimes overshared—everything. But this was different. It was a strange feeling, but it felt like protecting you from this information was very much the right thing to do for all of us.

 

            It was because I started a new career. I decided to try something new because I was really sick of constantly money being so hard struggling with money all the time in ____.

 

I think you know that I reconnected with ____ and that she had been doing porn and escorting. I was really curious about that work. So I called her, and we talked for a long time. She described what had, for her, been a really great and lucrative career, being her own boss, making good money, being able to have some freedom as a young woman with an atypical brain not conducive to a “real job.” I wasn’t as interested in the porn as the escorting. I asked her if it was a career she would really recommend to a woman she loved. She said “Yes,” right awaywithout even having to think about it.

 

I thought about it for a long while after that. I was simultaneously very intrigued and also very sick of worrying about money all the time. (I know you can empathize there.) So I called her again and she gave me more information about how I would go about it in the safest way possible.

 

I thought, I’ll try it once, and see how it feels, and if it feels at all wrong or abusive or gross or rapey, that’s that. We don’t have to do this. So I tried it. I put up an online ad, e-mailed with a man, got his real name and profession, and met him at a hotel. He booked me for 2 hours;, and we spent the first 45 minutes talking. Then we had sex. Then he paid me more money than I had earned I think the whole previous month.

 

I drove away feeling on top of the world. I felt like I’d just robbed a bank and got away with it. I don’t know exactly why.

 

Quite honestly—and I don’t think this will resonate with you whatsoever, but this is how I feel—I felt that day like I found my vocation. My calling. I will always be a dancer first, but it felt like I had been a prostitute in a former life and it just fit like a glove. My physicality, I move elegantly, can ability to talk intelligently about almost everything except sports, and genuine I can really empathyize ..with people.t That’s most of the job. I’m also pretty and enjoy/am “good at” sex, which helps; ultimately, doing this job has taken all the seemingly disparate things I’m good at and shown me that they are useful for this one job. .

 

I’ve been escorting ever since.

 

Daddy said something during our Zoom that I totally related to. I wish I could remember exactly what it was, but I wanted to say, “We have the same job!.” I’ve made some really good friends with my clients. In ____, I had a loyal following of people who’d see me regularly, some of whom I considered good friends. and aA lot of them confided stuff in me that they couldn’t in their wives, children, friends, etc. They just needed a person not involved, with nothing at stake, to talk to. Some people just want physical touch, not sex. I’ve had dates where we only talk.

 

It’s been a really wonderful career, and I’ve become much stronger because of it. I realized I had to wake up and take control over my finances and my life, and this has been my way of accomplishing that. It’s hard work but not abusive work. I have had a few bad experiences, but I dealt with them and moved on. I’m ok. I really am. And I really enjoy this. It’s part of why I knew I’d be ok in Europe. It’s fast income almost anywhere you go, if you are smart about it. It’s empowering.

 

 

Right now, I’m on the train coming back from 5 days in Munich. My At first I was independent, but now I also work with an agency. It  booked me for an 8-hour date with one client, and then I got an Airbnb for the rest of the time to see the city and see other clients. One guy took me out to a really nice dinner, and we talked for hours about what it was like growing up in Bavaria over a really good bottle of wine. It was fun watching him try to translate his repertoire of dirty jokes into English. I laughed a lot. Another client had a house that Trump would envy. We spent the afternoon together, then I jumped in an Uber and arrived at the train station just in time to speed back to Berlin.

 

This is the life I always saw myself living—I just didn’t know what career would get me there and how good it would feel once I arrived.


Part II: You Might Have Some Questions. Here Are Some Answers.

Preface:

There are lots of examples of sex workers in movies, books, popular culture in general, which is probably a big part of why you’re freaking out right now (I imagine). Try your best to forget everything you’ve ever heard from anyone about prostitutes and strippers or anyone else involved in the sex industry. It is almost 100% inaccurate.

 

Are you ok?

Yes. It is an emotionally and physically sustainable job, unlike many things I could have tried. You’ve seen me do a lot of jobs that were not emotionally or physically suitable for me, because I’m not “normal.” This is work I can do that’s actually really satisfying. Usually, even if I’m having a bad day, work makes me feel better.

 

Is it illegal?

Prostitution is illegal throughout All over the US except for one place in Nevada. In Germany, it’s legal and sex workers are also protected by regulations. This is not the entire reason I moved here. The artistic possibilities…it was about half and half. More on that below.

 

Is it safe?

The way I do it, it is as safe as it possibly can be. You have to be very strong to do this work, because you will sometimes be the target of people who don’t have good intentions. However, in the US, I screened all clients (asked them for their work information or references from other escorts) to limit the possibility that anything bad would happen. Here, I don’t have to worry about police—in fact, unlike the US, the German cops are supposed to be a resource for us if anything bad happens, like a client refuses to pay. That system usually works.

The amazing thing about sex work is that, wherever I go, there is a support system. In ____, where we had to be extra careful, there was a very strong referral network among escorts. We all knew each other (or at least of each other), and we would send e-mails back and forth about clients, what to look out for, what we liked about them, etc. There are also blacklists for when people do do shitty things. In Europe, those blacklists are run and supported by awesome organizations who have strong contacts in law enforcement to help when things go wrong.

I know “Why Berlin?” was a question awhile ago. When I was here last summer, I was unequivocally welcomed into the sex worker community here. I reached out to one woman on Twitter, and next thing I knew, I was at a potluck of 30 loud, ebullient women exchanging funny stories and makeup tricks, being generally ridiculous. That’s the biggest difference between the sex worker communities I was in in the US versus here: —Hhere, there is lot more laughter.

 

Who else knows? When did you tell them?

I kept this under my hat from everyone for a long time, mostly because I wasn’t sure I could be successful, and I wanted to present it as a fait accomplit. The first person I told was ____ [my best friend]. She was great. She was very worried that it was illegal and did lots of research, which is how she deals with stress, but ultimately, she was completely supportive. She told a few other high school friends, who were comically unsurprised.

Since then, I have tried to construct a life where I have to lie about my main job as little as possible, because I don’t believe in lying if there’s an alternative. However, there are of course lots of people I can’t tell. Mostly, the people I wanted to tell were people like ____ and ____—people who I knew would probably be supportive, but there was no way I could ask them to keep a secret from some of their closest friends: the two of you. All of the other important people in my life know—including, a couple of years ago, ____ [my brother]. But I waited to tell you, because I know you will worry a lot, and I thought that there was a serious chance it would really impact your health and quality of life.

Every time I told tell someone, I knoew that it made their lifeves harder, because someone they loved was is doing a riskier-than-usual job. This was something I very intentionally asked only of people I knew could onboard that stress.

 

Did ___ [my partner] know?

I told him on the second date. I don’t know if you remember ____ [ex-boyfriend], but this is why we broke up. He was really shitty and jealous. ____ (partner) thought it was interesting. Not only was he not jealous, but he was really interested and supportive. He doesn’t do jealousy. He doesn’t have that gene in his body, for whatever reason. He knew work was work, love was love, and understood the difference. I could tell him if I had a good day. I could tell him if I had a not so great day. I could tell him funny things that happened or bring home bottles of wine for us to enjoy together without him freaking out. It’s one of the things that made us—still makes us so close.

 

Did you lie to us?

Yes. As I said earlier, I wanted to protect you from the stress of worrying about me all the time, knowing that I was in more risk than a normal person doing a normal job. I knew that could be potentially dehabilitating for you guys. Also, you didn’t have the best upbringing to deal with stuff like this, through no fault of your own. Sexuality has always been a complicated topic in our family. The leftover religious shit is real.

I do not believe in lying to people. Of course. You raised me better than that. I tried, as much as possible, to have my lies to you be lies of omission or redirection. But sometimes I had to outright lie. It sucked every single time. There is so much that has happened that I wanted to tell you about, especially when I started getting into sex-worker’s-rights activism (see below). But I felt strongly that I couldn’t do that to you.

 

Why now?

This process of having family meetings has, frankly, completely upended my plan to wait awhile longer. I don’t know exactly what I was waiting for—I think for Daddy to retire, actually. But I simply cannot be in conversations with you guys that are so authentic while hiding a huge part of my life and identity. It no longer feels like the right thing for all of us.

Another reason is, I’m much safer here. I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to work without worrying about the police. Luckily, I never encountered police in Boston and I had a very good lawyer, just in case;, but when I started working in Europe, I realized that there was a whole other set of reasons that I had to move here: Working as an escort is just not such a big deal. It’s easier, freer, more casual, and less stressful. I had to be extremely careful in ____. (I say “Boston” because I commuted to the city to work most of the time.) So all the worrying you would have had to do knowing I was doing something illegal—well, you already had one kid at risk of going to jail. I couldn’t add to that. Here, I’m mostly in the clear. I’m also working for an agency now and hope to eventually work at a bordello, which adds layers of safety because there are other people the client is accountable to.

 

Why would you do something illegal for a living?

Well, that ties into another question I thought you might have,

What about feminism?

Because it’s my body. The law is wrong. It has been a very valuable experience living in this culturally liminal space where one of your primary life things makes you at risk legally. I feel like I can relate to illegal immigrants better, for example. There is actually a huge number of people in the world who live with the fear of getting into legal trouble because of who they are. And this is who I am. Just like no one should argue if I want to get a tattoo or an abortion, no one has the right to tell me that having sex for money is illegal if it’s my choice. And it very much is my choice. As I said, I wouldn’t do this if it felt wrong or emotionally unsafe.

 

Does anyone get hurt?

A lot of people beat up on sex workers because of the infidelity question. People like Gloria Steinem (sorry, she’s super unhelpful to us) say that we “ruin families.” From what I’ve seen, the opposite is true. I actually know that I’ve rescued marriages. As we know from our family history, when couples are really in love and have a home, children, and a joint bank account, but mis-matched libidos, things become a mess really fast in a way that can ruin everything. Prostitutes provide an alternative to having an affair with someone in a man’s real life. Escorts have to have a lot of discretion—I consider it client-escort confidentiality, and I actually model my ethical stance on this after what you’ve said, Daddy, about what you can and can’t tell us about your clients. So many times, women go through menopause and have zero interest in sex for the rest of their lives. This made one of my clients in particular severely depressed; he went on medication to decrease his libido and saw a therapist to talk about his guilt and “terrible urges.” Then he saw an escort. His mood improved so much that he didn’t need the pills and doctors anymore and became a much happier person and a better spouse. I also helped him get through the death of his parents. Another client was adopted as a child and had a lot of issues with abandonment that were ruining stressing his marriage. With me, he could talk about it and engage in his sexuality in a safe container. I eventually “graduated” him, because he worked through his shit to such an extent that things vastly improved with his wife—which positively aeffected his kids. So I feel like I save families. There’s even evidence that places that have decriminalized prostitution see an immediate decrease in domestic violence and rape. It’s utterly logical.


Part III: The Part You Might Actually Think is Really Great


On June 1st, 2018, I had driven to Washington, DC, I got up early in amy hotel room in Washington, DC, to dress in a business outfit suit to go to Capitol Hill, where I took take part in the first ever Sex Worker’s Lobby Day. A really bad law had been passed (FOSTA, you can research it if you want or I can give you some good articles to read, or I can explain it) that made our lives more difficult and dangerous, and so, as a community, we got really mad and then galvanized into action around against thisit. Over 40 sex workers and allies came together from all over the country and met with staffers of our congresspeople went into offices of our representatives to tell them about our experiences and why they should take sex worker’s rights seriously. I sat in front of a politician and said “I am a sex worker.” Although America is really not ready for that these ideas yet, I have almost never been so proud. Also, I know that you guys love DC and have fond memories of taking me there. I almost told you then. I desperately wanted to.

 

You know me. I don’t do injustice. I started being a sex worker’s rights activist very soon after becoming a sex worker, because working conditions in the US are not good, and for people who are really forced to do the work, it’s so dangerous and stigmatized. So I joined the Boston branch of the Sex Worker’s Outreach Project. That’s where I met ____, who is now my best friend alongside ____. I also met other amazing people. Eventually, I was so excited about this work and it consumed so much of my time that I had to tell you something—I think that I wanted to explain how I knew ____, and that’s when I started telling you I was doing feminist activism in ____ (which is true—of course, this issue is very closely tied to feminism—so a lie of omission).

 

The activism I’ve told you about here has been the same. I found an incredible group of sex worker organizers who are now all good friends and some much-needed community here. I wasn’t going to start doing activism right away when I moved here—that wasn’t the plan—it’s quite draining; however, the German government was shitty about protections for sex workers with Corona, not letting us work for way too long and saying stupid things, so I was one of 5 people who formed the Sex Worker Action Group, and in 6 weeks we organized both an action week and a demonstration that had about 300 people attending. I performed a ballet piece, and everyone loved it. It was an incredible day..

 

 

That’s the other part that I haven’t been able to tell you that’s been so hard. In April 2018, I started dancing really seriously again, but I danced in my escort persona—she’s named Ernestine Pastorello (an homage to Ernesta Corvino, Beth’s New York City Ballet friend, and my ____). I filmed myself dancing and started a YouTube channel and Patreon page, which is basically Etsy for performing artists. I started creating dance that I love so much, but it was under the wrong persona to share with you. It was all attached to a sex worker’s Twitter account (I have almost 9,000 followers). I couldn’t show you. Then, last year I applied for an artist-in-residency at Earthdance, and I got it. It was the first time in my dance career that I got something I applied for. I danced there one weekend a month in their beautiful studios in the Berkshires forest, with Nefeli [Forni] filming me. In December, I performed live—en pointe—for the first time in about 10 years to the Earthdance community. It was a wonderful experience; and I was totally gutted that I couldn’t tell you about it. (It did get filmed. I’ll send you a link.)

 

Here, I just found two kindred spirits who are going to be my film crew. So I’ve started dancing in the parks and monuments and fountains of Berlin.

 

Unlike my life before sex work, I get to make art now because I can make my living by working only a few days a week, which also works well with my insomnia and mood swingsshit. Ernestine has allowed me to come back to ballet, but in a healthy way; she has funded travel all over Europe; she has allowed me to become an autonomous adult. Now, tShe has given me so many It’s all such a gifts.

 

This is the life I want. I know it might take time, but I really hope I can help you both understand why. I apologize—sincerely—for lying. And I’m so glad that I can finally share this with you.


Part IV: What is Helpful and What’s Not.


This life choice is, clearly, a fait accomplit. It’s not going to change—or at least so I hope—for awhile. (I knew escorts in ____ who were the toast of the town in their 50s.)

 

I hope you are able to read and re-read this with an open mind and heart and then to process it respectfully with other people in your lives. Then, after that, we can talk about it. I’m sure you’ll have a lot more questions. Please write them down as you process.

 

I give you carte blanche to share this information with anyone you need/want to.

 

There are also a lot of resources and really good books. If you want to dip a toe inTo start, I highly recommend the intro of this episode of “The Oldest Profession,” one of my favorite podcasts:

 

https://theoldestprofessionpodcast.com/victoria-woodhull/

 

 

I’ll send you more stuff as this goes on.

 

Any way that this plays out, I know we’ll come out strong on the other side. I love you guys so, so much.

 

Good luck.

 

Love,

 

Daughter

The Blue Lights

16 February 2020

A bar in Neukölln

Every time a cop drove past, I’d watch like a hawk.

Eyes wide, mind alert, muscles tensed, heart beat elevated. That prickly feeling of the release of adrenaline.

Every time—even if it was an ambulance, even if I wasn’t being Ernestine—especially in Waltham or if I was at home and a cruiser rolled past. God forbid that. I always imagined being frog marched out of my house, in front of my cats and partner.

Here, now—well, first, Berlin is quieter than other big cities. My neighborhood is about as quiet as my old little-house-on-the-prairie in Western Massachusetts. There are few sirens. And when there is one, it’s a friendly European siren sound.

But, WOW. I just had a moment.

An ambulance pulled up beside the bar, bathing it in bright blue light. I felt my customary US reaction begin and prepared to deaden it—an impulse so familiar it goes without thinking.

Then I realized. (How has that not hit me until now?)

I’m not a criminal. I’ve done nothing wrong.

Not here.

I wonder how long it will take for all those accumulated white blood cells to leave my body, for the inflammation to heal, the physical crisis to pass.

For me to believe I have done nothing wrong. Hurt no one.

To un-identify as a deviant (probably never).

There are some hard lessons to be learned about our status here as well.

How long until the blue light signifies “help” or “someone else is in trouble”—or even, as I think I felt before—“not us,” or even: “city.”

How long?

Spring

16 February 2020

 

I think it’s spring in Berlin.

 

I saw green leaf sprouts on a bush today. Also daisies and crocuses. Everywhere, things are turning green. It was extremely warm as I took a Sunday afternoon stroll—along with, seemingly, the rest of the city. People here walk slowly. It’s not like New York or any other big city I’ve ever been to. People walk for the sake of walking, to be outside. They take their time.

 

I was talking to an immigrant friend who is in a bind in the UK (aren’t they all). And I had the lovely pleasure of meeting one of the main board members at the Hydra Café, one of the most fabulous sex worker organizations I’ve yet found. We discussed the difficulties of registration, and how bad that law is for sex workers. Then I described the worst case scenario here versus in Boston, and she said,

“Thank you for reminding me.”

Spoken like a true activist warrior so deep in the trenches that it’s hard to remember that you’re really helping people.

“How long do you plan to stay in Berlin?”

“Until I’m done.”

 

This was my standard-issue answer to many of you before I left Boston. I didn’t entirely know what I meant then, but I do now. As I told my friend: You stay in a country until you’ve completely exhausted every possibility of creating a livable life there.

 

That’s what happened in Boston. It was just--quite simply--impossible. I deeply respect the sisters who chose to stay, but for me—impossible.

 

I have just arrived here. The possibilities seem vast, even if it’s difficult breaking into the system, and learning that new system from scratch; that’s hard. It’s terrifying, because until you do, you have no safety net. But I feel it might be a very long time until I exhaust the possibilities of Berlin.

 

And spring has just begun.

Squirrel Falling Through the Air

10 March 2020

 

I am a squirrel falling through the air.

 

I found a card today with a picture of a flying squirrel and bought it. It’s one of those lovely old-fashioned nature prints. The squirrel in the image is twisted on his journey to fully extending his wing flaps so he can glide.

 

Context #1: I really owe someone a thank-you card, and this person lives with my two cats, one of whom is an accomplished murderess who has brought flying squirrels into the house alive. (Why alive? So she can show off her hunting skills as she chases it around the house. The reality of the situation: two humans must run around the apartment with tupperware containers, attempting to catch the squirrel the cat has completely forgotten about because naps.)

 

Context #2: The existence of flying squirrels in New England is a well-kept secret. They are nocturnal, so unless you’re David Attenborough with a night-vision camera, you won’t ever see one fly. They are the coolest animals ever (amazing wavy furry skin flaps on the sides of the animal inside the Tupperware). They don’t properly “fly,” but rather, through the infinite magic of nature, they have evolved to spring from the side of a tree high up in the air, plot their trajectory, and unfurl their side flaps with perfect timing in order to make it to the next tree. They can glide in this way up to 90 meters. In transit, they appear to be a one-dimensional flat animal with tiny feet and a head. Perhaps a small tail.

 

Context #3: A quotation I have been relying heavily upon since my departure from the states and the complete loss of everything familiar except what’s in my suitcase and the contents of my soul:

 

“The bad news: You’re falling through the air.

The good news: There is no ground.”

–A Buddhist whose name I can’t remember but wouldn’t be able to spell anyway.

 

 

Thanks to a gentleman (with a kitten I wanted to steal, cat withdrawal is biological) who gave me the nicest facial over the weekend (charged extra. Had to re-do makeup), I have currently in my wallet just enough cash to pay for my visa. Buying this card and a new pencil as well was a splurge today—a fiscal indulgence (jesus christ how the mighty have fallen) that felt justified, because a client had materialized for that evening. He seemed a good prospect. He bailed one hour before the date was to begin. (I swear to fuck one half of all of my bookings bail. Fucking figure it out, boys.)

 

Therefore, I have now just enough money in my wallet to pay for the visa.

 

The visa is the prerequisite to register as a prostitute.

 

The registration (risky as it is, see prior posts) is the gateway to a career as either an agency courtesan or a bordello, with or without spa attached (or a club or dungeon…sky—or basement—is the limit because Berlin is magnificent), thus financial stability for the first time in my adult life; hence, peace of mind I have not yet known. Either way, I have been dreaming of being a fille en carte ever since…well, I actually have no idea. Years. A fucking long time. Since before I knew the German prozzie system. Perhaps since I ever was exposed to the idea of a brothel and thought, as a young person, “That looks excellent.” This desire predates Ernestine.

  

Present circumstances rankle because Ernestine’s brand is expensive. Luxe. I daresay, decadent. I have projected this in all my publicity for 6 years; it is only since the anti-FOSTA fight began that I let the curtain open and told Twitter and clients and anyone who could listen that I am not okay, rent is due, there’s no food in the kitchen, and some jackass just cancelled. That was rent. Fuck.

 

The cancelee in no way could know that that gig at his hotel was my wiggle room for, you know, food, medicine, etc.; my non-visa money; a lifeline, in short. But he cancelled.

My cancellation policy is unenforceable in this country. With an hour and a half’s notice, his 150 euros should have been electronically departing his bank and trundling into mine as we speak. However, there is no accountability for such things unless one is under the umbrella of an organization, such as an agency—which requires papers.

 

On Thursday, I had a consult with the lovely woman who is helping me put together my artist’s visa application. The bureaucracy here is unbelievable. There were twelve different categories of documents—not individual documents, mind you—categories of documents, each requiring multiple pages of Why I’m a Good Candidate to Contribute to the Artistic and Financial Vibrancy of Berlin. I busted my ass, working through continual insomniatic and existential exhaustion—from the moment I left her office until last night (Monday), when she informed me that their translator was not going to be available on Tuesday. Um, crestfallen.

 

There was no way it was going to be a fun experience. Don’t get me wrong, I’m going to buy a 2-euro bottle of sparkling wine the moment I get my visa (that part of being in Germany reifies my life decisions). However, because the Auslanderbehörde (foreigner’s office) does not have an open appointment until this time next year, one’s only option is to arrive at their office around 3 am, and then join the queue to wait until the office opens to see if they have appointments available that day. (How does one look like a gorgeous, fascinating, has-her-shit-together artist when leaving the house at 2am? That part I have yet to devise; and for those of you who think I simply roll out of bed looking like the photos you see of me on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, my website, and about 10 different ad sites, I hate to disabuse you, but magnificence is time-consuming).

 

However: Today was the day I was supposed to get up at 1:30am. Today was the day I was supposed to, around lunchtime, be a documented worker according to the German authorities. But my translator fell through.

 

“But everyone in Berlin speaks English!” you might say. This is kind of true. However, in lock step with Theresa May’s self-deportation policy (she didn’t invent it, she just said the quiet part out loud), in which government entities raise the bar to a near-impossible standard for acquiring legal status in a foreign country, the system is very conscientiously designed to encourage self-deportation; hence, although the people at the Auslanderbehörde  probably speak English, it is my belief that they are specifically instructed not to do so. Hence, going without a translator is shooting oneself one’s the foot. (I need those to do ballet.)

 

What now? Thursday. 3am. 2am if I can muster it. At 7am, one is issued a number or turned away, depending on how close you are to the beginning of the queue.

 

I hate asking other people to be somewhere at 7am. That is inhumane.

 

I, however, consider such night-owl behavior as absolutely fine. (Yes! I’m fine with it!! I really am!!!) It’s my dream. Climb every fucking mountain.

In contemplation today between my therapist’s office (that shit is not getting covered by Cigna—yes, I crossed a motherfucking ocean to end up with fucking Cigna) and the beauty salon where a Brazilian woman gave me a Brazilian wax (fun coincidence), I have concluded the following about why I seem to have virtually endless reserves of grit in this situation. The recipe:

 

33.3% Sicilian (a fiery temperament not prone to roll over and let them win);

33.3% ballet training since the age of 7, which required pushing myself to a place beyond pain, beyond exhaustion, and close to vomiting from exertion—hence, my tolerance for plunging into seemingly impossible situations is just part of my work ethic;

33.3% wonderful humans who have provided the metaphorical duct tape and glue that have held me together body and soul (most of the time). They reside on multiple continents.

 

Oh, and faith. I seem to have that too. In spades. Blind, completely unfounded optimism.

As my friend Q. said, when I asked her,

“Activism is so draining. How do you work full time and still do this?” Her answer:

“Because the dream of what could be is SO beautiful, I can’t not put everything I have into trying to achieve it.”

 

I believe in her dream. I absolutely do. I think it’s possible.

 

Otherwise, I would not be here.

 Fondly,

Ernestine

 

A Confusing Woman to Live With: Ernestine Under Quarantine dance series

4 March 2020

 

I do believe that I have confused the fuck out of my housemates.

 

#1: There is no doubt that these are some of the best humans Germany has to offer. Upon my arrival and more-or-less immediately unemployed state, they did not for a moment hesitate to pay for my share of the groceries until I can work again. Not a question; not a complicated through process; virtually instantaneous and, to them, the obvious thing to do.

#2: I don’t know if you know any Germans, but they are a little bit like the British and a little bit like New Englanders in temperament, particularly regarding matters of the heart. For example: the first time I saw one of them get really loudly emotional about something was a board game. When asked how they were doing with the corona situation during our weekly house meeting, few personal feelings were expressed; no, they spent their check-in turn musing about their curiosity of what effects the general slowing down of life would have upon human behavior and sociology. These are educated, lofty-minded, deeply compassionate-once-you-scratch-off-the-surface-with-a-penny-like-a-lottery-ticket humans.

 

Enter me. The Sicilian-American with a Mediterranean temperament. The force of nature whirlwind artist. The girl who laughs like a hyena at things that others find only vaguely amusing. That was, I believe, quite an adjustment for them in and of itself in terms of daily volume.

 

Add: One prostitute deciding that any and all objects in the household are fair game for choreography, because I have no studio and only two suitcases worth of my own stuff.

 

Week one: Ernestine finds a small ladder and dances on it. A video is dispersed on the household group chat and elicits a single response: “It’s amazing to see what you can do with your body.” Um.

 

Week two: Ernestine finds a bigger ladder and, with true delight, manages to get it through the windy corridor, into her room, and back again. During film shoots, I depart the dance space (i.e., bedroom) rarely, but when I do, I am in full stage makeup and a see-through bra, sweating profusely and clearly in an altered mental state (the only proper headspace for deep, reflective, introspective dancing).

 

Week three: Ernestine is sighted bringing up a bad of kindling (sticks) up from the basement (five floors! Five! Accidental cross-training!) because, much to my delight, this apartment is heated exclusively with one “hoven” in each room. (These things are from—well, they are super old, and I believe that “oven” is not actually a correct translation—I think they are closer to the pellet stoves that are all the rage in Vermont and every American’s ski cabin.)

 

Housemate: “What are you planning to do with all those sticks?” She assumes they are my next hare-brained choreography prop.

 

Me: “No, I just ran out of sticks for my oven.”

 

(When picturing me doing this chore of the sticks up the five flights of stairs, please picture an orange mesh bag approximately half my height and twice my girth, slung over my shoulder, panting heavily.)

 

I have danced choreography with sticks before; but they were long, elegant, forest sticks, not commercial wood-burning sticks. It did not occur to me to use a pile of wood as a prop; nor did it appeal, and splinters ow ow ow. However, the comment lit up my mind with a sort of nest built out of said sticks. Nice image; nest of sticks; not practical, and yet, in the eyes of the housemate, This human is weird enough to dance in a pile of sticks in her bedroom.

 

It is hard to tell if they have accepted this co-living scenario with an American with pidgin German on the best of days, and whether or not they find me a nice, enjoyable (or at least tolerable) presence in the household; given our house-bound state and frequent interactions, I try to not get stuck in the mental spiral of “Do they like me? Or do they thing I’m crazy? Can they not wait for June? Or do they—very quietly and mostly unnoticeably subtly—find me to be a rather kindred human (barring the language barrier with them speaking English to me in a way that is clearly fatiguing to them, bless their hearts and I’m studying my ass of each morning to improve my German)?”

 

“No, I did not plan to dance with the sticks. My room is just cold.”

“Ah.”

>>End of conversation, no opinion expressed, although slight bemusement was barely detected under the calm, rational, level-headed German demeanor.<<

 

I still have no idea what they make of me, and I work every day to make peace with that. An eminently useful exercise: No external reinforcement of my fundamental goodness as a human being, so I just carry on, being as authentically myself as possible and taking criticism (mostly talking too fast in English) to heart.

 

 

Ever one for causing shock and fascination, I find the fact that V. thought I was going to dance with sticks highly flattering. Clearly, they are learning me. For better or for worse.

 

 

I am shy about sharing my videos with them. This must end.

For, friends, the beauty of dance is that it is a universal language.  So, maybe, sharing my newly immigrated rawness when I dance is how these wonderful people become lifelong friends. Would that be a rosy thing to emerge from this bizarre circumstance.

 

Fondly,

Ernestine

 

P.s.

I am now not, of course, ruling out the sticks. Make there will be a stick video. Maybe I will dedicate it to V. Inspiration comes through curious channels.

SESTA. What now?

SESTA, an evil, horrible, no good bill that aims to curtail human trafficking but will, in practice, make current SWs far less safe by limiting our online platforms (impeding free speech in the process), as well as further invisibilizing trafficked individuals by removing online ads through which they have previously been tracked and located, has passed 97-2, pending the president's signature, which he has indicated he will.

We are FURIOUS.

But because we are who we are--brilliant, fabulous, resourceful, clever, and--above all--adaptable--the SW's rights movement is about to get a whole lot louder. Allies who have been looking for a reason to collaborate with our movement for years have come out of the woodwork in droves, and we are forming a formal, diverse, and broad coalition. In particular, the ACLU, trans rights groups, and AIDS prevention organizations are wholeheartedly on our side. The ACLU believes that there are multiple openings in the bill for a legal challenge, so PLEASE donate to them if you're not already a supporter.

We have already seen some of our platforms modified or disappeared--months before the bill can legally take effect. This, to me, is an utter and blatant act of cowardice. TER, in particular, has removed its ad boards. TER is how I found my first client, and many, many thereafter. Far too predictably, the first platforms to crumble under the mere idea of legal scrutiny are the ones that serve those not able to pay for expensive ads. TER was free for us; Craigslist has closed down its personals section. And we all know that Massachusetts BP is dead and gone. So we are left with fewer options already. Our strategy now is to diversify our advertising in order to survive, should further shoes drop. 

The question for us now is how to harness this momentum and all the people Congress has pissed off. SurvivorsAgainstSESTA is the best way to track the movement, but, for my part, I am extremely excited about the ideas and plans being discussed. 

Our main goal at the moment is to educate representatives, senators, and their staffers about the evils of this bill and a better way to proceed--help not harm. Many of us who called our representatives and senators to discuss this bill were met with complete ignorance--either that the bill existed at all, what it contained, or how it could be extremely harmful to the SW community. Many staffers have already expressed interest in becoming educated about how the vague language of such laws affects us on the ground. There was already a phone call with many staffers who have indicated early curiosity about the reality of our lives. But we plan to broadly expand our educational efforts. Many of the votes cast for this bill were cast in ignorance. Under the circumstances--the life-and-death nature of this bill--this is intolerable, and our elected leaders will be held to account. They committed to this legislation; our mission is to obtain commitments to mitigate the harm it will cause and to be more informed and less appallingly lemming-like in future.

To that end, we are planning a public day of action in DC in June in a loud and proud manner. It will involve meetings on the hill in addition to occupying public space in the most colorful, creative, and riveting way that only we can.

But friends: All of these projects will require funding, especially to get as diverse as possible a crowd of SWs to DC in June. Please consider a donation to MASWAN as part of your support of me and my ability to continue to be simultaneously fabulous and safe, along with my tens of thousands of comrades and our allies and friends.

Many thanks for your support. I cannot adequately convey how moved we as a community and I personally have been by the outpouring of compassion and action that we have seen over the past several weeks. We very much see this as having lost a battle that heralds the beginning of the war. We are the oldest profession, and we are not going anywhere. The only question is how much of our safety net will our law makers destroy. 

What does H.3499--An Act to Decriminalize Prostitution (but not really)--mean?

The Nordic Model has come to Massachusetts. 

The proposed bill, H.3499, would remove some penalties for prostitution while focusing the attention on our clients. It means that things might get slightly better for one party in the transaction, but either way, whether it passes or not, it means that decriminalization—or partial decriminalization, as in this bill—is on the radar screen and on the wish lists of at least a couple of people in the statehouse. We are going to lobby our best to get them to consider the factors that make the Nordic Model bad for sex workers (harder to obtain information about the safety of a potential client, clients are more reluctant to report coerced SWs, including possible trafficking).

Although many activists want to flat out quash this bill because it doesn't create the most good for the most people, in my opinion, that's making the perfect the enemy of the good, and that rather than a reactionary unilateral "NO," we should try to engage them and educate them on the preponderance of evidence on this issue. (Evidence-based legislation is, like, not a thing in MA. It is about as fantasy as porn, as far as SW-related bills are concerned. Amazing how some people are contented to remain ignorant and stupid when so many lives are at stake. Just goes to show that this shit isn’t really real to them, which is where we activists come in.) 

What I can’t tell you yet is whether the penalties for “johns” set forth in this bill are worse than before. I haven't read the text of current law on that subject. Either way, barring unforeseen calamity, all of us should continue to operate under current known best practices with an ear cocked to potential developments. 

It may be naive, but I’m excited to see ANY movement on the subject. The scary part is who is influencing/funding the legislation. If these senators are in the pocket of the Hunt Foundation, they’ll never listen to us.

But we’ll give it a good shot!

Don’t let it keep you up at night. However, if you are worried, this is an excellent time to give to MASWAN/SWOP: https://www.massachusettsswan.org/support-us/. We're going to need serious pizza to fuel the long hours of work ahead.

Xo,

E

Thanksgiving grace for 2017

As the house fills with delicious smells from our kitchen, I am struck by how very, very fortunate I feel this year. There are so many things to be grateful for. 

It is as a lot of us predicted. After the hopelessness caused by events almost exactly a year ago and the chaos that has ensued since—after the bloodshed and tragedy, travesty, and eminent strengthening of resolve, with so many people banding together to fight the injustice that is ever starker than it was just a short time ago, we have survived an entire year. And life as we know it has not been destroyed—rather, we have focused on each other, our immediate community, and on claiming victory in even the smallest acts of kindness in the glaring face of despotism. In the presence of a national hurricane of indigestible things, we stand with those we love in the center and are grateful for the births, mourn the tragedies, and find strength in each other, because we are, by necessity, closer to one another than ever before. 

Living with a Marxist, talk of the revolution is an almost daily subject, which, to me, is taken with a grain of salt. I am not the idealist I used to be. We were recently in the company of several like-minded folk of varying generations, and I found an interesting moment of communion with a complete stranger. I wondered aloud if the “revolution” would really ever come—if people could really be convinced to rise up and risk life and limb for a better society—when we are so attached to the creature comforts and our middle class quality of life. And old-timer began to speak of life during the Depression, which made of everyone who endured those privations, he said, a progressive. “Just look at Houston,” said someone else, listing the other disasters that have happened this year and one of their greatest outcomes: the outpouring of generosity of neighbors, friends, strangers across the country. In my mind, I flashed back to the 4-year-old me who received almost daily trash bags full of clothing and toys and stuffed animals after we lost our house in a terrible fire—of the people who came out of nowhere to lift us up out of confusion and loss. And, I thought, maybe revolution is one stuffed animal, one casserole--one act of grace--at a time. 

May you be safe; may you be well; may you be at peace.

Xo,

Ernestine

Scott Church: A gift to womankind

I just returned from another shoot with Scott--this time, since I'm back in ballet class, I brought my pointe shoes and we had an amazing afternoon of art and collaboration. The result? Lucky you!

Check out Scott's blog, currently featuring yours truly!

xo,

E

Spectacular musings: The French, on women, once again

This time, it's Emile Zola and his fabulous novel Nana, which takes place in 1880s Paris and follows an opera singer in an era in which the main perk of such a career was to see how many wealthy men one could wrap around one's little finger...

"She was turning into a force of nature and, without any intention on her part, a ferment of destruction; between her plump white thighs, Paris was being corrupted and thrown into chaos."

"She'd made her final move into the messy world of amorous intrigue; her insolent house-warming party was everything she desired: the grand residence was bursting at the seams with men and furniture."

xo, Ernestine

Dan Savage makes more sense than the rest of America combined.

Do y'all know about the Savage Lovecast? Download an episode for your next drive to meet with me! He is amazing. I think his work is particularly useful to the generation before mine in which all of the many nuances and permutations of human sexuality aren't given as much daylight. This episode in particular covers some territory that particularly resonated with me in light of certain conversations I've had with many, many, many clients (keyword "monogamy" hashtag "guilt"). From Ernestine with love. Enjoy.

 

Update: Hey! Dan played my response to one of his previous callers at the very end of this episode. Fame! 

A doxy from a French classic

I love Victor Hugo. He tends to be remarkably quotable (no doubt by design), and I had to share this nugget with you:

"The smell of money attracts women like the scent of lilac; they're like all the other cats, they don't care whether they're killing mice or birds. Two months ago that wench was living virtuously in an attic, sewing metal eye-holes into corsets, sleeping on a truckle-bed and living happily with a flower-pot for company. Now she's a banker's doxy. It seems it happened last night, and when I met her this morning she was jubilant. And what's so disgusting is that she's just as pretty as ever. Not a sign of high finance on her face."

--Les Misérables

I can't say that I necessarily identify with the first part; but it's just so delectable and hit home, rather. Which is to say, I'm rather pleased to no longer be living in that attic (metaphorically speaking)...

...nor a paragon of virtue.

A previous life: Art modeling

Nude modeling is perhaps a gateway drug to escorting. I modeled for a wide variety of artists in different settings for about 10 years before recently "retiring" in lieu of greener (or shall I say fleshier) pastures. As a going-away gift, someone I worked for for many years sent me these:

Aren't they marvelous? In fact, I'm writing another story about a post-modeling fantasy. Stay tuned.

xo,

Ernestine