68 Searing
It's not Petra's usual work. But, needs must. Journalism pays, and good journalism pays better. She never expected to actually submit something, but with times being as they are, and her mind filled with thoughts unrelated to her work, she finally decides to post it. She pays for the stamps willingly, if unhappily, and sends the article, this time free-of-charge to newspapers and gazettes of middling repute.
It's only four days later that she finds her article in print. She has to admit to a little bit of foolish pride, repeatedly checking, but it is a fine feeling, well worth the trouble, to see her name in the by-line.
She buys the broadsheet for a shard of copper, sits herself on a bench, and reads.[/color=black]
THE ARMOR OF PROSTITUTES
If they did not exist, we would make them.
The armor of the prostitute is the desire of clients.
This revelation came unintuitively to me. Indeed, I have only recently grasped it, though my inquiries into the lives of that most ancient and scorned of occupations has gone on for some years. They are, after all, rarely out of the headlines. Politicians, courtiers, noblemen, warriors, the scandals come yearly and reap away careers like the very sharpest of scythes. It is always a matter of public interest when one is caught in that particular trap of purchased sex, and perhaps this is the cause of our, by which I largely mean my, ignorance.
One rarely looks at the professional, merely the client. We have in our heads the idea of a syphilitic refuse, some cast-off from society, or instead some Jezebel on the other end of the social scale, whose sole purpose is the destruction of male virtue and the selfish corruption of society’s moral fiber.
It was therefore with some surprise that I found myself drinking, one night with just such a Salome. She was not dancing her veils, or beckoning coquettishly from a window, or even throwing herself at traders coming into the caravanserai like so much off-price meat, soon to rot. She was a tall thing, and well dressed. Excellent posture and good teeth. Well dressed, certainly, and far from scandalous in her choices. An entirely ordinary, if eye-catching, patron of a prestigious flesh-pit whose name many have no doubt heard.
It was a natural thing to begin to talk after a long day of work on my part, and before a long night of work on hers. I thought, though it was not on the forefront of my mind at the moment, that a woman of the night would be obvious at a glance, or at least reveal herself at the slightest utterance. Indeed, there were hints - a polite refusal to speak on her work, a surprising quality of jewelry contrasted with a certain lack of quality in her clothes (endemic, as I later learned, of a profession for which gifts are commonplace), and an odd schedule throughout her anecdotes. But, by and large, I was entirely ignorant.
I only cured my ignorance when we were both deep in my cups. I must admit to a certain amount of impolite curiosity, but my questions were rewarded, albeit reluctantly, with an admission of her trade.
“I’m a courtesan. An escort at the Velvet Cabaret.”
So candid, I was taken aback. Certainly I had misheard, in the din of a dying night. But indeed, I had not. Needless to say, I was intrigued. My questions continued.
She characterizes her work as ‘granting wishes’. She is, to her eyes, giving people a morsel of that which so very few can ever have. Indeed, she puts it almost in socialistic terms, though for a price in the order of gold pieces per night, she commands a solidly upper-class clientele by the main. I asked her if she had any moral compunctions with her work.
“Of course not,” she replied, almost surprised at the question. “What could possibly be the problem?”
That bore consideration, though we had to part soon after. I considered carefully the rote answers I had been fed my entire life. Certainly, she was not coerced. She was no more oppressed than any professional worker - no doubt there was an architecture of pimps above her, collecting a good portion of her money, but her jewels were more than enough to buy protection or escape if she truly wanted, and she had enough leisure time to enjoy a drink at a public house and long hours of conversation. She seemed, indeed, entirely voluntary in her work, insofar as any worker voluntarily trades much of his time and a variable part of his dignity for coin.
There was little to be found wrong with the activities itself. One cannot become easily addicted to intercourse, and though there is always the risk of venereal disease, the same could be said for any sexually active partner, and my acquaintance claimed she has the good courtesy to present monthly evaluations of her sexual health to clients. On the whole, it was if anything safer to pursue her than some bar-hopping woman on the prowl, of which there are no doubt more in one borough than all the women of the night in Kalzasi.
I do not mean to say that the image in my mind is unwarranted. Certainly, it has been evidenced in my comings and goings throughout the city. No doubt there are women infected from head to toe, owned as chattel or coerced into work, beaten and mistreated, or used as bait to allow for far greater sins. Kidnapping, murder, or slavery are not unknown crimes even within the finer parts of this thriving metropolis. But this woman, at least, was not a part of this category. Indeed, I still cannot be sure what proportion of women of her profession are representatives of that terrible side to the pursuit of sex-for-money, and I fear we may never know, but I knew there was at least one woman in the city who was free of it, and further, she insisted there was a whole organization of such.
I came armed, though, to our next meeting. A devil’s advocate, if nothing else. We shared rye, and smoked pale tobacco provided, apparently, by one of her less-wealthy clients. I mentioned the danger such fantasies could have to the lives of those who buy them. Wishes might come true for a night, but the expectations they create can last a lifetime and soil marriages, futures, potentials. She needed only point to the recruiting sergeant and the mercenary bands to dispel that line of thought. Certainly, she sold an unattainable fantasy, but none but the utterly deluded would ever think that it was anything more than a wonderful dream. The posters exhorting men to “Enlist!” describe heroism as an achievable reality for any who take coin and die in the fight against whichever flag is decided as the enemy today.
Undaunted, I continued. Her work created a desire, one that opened the door for the predatory and the illegal, the brutal flesh-dealers with no compunction against pain or addiction as means of coercion.
It was here the tables were turned on me, for I had until that moment had the whole arrangement reversed.
It is desire which creates the prostitute, not the other way around.
That, fundamentally, is their armor, and it is a mighty bulwark. Even if they are coerced, it is the buyer whose desires are made manifest, and the whole world who might know it. In that intimate moment, in flagrante delicto, the woman of the night knows one’s most pathetic of secrets, and they are a powerful weapon, implied or otherwise.
But even beyond that, their clients arm them further. For it is not the debauched hierophant or the bloated merchant prince who purchases, nor simply the scum of the earth scraping together coins from picked pockets and cut throats. It is the baker who hands you your bread every morning. It is the factory foreman who needs an escape from his woes. It is the barrister who has just had an argument with his wife, and needs to forget. No doubt, for those who command a far meaner price, it is the factory worker and the fieldhand, the porter and the common sailor.
It is, in short, everyone. All of us, or at least such a cross section as to be impossible to find any link. And by it being all of us, it could be any of us.
Your brother visited me. Your co-worker. Your boss, your subordinate, your neighbor, your co-congregant. It could be any of them. It could be you.
With eyes of hazel she looked into me and accused me, tacitly, of being part of the crowd. With such a weight of evidence behind it, it was hard to deny. Not that I had ever done so; but I had to admit, given the actions of all those around me, the randomness of it, the apparent inherence of the desire within the mortal condition, that I could, one day, do so. That I could be pushed to want such a fantasy.
And that is their ultimate defense, their final justification. If they did not exist, we would have to create them. Mortality seemingly requires the services offered, and in that they find final, inarguable justification.
How can I condemn those who are fed by my brothers and sister, comrades and cohorts? It is impossible. To castigate the purveyor of demanded goods would be the very height of hypocrisy. I might decry the impulse, and fight against the poor conditions, and educate those about the perils of the flesh trade, but to hold this woman accountable without holding all those who might, one day, seek her services, is impossible.
I remember her smile over the rim of her drink. Knowing she had won. That sense of superiority, perhaps, is what is required for someone to maintain their dignity in the profession, but I cannot blame them.
No matter my feelings on the subject, I shall continue my investigations, and know that merely by broaching the subject or delving into this world I threaten to stain my hands.
But consider, dear reader, as I descend willingly into a world of sin, that this paper in your hands justifies my pursuit as much as a John’s patronage justifies the Cabaret’s existence. Perhaps we should all look to ourselves for hypocrisy before casting down those who seem, by the very laws of nature, destined to exist.
