09
Jul
12

12 days to get to DC! PLEASE HELP TODAY!!

This is the final push to get some funding get me to DC and help to fund my trip and creative ideas for my upcoming shows! I’ve added some sex toy and lube cream for you to get moitivated to get your credit card out!  http://bit.ly/NncBFu  is the link to the Indie Gogo Campaign..  http://on.fb.me/LwYWt4 is the link to the July 20th Facebook Event in LA.  PLEASE PLEASE DONATE!  I already bought my plane ticket to DC and I am heavy in production and practice for these shows so doing sex work is also really difficult to do while promoting these shows.  Every contribution helps!  

27
Jun
12

HELP ME GET SEX WORKER MUSIC In LA, DC and BRC this summer!

I know I haven’t blogged on here at all this year.  I am working on writing a BOOK actually.  Well, not right now, but eventually!  First off is focusing on my music and performance career which kicks off with a show at Highways in Santa Monica called “Whorrific Cabaret.”  I have been working on my body and mind for the last 6 months and I am in a position to WIN.  I meditate on success everyday.  I’ve lost 12 lbs.  I can do anything that I set my mind to.  GO FIGHT WIN.  $2500.  That’s what I say while I am punching my partners hands doing sit ups in class.  My singer/artist apex dreams will become a reality…please help support!

Check out this video and help me make my big thinking no limit WHORE REVOLUTIONARY dreams this summer.  I have 24 days to raise money for my goal.  Every element is about spreading sex worker activism through MUSIC.  I am getting ready for a big show in Santa Monica with Madison Young and Nina Hartley on July 20th.  Even after I have done activism in LA for the last 6 years, I still feel like the city barely knows what sex worker rights culture (and it is a culture everywhere else but here) IS.  Help me change that!  If you believe that that is worth $7 PLEASE DONATE!  Click on the link below to get to the campaign page. Every donation HELPS!  Thank you so much!

08
Jan
12

2012 YEAR OF THE DRAGON: time to breath some FIRE

Today marks the 3rd month that I have stopped inhaling marijuana

HAPPY NEW YEAR!  I am starting off the year in Los Angeles reflecting on the differences between this year and last year.  Last year I started out with a big wad of sugar daddy cash on my person because Christmas in the Bay Area had blessed me with an amazingingly generous client that allowed me to get my solo theatre show “Modern Day Asian Sex Slavery” off the ground and have a cabaret with a full jazz band and sexy sex worker burlesque performers…Those are the two big accomplishments of 2011 that I wrote in my list of things that I was proud of having accomplished that year.

The OTHER big one is more recent and carries a different weight for me.  3 months ago I attempted to go on a weed cleanse because I was sick with a cold and had stopped vaporizing for a few days because when I am sick, I don’t really feel like being high because my head is already light, so I took advantage of the 3 day streak I had already started and tried to push myself to continue it for as long as I could.  I vowed that I would go easy on myself if it was a decision to medicate or have a major mental breakdown, I would medicate.  I believe in 3 months I may have vaporized about 3 times only.  but I EAT edibles on the weekends to get high and have fun dancing and enjoying my life as opposed to using weed to just get through each day.

Previously for me, marijuana was the anti-depressant that I felt was the very thread of my survival.  It was painful for me to think of not having it in my system and there were many many times when I would be driving to the dispensaries in LA with tears in my eyes.  I’d sit down with my grinder and vaporizer tube and count backwards 5-4-3-2-1 and then after 2 inhales I would be relieved of my pain, my tears would dry and I would feel better.  Medicated.  Positive thoughts again.  In July of 2011 it was getting really bad for me, the weed was not really working that well.  I was ready to get on psych meds, the intake staff person told me he had an art gallery so I sent him some of my artwork (which is sexually charged) from my phone giving him my number as well and he started pursuing me in hopes of trying to PIMP me.  (he told me he had experience in that game and then ended with a “I’m kidding” when he noticed I reacted negatively). No lie.  My path is full of vultures, I constantly have to breath fire in their face and make them back down.  Thank God for the ability Sprint has to block numbers from calling and texting you.  During the time he was trying to contact me a lot, he had just gotten fired from that place and just got out of  jail for a getting in a fight he casually told me in our 1-2 ever conversations which always ended with a “sweetie” at the end of them.  Remember, pimps can live anywhere, be of any race, age or gender but most noticeably seek you out when you are at your most vulnerable with offers of help and resources.

That center did a half assed intake and never called me again even though they charged me $20.  I wanted my money back!  Apparently, although they didn’t inform me in any way, I guess I wasn’t insane enough to need their help.  I was disenchanted to say the least.  I decided I would try St.Johns Wort and it worked a miracle on me.  A true saint indeed.  As an uninsured American, herbal remedies are the KEY to my survival.  I use St.Johns Wort (SJW) in combination with Passionflower (for anxiety) to ease my pains and it helps me get through each day without marijuana.  I wanted to prepare my body for the baby that I wanted to have in the next 5 years and although I do know mothers who have used weed to term and bore healthy babies I thought it would be better if I cut down.  I NEVER thought I was going to be able to.  My weed use as decreased by 75% with the help of my other herbs and I haven’t had a medical card since August which means I haven’t been able to enter any medical marijuana clubs since then either.  My vaporizer is shelved, my bongs are dusty, my grinders are put away.  I am a marijuana supporter and sympathizer forever but I’m no longer a stoner.  There are no actual weed flowers in the house!  That, to me is amazing.  For me to go 5 straight days without medicating with weed is no less than a miracle.  Its been 3 months and I am still amazed every day.  In previous years when I’d done cleansing experiments, I’d used passionflower to be clean during the day, but then I’d eat an edible every night.  I’d try to make rules saying I would only smoke when the sun was down, but I’d be anxiously awaiting the sunset.  But I wasn’t using SJW yet.   St.Johns Wort helps with mood elevation and depression.  It helps me balance my brain chemistry.  I have been resistant to daily anything in my past.  You couldn’t get me to take vitamins, supplements, birth control pills daily nothing.  I’d forget, I’d skip, I’d stop.  But I take my herbs with my coffee every single day now just like I used to sit there all day in front of my home office computer with my vape tube in my mouth every hour because IT WORKS. and it works well. Some herbal remedies don’t always work on me.  People swear by 5HTP but I tried that and it didn’t do the trick like what I have now.   For me personally, I wanted to go back to a time when marijuana was recreational over the time when weed was something i would fear being without for too long.

Sometimes I still have anxiety and hard times but I’m able to push through them without weed now.  I am stronger.  I made myself stronger and I am proud of myself.  I’m not sober, I’m not clean, I’m just a new version of the same old me.  To not have the kind of depression problems that I have been plagued with for years is such a relief.  If you have never been there, you probably don’t know how dark the darkness feels even in the light.  I would be at the beach trying to lift my mood but I’d still feel hopeless, negative, worried about the future, hearing voices of defeat and the worst lonliness, even when I was trying to fix my situation by try to go out and dance (alone and go home alone w/o conversing with another person), watch a movie (alone) or go eat (alone) or to martial arts or yoga classes.  I would make a log of the time when I’d just sit in the car in the parking lot and feel that there wasn’t anyone in LA who was lonlier than me at that moment.  It is still an ongoing battle for me.   but I am happy to have this under more control.  I just got high yesterday, because, hey it was FRIDAY!!  i started to have inspirations about ideas for new paintings and decided to start painting again.  I was going off on idea after ideas and facebooking manically with joy.  That’s what weed does to me.  The ideas are real.  The ideas are still good.  Its just that now that is not me everyday, the amount of ideas that I spew out are more manageable and realizable.  If I was feeling like that on a daily basis, I noticed I would get frustrated at how I knew I was never going to follow through on these ideas because it would be impossible to manage them all well.  Idea diarrhea got annoying at meetings as well.  I’d be like hating my own interruptions and blurting outs. Fuck I shouldn’t have said that.  o well i just said it.  i wanted to be in total control of my thoughts and actions again.  Before I met my first majorly unhealthy partner at 22 I smoked occasionally and didn’t even own a bong of my own!  But after we broke up was the beginning of my new found lifestyle which I was totally content with and loved.  I will never renounce it.  I’m just happy that I am able to overcome certain difficulties in different ways and the major suffering has eased.  And I don’t rule out that I may go back to those ways, but probably not.  I went from bong to vaporizer for almost 2 years, then SJI/Passionflower and edibles on the weekends.  Weed/drug use is kind of like sex work for me.  I’m not concerned about knowing when it will end, I can’t know that.  I will stop doing what I am doing now when I am no longer doing it.  Period.  I STILL have no regrets about ending friendships to people like Kristina Wong (who tried to shame me into quitting) or my ex roommates at the Basswerks (who ran an intervention on me as a condition to staying in the) house I lived at in LA who made me feel like shit for needing to medicate with marijuana.

I’ve been trying to cut down for years but I couldn’t.  I would not compromise my survival because I knew what I needed to be well.  If I don’t have my herbs I will also start freaking out in the same way I did when I was out of weed because I can feel when I am not medicated.  I am now just medicating with something else.  I am also super relieved that I did not have to get on any expensive and long term destructive pharmaceutical anti-depressants.  I love herbal remedies as well because it fits my budget.  If you are trying to ween yourself off of any substance: TRY PASSIONFLOWER.  It takes the edge and craving off of life and it works.  I swear by it.  I swear by both these herbs just like I used to swear my life on my indica weed.  I was in San Francisco for December 17th “International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers” and Robyn Few, the founder of SWOP was there.  She gathered a circle of known potheads to share in her homegrown joints as usual and I did not partake!  It was the first time in the history of my sex worker activism that I didn’t smoke weed with Robyn Few when she offered.  Robyn’s love and her shameless weed smoking was the reasons that I joined the sex worker rights movement in the first place.  I had finally found my family I thought.  A bunch of loving prostitute stoner women hanging out in a room?  Wut? I’m IN!!!  It was a beautiful thing.  Robyn is still battling cancer with 2 joints in her hand, and I am still battling my demons too but we are both STILL ALIVE and kicking and smiling and looking hot.  SURVIVORS.  I asked her if she would ever stop smoking weed and she replied defiantly,”NEVER.”

This year music and art are my big goals.  I am going to Japan finally for an extended stay THIS YEAR for sure.  6 months to a year.  I’ve decided to leave South Central LA.  Sell my stuff.  go to Japan and make my own cultural journey without my mom’s help.  It is my lunar year.  The year of the dragon. This has got to be big. I will accept nothing less. I stopped going to weekly therapy at the start of 2012 and decided to direct that $25 into paying my pianist and start rehearsing with him on the regular again. time to get this music train BACK on the track with NO excuses.  Music is therapy anyway.  Singing sets me free and gives me immeasurable joy.  I need to do it like my other art forms.  Including my martial arts.  I had done my cabaret in January and then totally abandoned working on live music.  It got reprioritized, like my painting did. I come back to things.  but I don’t always know when.  I just had no desire to paint after I sold the last painting for $1600 and after David Perry died.  he was my painting partner.  my inspiration actually.  he was an awesome painter and the best friend I ever had.  I still miss him.  I make a mantel for his stuff in every house I live in and I told him I was going to paint again.  I said it to the mantel.  I told it to his face which was painted in his paintings.  Wendy Babcock is with him now.  I put her photo on his mantle.  I’m sure he’ll enjoy the company.

I’m already doing an exciting group show at the Aljira Gallery in Newark, NJ near Manhattan NYC and it feels like I’m going to start going somewhere again higher than where I am at now.  The curator is trying to get the show to travel to Boston as well.   There is another show at The Museum of Sex in the nearby NYC area at the the SAME TIME as the one that I am already in that is asking for a call for submissions.   I would simply have an art orgasm if I could actually have two major NYC shows at the same time!  Even just having the one show is amazing.  I am thinking that I am glad that I quit teaching and started focusing on my art and music again.  It is what I was meant to be.  not a teacher.  not a non profity worker.  Mariko Passion.  exactly who I am now.  I want to be singing in a club or restaurant with my pianist this year too.  But this always seems to be a goal.  It’s really nice ot have the visual art thing come back though.  trying to sell my shit in the back of bars and clubs in LA wasn’t going well.

I have decided to start painting again because I have been hit with inspiration for WHAT I would paint.  I haven’t painted for almost 10 years, I gave all my brushes and paints to my sister and quit until…perhaps now.  I’ve done  a  few small projects here and there but nothing has inspired me to start seriously painting the way I used to until yesterday when I get high I had these great ideas that I knew that I would actually follow through on.  These are NOT hallucinations.  It is just easier to produce my great creative ideas when I am not hearing voices from my family’s rejection telling me that I am a fat, can’t sing, too sensitive, wasting my life, not interesting, always broke.  When I am high I am nothing but positive almost always.  and more than that I am a creative genuis!!! At times like last night I wonder why I need to cut down in the first place.  It started with wanting to stop smoking because asthma but I still have asthma even though I don’t smoke or vaporize but its way more in control than last year.  I am always thankful and grateful when the pain is relieved.  I learned how to manage my asthma with plant medicines too.  Lobelia tinctures with water taste like shit but stop the wheezing.  Much better than paying big pharma $200 for an inhaler that lasts a month.  I learned how to use an alternative because I HAD to.  I like it that way actually and am really proud of the many many natural remedies that I have to cure asthma, yeast infections, bladder infections, depression and anxiety!  fuck yea!  I’m an amazing broke girl!  Really.  FUCK BIG PHARMA.

It’s the weekend, I’m high and practicing new songs to sing.  I’m bursting with creative flow and ideas and working on a proposal for the Museum of Sex due in 5 days.  Getting the New Jersey show was the first step.  The Museum of Sex is the 2nd.  The snow storm will follow.  I feel good.  I feel great.  Gonna have the whole world on a plate.

10
Nov
11

Thank Goddess for Good Clients

Friday Fairy boy weighed in at 135lbs.  That’s 10lbs less than me.  Hairless, smooth body like a 17 year old young man. Gay men call this kind of guy a “twink.” Twinks are a well understood fetish type celebrating the innocence in manhood, adolescent perfection.  I ran my face up and down it with guiltless satisfaction.  When I first met him I picked him up off the ground and wanted to throw him on the bed he seemed so much smaller than me and any clients I had had in ages.  His real age was 31.  I projected dominating him by dressing him up like a fairy boy complete with glitter and wings.  He replied that it sounded like a fun idea.  Exactly what I like to hear.  With a cute smile and glimmer in his eyes, he offered to massage me which was very welcomed by my body whose muscles seemed to remain in a permanent state of tightness from our rigorous fight workouts that I was doing at least 5-6 hour a week.  His fetish was rubbing my breasts vigorously and the action alone seemed to excite him almost to orgasm.  It felt very much like a teen sex fantasy because the whole session consisted entirely of rubbing and touching of my body safely clearing any area near my genitals.  Although I was only 4 years his senior I felt like I was helping a young man explore sex for the first time.  Maybe I was, I would never know.  I’ve definitely done that for men before.  I didn’t ask but I could tell he didn’t have much experience.  A young Sikh college student once called me over and after we started he told me he had never seen or touched a vagina before, as it was against his religion to do so.  Everything he did was with the hands of a clumsy piously restricted virgin daring to break out of the strict desires of God for an hour and listen to his own carnal desires.

My fairy boy twink straddled me and continued to rub my breasts in circles, never touching the nipples.  His body would pull back and shudder when I reached down and touched his cock even minimally.  When he did finally ejaculate, it was mostly without my touching him, but of him touching me, fantasizing what he wasn’t or couldn’t have in that moment for whatever reason.   He came with such intensity it shot me on the side of my cheek as I turned my face away and closed my eyes.  Clumps landed in my hair and bits were in his hair well.  He was the one to run to the bathroom to get a towel for us (that was usually my job) and we laughed as we cleaned his mess off of both of us.  This was nowhere NEAR the usual reaction I would procure if any client’s semen got near my face or even on my hair, but because he was such a delightful twink, he got a glowing pass.  I was happy to please him by allowing him to please me.  It was his willingness to oblige my fantasies which opened up my willingness to oblige his.  And his were so easy to oblige compared to most of the guys that I had come across in months.  The whole evening would be full of healing but the simple interaction and exchanges between me and this client was the beginning of a long needed rejuvenation.

My next client was a nurse.  A Mexican guy with a decent job.  Where have you been all this fucking year?  I didn’t fall too hard for him though like I would have done in the past.  My days of falling for clients was over and I was too guarded from previous experiences of past months.  Our sex was good.  I am always extremely pleased when men can fingerbang my pussy til it drips wet puddles all over the bedsheets.  He was a very silent lover so I had to imagine nasty things were being sad and done to me from deep inside my headspace.  I had a very satisfying orgasm on his dick.  This is a rare occurence for me actually (i can orgasm but ON a dick directly is a different story, usually fingers are more precise).   It is much easier to do when I haven’t had satisfying sex in many weeks, its like my body LONGS for the release.  I can always tell how long its been by how my body reacts to the stimulation.  Very similar to the fairy boy earlier in the evening, probably had pent up tension from MONTHS or perhaps YEARS.   I grabbed the nurse’s body and pulled it close to mine and released all my post coital bliss hormones all over him knowing we would dose off for at least an hour in afterglow.  We talked about how long and much needed that sex was for both of us.  But the cuddling, as you know, is what I live for.  I knew better than to want too much from him.  During our session he talked about different interests like going to Vegas and strip clubs and tequila and gambling and I recognized our differences so I never tried to want more than just repeat business from him.  “I’ve had a really shitty time dating people,”I said placing his arms around my body, placing his hand over my breast like I like.”This is all I really need and want from everyone I try to date but it seems so hard to get.”  I went home at 6am and slept in til 5pm the next day alone and content in my lovely comfy bed much better than the cheap notel motel bed I was on hours earlier.  I woke up rejuvenated and ready to face the world of sex work that had lately become cruel and harsh again, ready to bear more clients good and bad, my battery recharged, my soul reminded that it was good and deserving and knew no wrong in seeking the basic needs of all human beings.  Reminded once again that we all really sought the same things from each other at the end of the day.  Reminded that there were days that I used to love my clients and my job.  Reminded that not everyone was psychotic or hated me or wanted me dead.  Reminded of the goodness in men once again.  I wasn’t yet ready to date anyone yet, but these kinds of experiences were key in balancing my soul and preparing it to feel like I could imagine sharing it with someone again.  This was perfect, as much as I needed and wanted.  not more, not less.

01
Nov
11

The Barrel of a Gun

Starring down the barrel of a gun

Wondering again how the fuck I got here

Wondering again why I put myself in this place again again again

No one is going to believe you

What happened to all your training sister soldier?

But life is not as perfect as drills in a martial arts class..

Starring down the barrel of a gun

Realizing this life is kicking my ass

There is just no way I can win first just last

I wish it were so easy

But hope and fortune just strip and tease me

Cuz soon it all falls apart again

Its just a matter of where and when

I realize if a Charles Manson (or a Gary Ridgeway)  wanted to get me into his grasp

He probably could

The psychological ways they tie you up so easy

Dehumanize, degrade me

PTSD freeze me

Cold

This song is getting so fucking old

Even I’m tired of singing it

Again again again all my training gone to shit

His ugly misogynistic face I wanted to hit

But somehow my punches never quite

Reach

It…

17
Oct
11

Where’s Your SelfEfuckingSteem? Send Out The Clowns!

Today I killed a clown, or did a clown kill me?  I was feeling so fucking great waking up with someone holding me again, wrapping their arms around me and kissing me and kissing me and kissing me.  Someone massaged my shoulders and made me breakfast again one morning…I was doing everything better.  I wasn’t seeing this person or talking to him every day.  I wouldn’t allow myself to spend all day in bed love bonding with orgasms to fuel the toxic formula which has been proven to be the downfall of most codependent relationships…

Where is your self efuckingsteem?” He asked me when I picked him up shitfaced from OccupyLA.  I thought it was funny when he said it at the time, I really did.

[If you treat me like shit] I will NOT love you LONG TIME.  Nope.  Definitely not.  This I know from experience, especially if someone causes me so much pain in such a short period of time.  Luckily all this stuff goes in vicious cycles, so if you missed it the first time it hit you [me] in the face, rest assured it would come around again and again and again and as you kept trying so hard to juggle all the balls, they kept being thrown at you and all of them falling faster than the music, faster than you could chase after them down the hill, onto the freeway, lost forever….

I found out today that I have codpendent tendencies, but no, I am not a hopeless codependent.  I am becoming less and less so with every romantic partner.  They are following a vicious cycle, but they are coming in and out of my life like acid rain storm clouds.  Messing up my atmosphere and then it clears up faster and faster and faster disappearing into another bright and sunny Los Angeles day.  Rinse.  Repeat.

Love and Sex addicted I am not.  My counselor is always suggesting I go to meetings of different types.  I look up the definitions and read the meeting descriptions and laugh.  the funny thing is that once I stopped using weed, the sex between us changed.  it was sooo amazing the first night and then it was decent, but he still needed to be trained.   It was the intimacy/cuddling/affection and passionate kissing is what I live for everytime.  It’s what I turn my phone off and drive across town to get even for a little bit.  Even if it means sleeping on a mattress on the floor in a messy 23 year old’s room in his mama’s house.   I had temporarily quit using marijuana for most of this affair, which was related to me catching a cold and wanting to have a different relationship to substances of my own accord.  Now that I look back on it, that’s how I should have seen that he was an addict.  Because he was in no way trying to respect my desire to try to be sober, trying to get me to break and give in to using weed every time we saw each other.  It was pretty easy to resist as I was determined.  Even when I told him it was for the future baby (not his necessarily).  This is why he didn’t drive.  This is why he had a broken collarbone and a broken heart.  I only went back to MaryJane tonite but I don’t feel guilty about it.  I knew I would break down and use when it was “absolutely neccessarily.”   I felt stronger instantly.   It was Maryjane or the clown.  And I chose wisely.

This affair was short but sweet sixteen days,  because we went through all of the same bits and pieces faster for some reason.  He flaked on me again.  Twice in a row, the second time was the last time.  He was unapologetically drunk again and I did not desire to pick him up and make things better with his alcoholic embrace.  The last time was to fix my pathology and this time would be to appease his, and I was able to refuse it much easier.  An obnoxious drunk is easier to turn down than a slick romantic abuser manipulator.  If he had called me up drunk telling me that he was sorry he didn’t mean to hurt me, he needed help or some other smoother story like my other abusers were able to come up with other than the sorry pathetic one he presented I may have gone to pick him up instead of cut him off.

I did not imagine that he was massaging his female friend’s shoulders in front of me the other day. She was low key challenging my worth, even asking me where I went to school. (I have a Master’s Degree actually, I told her).  I didn’t like the situation at all. I felt like I was amazing artist Frida Kahlo watching her asshole fat ass non deserving but talented husband Diego Rivera paw her sister in front of her (“I know I don’t believe in monogamy, but I know I don’t feel good right now”) It challenged my views on open relationships and non monogamy even though me and the clown were not yet in an official relationship he knew that I liked him and should have talked to me about her before touching her in front of me.   Jealousy and pain.  Too much too fast.  Do they do this on purpose just to see if you will still be there after they shoot daggers at you?

He actually told me that he wanted to keep fucking me and stop kissing me when I told him I had herpes.  I burst into tears and cried so hard all day that my eyes hurt at night. (you cannot automatically get herpes from kissing/fucking someone with herpes, even if they have an outbreak on their lip (tho of couse MORE risky indeed as any open sore is), but it is especially not risky if they don’t though the “always contagious”  and “even condoms won’t protect you” doctrine is still prescribed by some doctors and sex educators).  I don’t even get those big open sores that you often see on people’s lips.  And condoms don’t protect you when your making out with someone, that is the reason behind that statement.

I did not use weed to feel better that day.  I called him and asked him to make it better, to kiss away the pain he had caused..   I do not kiss my clients because I want every kiss I give someone to mean something.  I want commercial intimacy and personal intimacy to always be different and mostly but not always something special. It makes making out with someone as exciting as it was when I used to do it at an 8th grade dance at times.   I don’t have the strength to fight the whore stigma anymore these days.  I really really don’t, even though when I wear my fancy sexy whore revolutionary outfit it appears as if I do.  And I do on the outside.  A trained warrior.  Just not on the inside.   I’d been through too much lately.  Had a shit of time internet dating on several sites,  so I had literally just given it up before I met him.  He was like a godsend when I met him at a Burningman party.  I stumbled into someone I had been looking for on the internet in the “real world.”  The first day he made me cry so hard was the first time I asked him to make things better in his embrace.  “You need to make it better.” I cried, knowing that that was just a band aid solution and that I was willingly following an unhealthy relationship pattern that was too familiar to me.  I am a survivor of relationship violence, so I will always have a tendency to seek comfort in asking the violator to heal me when I can.  And of course, he did, gave me a colorful lollipop to cheer me up (in one hand, and a can of Modelo beer in the other) when I picked him up and kissed me passionately, holding my face like I love, filling me with hot flames of desire, making me feel whole again as I rocked my hips towards him.  Later that night as we were walking to the protest (it was awesome that we were both activist/artist types), he was laughing while I was telling him about my feelings from the day and I guess I punched him pretty hard in the chest to stop his laughter.  I didn’t think that I did but he acted pretty wounded.  It’s likely since I’ve returned to martial arts and he made me cry earlier that I could have hit him harder than I thought.  But this is another codependent trick, to flip the blame on the victim. (An ex abuser has started an argument based on the fact that I “accidentally grazed him in the balls on purpose”)  Now I am the abuser.  I have been the person to hit my boyfriends in the arm or chest (the way you may have seen teenage couples fight)  or make violent motions towards their face without touching them to express my anger and desire to tear into them for the pain they have given me.  This is still violence I know.  I know.  If a man did this to me it would be equally problematic.  Now I am the one who should apologize profusely.  Good trick.  Do it again.  Again! Again! Again!

But the later offenses weren’t fixable with an apology or an embrace.  I had seen it before and I had walked away before.  Except the last time it took me 2.5 months and way, way more damage than this little affair had caused.

I went to (my best friend that died at 26) David’s burial ground and held my palms out and stared into his gravestone, hoping to channel his love and support, hoping like I have many times before to get his ghost to appear and talk to me for a few minutes.  I needed a friend bad.  I needed a lover and this floppy clown came along.  It was super fun for a while and taught me so much about me.  It was because I was more sober I was able to see his addictions with a clearer lens.  But I am no classic codependent, and he was a classic case of a borracho payaso drunkard.  Big clown shoes and sad story of time and creative potential wasted, lover after lover of his gone lost and walked away in sadness and anger before me and after me too no doubt…Promising talent, dedicated to his craft and a heart with the potential to shine a room full of children or make even the smartest, sexiest female in the room take him home.  But he clearly had no self esteem only self hatred that filled his belly which was not fat with food.  not fat with love.  Addicts make it so hard to be loved but they want and need it the most.  I know this because I have fallen in love with too many of them, except that they were closet addicts able to hold up a facade much better than this clown so our affairs would end up being longer.  No mas.  Where is my self efuckingsteem?  I still have it apparently.  I would rather be codependent with Maryjane than an alcoholic.  What I was proving to myself lately though was that I wasn’t a drug addict, I could exist without cannabis medicating through traumatic times, through the triggers, through the sadness.  But tonight,  I took comfort in her vapor and through the steam cloud I was able to dry my tears and open my eyes and see again.  I am going to use weed differently.  I am still committed.  I am going to love and do relationships differently.  I already have been.  I mourn for the loss of him and placed his number on my wireless carrier block list.  The familiar block list that I put all my ex boyfriends and lovers so I do not have to cave into them calling me in the middle of the night with sweet promises, even if they talk of them after the pain has subsided months later….I will not go back.

Yes, I am a naive child spirit that still wanders lost in the body of a 35 year old woman, but apparently I am not as vulnerable and desperate as I look sometimes.  I did do better this time, So send out the clowns.

03
Sep
11

What Goes Around Comes Around

In the last month or more since I wrote my last blog, I am finally blessed with a come up of my previous luck of the summer.  I don’t love the work like I used to as times are a changing, but at least I am not hating every single thing that I have to do for it and there are steadier calls and some better clientele who aren’t trying to fuck me over at every turn.  I know when it is down down down that the pendulum swings and it will soon come back up, but it had been a long summer of bad, economic recession and vultures flying low and clicking their teeth in anticipation of me slipping. I am still working on transition, but I am not naive to think that this is going to be a quick process.  I have made steps toward re-integrating myself into the working world, paid for my own criminal background check so that I could make sure that my misdemeanor charge was showing as dismissed as I had fought for.  The funny thing about expunging your record is that even though you may have gotten any of your previous charges dismissed, the person reading your background check still gets to read what the original charges were alongside the original sentences which are usually set extreme to scare you out of thinking you have any chance of getting off easy.  My original charges read  “7 days of jail, 18 months of probation, HIV test report and stay off Craigslist erotic services section.”  WOW.  Try applying for a teaching job with that even though the final lines say clearly “probation terminated on good behavior and case dismissed.”  Starting this process indeed made me teary eyed, but I feel similar to the process of representing myself pro per (as my own lawyer) in court and fighting for the dismissal would be an interesting exercise in seeing exactly how hard re-integration can be for someone like me who is supposed to have a wealth of so called choices.

I hate the word CHOICE.  Hate it. Fuck choices when it comes to work.  Choice is a continuum.  And for me, so is sexual assault.  I have been violated so many times I stopped counting because it would just be disturbing.  I have been violated so many times that I have accepted that I am a permanent warrior enlisted in the gender violence war.  And that is not my choice. But ‘Choice’ is the dominant paradigm that sits in opposition to FORCE.  forced sex work.  forced prostitution.  sex trafficking.  slavery.  Choice is also a word thrown around in the PRO-CHOICE movement.  This same pro-choice camp also so often fails to notice the lack of choices available to poor, marginalized women of color in regards to reproductive options and sex work is a part of that.   They are all for women being pro-choice with their bodies except when it comes to “choosing” to do sex work.  We sex worker rights folks are aware of the FALSE DICHOTOMY between force and choice.  But still sex workers talk about choosing sex work because it sounds good.  Connecting sexual abuse, drug use/addiction and sexual assault to prostitution sounds awful, pathological, typical.  How can we make these connections without these attributes?  Those sex workers may believe that they have the choice to do sex work just as simply as they choose to eat candy in the morning (or not) or fast food at night (or not).  Perhaps I feel like it is not a choice because so many times I have had to go to WORK and suck up my feelings time and time again and it was far from what I would have chosen to do with my time.  The nature of the SERVICE INDUSTRY particularly ones with BOSSES or SUPERIORS is that when you don’t want to do it, it will always feel like slavery.  This is true of housekeeping, childcare, farmwork, garment work, office work or anything that has a naturally submissive aspect to it in order to earn gratuity above minimum wage.  For me, it started when I was a stripper hating the repetetive monotony of my job.  I had just gone through my first major breakup of my 20s with a guy I was in love with and going to work to be chipper and sexually entertaining to the world and other men was the most difficult thing ever.  It was at this point when I started to medicate with marijuana on a daily basis in order to create a positive facade over the hatred I had for the job.  In the beginning of the healing I would dance on stage and go in the private rooms to cry.  13 years later I still medicate depression and anxiety with marijuana on the daily but now I don’t feel so bad about it.  Using weed is not just a result of being a sex worker, nor is my depression or anxiety but I definitely can be fond of eating a half of a pot cookie, smoking a bong (in the past, I vaporize now) or heating up a vaporizer to deal with anything in my life that I have to go out and do that takes strength.  This included going to grad school, student teaching and regular teaching.  Marijuana allows me to reach a level of seratonin balance that life doesn’t.  I have a deep and intimate relationship with MaryJane.  She is my mothers nipple to nurture my cries in an empty apartment at times when I am bawling hopelessly on the floor.  She is also just a way for me to push out the negative voices and replace them with positive affirmations about the big picture: the beautiful sunny Los Angeles day, the awesome music, the delicious food, the fact that I have many talents, that I am an intelligent analytical being, a writer, a singer, a funny joking child like spirit that deserves to live life to the fullest.  Maybe I choose weed over heroin, alcohol or speed or other substances that close down emotions and thought or maybe I am just choosing to live.  Is that a choice?  I don’t even know anymore.  I think so.  I mean, I know I have potential that is greater than being a junkie or commiting suicide or even relegating myself to a full time “normal” job.   The word has been used in so many negative connotations (mostly in my choosing to do sex work) that I don’t even use it anymore except as a necessary part of sentences.  Let’s just say I don’t use it fervently.  I don’t believe that work is a choice in America or anywhere in the world.

Mostly because I truly believe that I have been attracted to sex work and have stayed in sex work for as long as I have to unravel and discover my power struggle with sexism, rape culture and patriarchy that was NEVER my CHOICE.

My first sexual assault was a date rape on the beach at 17.  A naive teenager is getting drunk at a youth hostel with backpackers in the their 20s.  One of them asks me to go to the liquor store to get more drinks for the rest but instead I found myself laying in the dark at a secluded beach in Honolulu, Hawaii the sight of my first taste of what it meant to not understand the intentions of men.  As Tribe Called Quest would sing,”Classic example of..a date rape.” It wasn’t physically violent so [all my]  perpetrator[s] probably thought it was consensual.  I don’t remember who he was, only that he was some white surfer dude and that I knew exactly at the moment of penetration that this was not my choice.  There were many more after that.  The worst was from the first boy I ever fell in love with at 16, my best friends brother.  This assault would tear my best friend and I apart for many years and create a rift in our relationship that was only fully healed when at his funeral when he died (heart disease at only 26)  I had to face his brother again for the first time since the assault and be cordial. It worked out. We hugged and I was able to forgive him. David helped me from heaven or wherever he was. Then, another backpacking incident in Northern Australia, a vulture asks me to come to his room to get a massage and naive 21 year old adventurous me thinks that he has innocent and therapeutic intentions. NOT.  Because of that incident is the reason I attribute to why I feel I get so much out of the sensual massages that I give men.  Sensual and consensual they come so easily in my hands.  It is more than them ejaculating.  It is like the power blood gives vampires.  A refill of my power supply that had been depleted by trauma.  A refill of my power supply that had been depleted from the sexism of that day walking down the street before I came into my power or dealing with the privilege of men of that given time in my school, in my dating life, etc etc.  Melissa Farley and her clan love to hear stories like this.  It makes them hard, gets them funded, makes them look smart, makes them feel that I fit the stereotype.  The big difference is that I am empowered in the end.  More so than not.  Otherwise I would not be in it for as long as I have.

“Everytime a client comes an angel [hooker] gets her wings…”

Some sex workers are in denial of this connection.  I’m not.  I see it everywhere I turn.  I saw it especially when I was working with street workers in Skid Row.  So many of those girls find street work and prostitution satisfying because it is a gritty hustle.  Because their Uncle used to take for free continuously now they can not only not be around that abuse but get paid for the same desires that their pervy Uncle once had. And yes, it IS more empowering than being returned home or going back to a foster home at times.  I get it.  Do you?  I like craigslist/LA Weekly/Backpage clients for the same reason.  I attain high class clients occasionally through these outlets, but mostly I deal with working class, younger, drug using guys that I can yell at (if they act up) and never see again.  And they call me for the same reason and I DARE them to try to disrespect me.   Workers can be mean and strict with their tricks and get paid for it.  We prey on their shame of what they are doing.  We get paid for their racism.  PAYBACK in the short term, but in the long term perhaps more damaging.

NOT ALL MY CLIENTS ARE DICKHEADS THAT WANT TO RAPE ME.  Lots of them, most of them are great and fine, average guys that I heal myself and them simultaneously by surviving our transaction with ease and bliss.

In my acknowledgement that I am in the tail end of my sex work career, I acknowledge that I have attained enough of the positive and the negative to move on.  I have pissed in the mouths of men and slapped them around with their own dicks (practically).  I have watched them destroy themselves with drugs throw their money at me in effort to seem manly and as a result their manliness has disintegrated before me.  They’re not nearly as strong as I thought they were before I first started dancing at 22.  From my first day at the stripclub, I wore my 4″ stilettos and was suddenly able to look them in their eyes and see them for what they really were: vulnerable.  lonely.  compassionate.

It was the prostitution world that really helped me see this, as well as being a dominant.  I didn’t finish the journey in the stripclub, as all the stripclubs in America are ruled by pimps that exploit their workers at least to some degree and in the worst case scenarios they mirror the sexism that the mafia has with their harem of girls that one has become familiar seeing in movies.  (“Tell her to go upstairs and see the boss if she doesn’t have her stage fee..”) I have defiantly held my ground in verbal altercations and watched them back down.  Sometimes I have lost and a screaming cussing dude has chased me into my car after I have refunded him his money back.  So,  I have also lost and retraumatized myself in this effort.  Prostitution was the only thing that could have done this.  Stripclub stripping is legal, somewhat safer.  I could have not gotten arrested in a Craigslist sting, nor robbed or ripped off in ways that I had as an escort by staying the stripclub.  It was all a part of my beautiful struggle, my journey that I am still on.

Today is the first week of my 2011 marijuana cleanse.  I try to do it once a year.  Last year it was because my asthma had gotten so bad that I could barely breath without coughing like an old man every morning.  I abandoned my bong for 50 days and then broke down and went back to it without condemning myself.  I have since switched from smoking to vaporizing and have eliminated smoking anything from my life.  This also eliminates most of the social rituals of being a stoner because most people don’t vaporize.  I can’t believe it’s been a year already.  I used to love my bongs so much, now the taste of smoke sickens me.  I caught a cold Occupying LA and going to rallies in front of city hall.  It was the first major rainstorm of LA’s autumn/winter cold.  This rally was also the first activist event that I had really believed could make a difference somehow.  I hadn’t been to a march or rally in over a year, maybe two.  I thought often about supporting Oscar Grant’s case, but I just knew what the outcome would be whether I took the time to wake up in the morning to support his cause or not.  I was right.

Whenever I am sick, I don’t feel like using marijuana because clouding my head with what would normally be euphoria just ends up feeling like I’m just clouding my brain with smog.  So sickness often is a blessing in disguise for me to take a break from a medicine that I am usually mentally dependent on.  I have since kicked my dependence on asthma steroids.  I weaned myself off of them slowly using a herb called Lobelia which I would drop into water and drink to help relieve some of the symptoms.  It was working.  This was a relief to me as the ashtma medication that seemed to work on me the best cost $200 for a months supply.  I knew that this was just a sham from big pharma.  The doctors prescription said I NEEDED it twice a day everyday when because of finanncial constraints I started to use it once a day and then once every 3 days and then..only as really needed. (in addition to Lobelia tinctures).  I was proud of kicking this dependence.  Medical expenses are no fun.  I still owe my asthma doctor $350.  A visit to that clinic was the same cost to me as I charged my clients ($300/hr) yet, it never seemed to even out, it was never easy to pay the bills and buy the needed medicine and I still have a tab with them.  Today I am proud of the fact that I have found St.Johns Wort to help with my depression, Passion Flower extract to deal with my anxiety and I have only used marijuana ONCE in 7 days.  The cold allowed me to not crave and the herbs help to alleviate the symptoms that I often use marijuana for.  I use marijuana as a pain reliever for chemical imbalances AND emotional pain.  When I face difficult situations with people I am often running to my weed supply, driving straight to a dispensary to feel better and be cradled by my familiar nurturer who sings an internal lullaby and tells me softly “Do not worry about what they are saying.  Do not worry about what they do.  This, too shall pass.”  It is like an herbal teddy bear, I cuddle it and it helps me sleep better at night.  Judge me if you will but you aren’t the one who is holding me or offering to come over when I am depressed, you are the one who doesn’t want to hear my bullshit, who can’t hear my bullshit because it inconveniences you, because it triggers you.  So keep on talking your shit, and I will keep using my weed.  I want to have a baby in the next five years and join the ranks of all the wonderful sex working mamas that I know who have succeeded in defying society’s stigma.  This year’s cleanse is not for the asthma, its for the future baby.  Twice already this week tough times have come and gone, I have cried in depression without crawling to my usual supply of painkiller and survived.  I am super proud of myself for this.  Every little obstacle that I overcome I give myself a gold star because you won’t.  and it’s quite alright.




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