Call Boys

Abstract

Marginalized young men are a familiar presence in the areas surrounding Philippine ports, selling food and refreshments to the thousands of passengers who come through daily. A closer look, however, reveals that they engage in many other activities as they participate in an informal economy where income opportunities skirt the boundaries between licit and illicit. One job many of them engage in is sex work: as “call boys,” they offer their sexual services to male clients. Many of them also use drugs, particularly shabu (methamphetamine). This article examines the relationship between sex work and drug use and situates it in the everyday lives of young men. The researcher conducted in-depth interviews and focus group discussions among 20 males aged 18–25 years old, and over a period of 12 months, “hung out” with them, observing their activities, and listening to their conversations. This ethnographic study, conducted 3 years before a violent “war on drugs” began to waged in the country, argues that the young men view drug use and sex work as pragmatic choices in their everyday economic lives. Drug use and sex work are also linked to their notions of masculinity and are fraught with risks and unintended consequences that they often overlook—even as they have their own notions of safety and risk. Understanding the intersections between sex work and drug use in relation to young people’s “local moral worlds” and gender ideologies can help craft more effective drug policies in the Philippines.

Keywords

youth methamphetamine sex work masculinity informal economy ethnography

Introduction

The young men I researched in a Philippine port community go by many names. They call themselves vendors because they sell food and refreshments to the thousands of passengers who come through the port daily; porters because they also offer to carry people’s luggages; and tambays (“stand-bys”) because, belonging to poor families, they are neither educated nor formally employed and often just “stand by” for various other jobs—some of which skirt the boundaries between licit and illicit. As I got to better know these young men, they would also refer to themselves as “call boys”—a local term for males who engage in sex work. Meanwhile, other members of the community would call them adik (“addicts”) or mambabato (bato users) because they use bato or shabu (crystal methamphetamine) in course of their everyday lives. Later, I would come to understand that being a “call boy” and using drugs are not unrelated, as the young men use drugs in the course of their sex work. With growing research and policy concern about both sex work and drug use as high-risk practices, what can we learn about the ways in which these phenomena, taken together, are “lived” by these young men?

This article aims to contribute to the literature on the relationships between drug use and sex work by presenting findings from an ethnography conducted with the aforementioned young men. Over a period of 12 months between September 2011 and January 2013, I hung out with them, observing their activities, listening to their conversations, and conducting interviews and group discussions. My findings show that in this “drug scene” (Moore, 2004), young people view drug use and sex work as pragmatic choices within the informal framework of their “local moral world” (Kleinman, 2006). Drug use and sex work are also inexorably linked to their notions of masculinity and are fraught with risks and unintended consequences that they often overlook, despite their “lay assessments” (Duff, 2007) of safety and risk management.

Literature Review

Sex work, or “the explicit and direct exchange of sexual services for monetary gain” (Vanwesenbeeck, 2001), has figured prominently in the life stories and lived experiences of young males living in the “margins” across a wide range of settings (Lankenau, Clatts, Welle, Goldsamt, & Gwadz, 2005; Okal et al., 2009). In the past few decades, male sex work has emerged as an object of study distinct from sex work in general, given that “female sex work often cannot be directly extrapolated to MSW [male sex work]” (Baral et al., 2015, p. 262). While earlier research was mostly concerned with HIV/AIDS risk for male sex workers (Clatts, Giang, Goldsamt, & Yi, 2007; Liu, Liu, Cai, Rhodes, & Hong, 2009; Stall & Purcell, 2000), more recent scholarship has also highlighted the sex workers’ agency (Minichiello, Scott, & Callander, 2013) and explored the notions of identity and masculinity that inform it (Kumar, 2016; Minichiello, Dune, Disogra, & Marino, 2014). Importantly, the idea that “sex work” can be distinguished from other forms of sexual interaction has been interrogated, with many authors charting a spectrum of “sexual–economic transactions” (Maswavure & Sandfort, 2014) from “transactional sex” (Hunter, 2002) to more explicit “sex work,” particularly in resource-poor settings (see Collins, 2012; Harcourt & Donovan, 2005; Minichiello et al., 2013).

Despite this growing body of scholarship, male sex work “continues to be underexplored globally” (Bayer et al., 2014; see Dennis, 2008), and this is also true of Southeast Asia, despite notable exceptions (e.g., Clatts et al., 2007; Tan, 1999; Yu, Clatts, Goldsamt, & Giang, 2015). Perhaps cognizant of this lacunae, Clatts, Giang, Goldsamt, and Yi (2007, p. 267) called for an examination of male sex work in the region “on its own terms, rather than simply funneling them through Western-bound concepts of masculinity, identity and exchange.”

Meanwhile, drug use among male youths who live in disadvantaged neighborhoods and vulnerable settings has received sustained attention, from the pioneering work of early drug ethnographers (see Agar, 1977; Feldman & Aldrich, 1990) to the manifold contemporary drug scenes around the world, from Vancouver, Canada (Fast, Kerr, Wood, & Small, 2014) to Makassar, Indonesia (Nasir & Rosenthal, 2009) and Kisumu, Kenya (Syvertsen et al., 2016). Today, there is widespread recognition that drug use is “lived” in radically different geographic, economic, social, legal, and pharmacological contexts. In Southeast Asia, one common theme is the “utilitarian effect” of methamphetamine (Sherman et al., 2008)—that is, its usefulness in the performance of various economic tasks (Cohen, 2014; Dixon et al., 2015; Hardon & Hymans, 2014; Lasco, 2014).

Most relevant for this study, research has also sought to understand the relationship between sex work and drug use. Some scholars have documented how sex work is used by various actors as a means of generating income to sustain one’s drug use (DeBeck et al., 2007; Deering, Shoveller, Tyndall, Montaner, & Shannon, 2011). Conversely, drug use among sex workers has also been documented as a way of enhancing their “performance” for clients (Clatts et al., 2007; Minichiello, Marino, Khan, & Browne, 2003; Vu, Mulvey, Baldwin, & Nguyen, 2012) or of coping with the stress of sex work (Goldsamt, Clatts, Giang, & Yu, 2015; Yu et al., 2015). Underscoring these studies is a recognition of the complexity of the ways in which sex work and drug use relate to each other—and an acknowledgment of the sex workers’ agency (Measham & Shiner, 2009; Minichiello et al., 2013; Sharp et al., 1991), for which drug use can be constraining or liberating.

Sex work and drug use, independently and together, have far-reaching implications (Deering et al., 2011). Both have legal, economic, social, and medical consequences (Page & Singer, 2010), and both are associated with the spread of sexually transmitted infections including HIV (Estcourt et al., 2000; Haley, Roy, Leclerc, Boudreau, & Boivin, 2004; Tucker, Yin, Wang, Chen, & Cohen, 2011). Other evidence suggests that the co-existence of both further increases the risk of HIV transmission (Edlin et al., 1994; Leggett, 2001).

These consequences are salient in Southeast Asia, including in the Philippines, where a violent war on drugs has claimed thousands of lives over the past year (Amnesty International, 2017; Dangerous Drugs Board, 2016) and where HIV prevalence is increasing at an alarming rate, particularly among men who have sex with men (Department of Health, 2017; Farr & Wilson, 2010). In view of this imperative and the relative dearth of literature on the region, Yu, Clatts, Goldsamt, and Giang’s (2015, p. 521) recommendations from their study of drug use among male sex workers in Vietnam furnish a further rationale for this study: “Additional qualitative research in these settings, particularly comparative work, may help to illuminate behavioral risk trajectories and to better identify critical opportunities for targeted interventions for MSWs [male sex workers].”

Approach

This article has three analytical starting points. The first entails conceptualizing the “drug scene” as a “local moral world.” This notion, which I borrow from medical anthropology (e.g., Kleinman, 1999), draws attention to the local nature of moral contestations and calls for ethnography to highlight not just localized practices but the “local moral processes” and “values in ordinary living” (p. 77) that inform them. Like the notion of “moral economy” that has been applied to drug scenes (Bourgois, 2002; Wakeman, 2016), local moral worlds emphasize intersubjectivity, and like the notion of “drug scene” itself (Moore, 2004, pp. 204–205), their study requires ethnographers to focus on “the ongoing negotiation and contestation of practices” among social actors, or, mindful of the sociality of drug use, the “moral logics of the gang” (Fast, Shoveller, & Kerr, 2017).

A second analytical focus involves examining gender ideologies that emerge from—and inform—young people’s everyday practices. Such a focus is both inevitable and necessary, given the gendering of drug use in the fieldsite and the nature of sex work in which the young people engage. Inescapably, however, these ideologies must be considered in light of young people’s position. Examining gender ideologies as part of a “local moral world”—or, in Tan’s words, “how sexuality overlaps with concerns of power and control that go beyond gender” (1999, p. 257)—allows us to attend to these intersectional entanglements (Bowleg, 2013).

Finally, I consider how notions of risk are negotiated within the young men’s moral frameworks and gender ideologies. Although “risk” is a well-trodden path in scholarship on drug use (cf. Duff, 2007; Rhodes, 2002), it remains an important focus, particularly because its very local and heavily context-dependent nature means that under-researched regions, like Southeast Asia, have their own specific risk settings, insights from which can then inform targeted policies and interventions.

Method

The study was conducted over a period of 12 months between December 2011 and September 2013, as part of the Chemical Youth Project (https://chemicalyouth.org/), a broader study that looked at the role of chemicals in the everyday lives of young people (see Hardon & Hymans, 2014). Ethical approval for my research was obtained from the institutional ethics review board of the University of the Philippines’ College of Social Science and Philosophy. At the time of the study, I was a postgraduate student at the University of the Philippines. The ethnographic research was conducted in a port community in the Philippines—the name of which is withheld to protect the participants. The site was selected on the assumption that, as a port city, it would be a transit zone for people and commodities including drugs (Philippine Drug Enforcement Agency, 2012).

Fieldwork largely involved pagmamasid (observing) and pakikitambay (hanging out) with young men, aged 18–25, whose economic activities I described in the Introduction section. Most of them belonged to one barkada (a term that means “peer group” but can also refer to male groups in particular). Twenty in-depth interviews and three small group discussions (involving three to six participants), each lasting about an hour, were also conducted. Follow-up interviews, focusing specifically on sex work, were conducted with 10 participants for this article. A more descriptive ethnographic picture of this drug scene, focusing on the young men’s economic lives, is described in Lasco (2014).

Participants with whom I hung out were informed of my research purpose. In addition, verbal informed consent was sought prior to the conduct of in-depth interviews and focus group discussions. As a monetary token, 300 pesos (approximately US$6) was given to each participant after a successful interview. Audio recordings and notes of the interviews were transcribed, coded, and aggregated using NVivo 10, and analyzed using thematic and content analysis. Data source triangulation (comparing data from various participants) and methodological triangulation (conducting focus groups and follow-up interviews and comparing them with field notes) were done to increase validity.

Analysis

The Context: An Informal Economy

At the time I conducted the study, the port city in question had a population of around 300,000, with a growth rate of over 2% (Philippine Statistics Authority, 2015). The average annual income per household was about 280,000 pesos (US$5,500; National Statistics Office, 2012). Economic activity was diverse, ranging from retailing and business-process outsourcing (i.e., “call centers”) to large-scale industries; the local government itself employed over 2,000 people. Although the employment rate was over 90%, labor force participation was around 65%—suggesting a significant informal sector (Philippine Statistical Authority, 2015). Moreover, the low minimum daily wage of 300 pesos (US$6) means that many individuals are underemployed, leading them to the informal sector in search of other income opportunities (Martinez, de Dios, & Leyso, 2016; Ofreneo, 2013).

The port itself—one of the country’s busiest—is located several kilometers from the city center. With 10,000 passengers daily, the port and its associated establishments employ, directly or indirectly, formally or informally, a significant number of people from the city and outlying towns. Among them were the young people who participated in my research. Living in a disadvantaged area near the port with their families, they were largely independent and expected to fend for themselves. Most had finished at least 6 years of school but eventually dropped out, as their families could no longer pay their school fees. What followed, during their early teens, was a gradual initiation into their present “vendor” role through taking occasional jobs such as cutting grass and painting walls as well as filling in for their elder brothers or friends as vendors.

As I got to know them better, I learned that there was more to their work than selling refreshments:

Truth be told, selling food and drinks is just our front. There are a lot of other money-making activities at the pier. (Jay, age 20)

These other money-making activities soon became apparent. The participants worked casually as ticket agents for ferry companies, messengers, porters, construction workers, and pedicab drivers. The interaction between the vendors and passengers went beyond legal transactions. At least five of the participants admitted that whenever an opportunity presented itself, they would also steal passengers’ wallets and mobile phones; one had been involved in vehicle robberies, for which he spent a year in jail. Others admitted to transporting drugs and to selling drugs to their friends. Initially, they claimed that they did this “only so that they can have their own share.” But as I gained their trust, some admitted to being “pushers” (their own term), dealing both marijuana and shabu. As part of my research protocol, I eschewed the topic of distribution as this could compromise my safety—or at least make the participants suspect that I was a police informant. Nevertheless, I soon realized that drugs were omnipresent and readily available.

The young men’s work was seasonal, sometimes illegal, and highly irregular. Thus, they (and I) spent a lot of time sitting on makeshift benches and old plastic chairs in their tambayan—a dilapidated corner in a row of stores fronting the port. They passed the time smoking cigarettes, playing cards, and waiting for the next bus or ferry to arrive. While the port was busy on Fridays and weekends, weekdays (particularly from midmorning to midafternoon) were quiet. Since they were not allowed inside the port itself, they could only wait at the entrance. The tambayan was a strategic location where they could see passengers’ comings and goings and where they could kill time.

Sex Work: “Easy Money”

As I continued my visits to the port, I noticed that the young men would generally start the day late and only return to their homes late at night. The evening hours could be lucrative, at least for the one third of the participants who disclosed engaging in sex work with male clients. Sex work was a significant income-generating activity: They could earn 500 pesos (approximately US$10) if they agreed to receive oral sex, and 1,000 pesos if they agreed to be the “top” (i.e., the insertive partner) in anal sex. One of them pointed to a nearby truckers’ motel where sex work was conducted. Others mentioned that income from sex work was “easy money” compared to their other sources of income. As one of them put it:

If you’re good-looking and the bakla are chasing after you, why not? You have nothing to lose. They’re the ones who will do everything. (Carlo, age 21)

Here I need to introduce gender ideologies that are also true for the broader Philippine society. Although its direct translation is simply “gay men,” the term bakla can also refer more particularly to males considered effeminate and who are romantically and sexually attracted to lalaki (straight men). It is not considered appropriate for a bakla to enter into a relationship with another bakla. Similarly, a lalaki will not consider having sex with another lalaki. But as Tan (1999, p. 246) observes, “[t]he male libido (libog) is considered to be strong and needs to be satisfied. It is considered acceptable for a ‘real man’ to have sex with a bakla as long as he himself does not become bakla.”

Tan adds that, particularly in the low-income districts of towns and cities, “[a] ‘real man’ can enter into a relationship with a ‘bakla’, becoming a ‘boyfriend’ in exchange for gifts and financial services” (p. 246). This was confirmed by the participants. Having a gay syota (boyfriend) was one way to increase one’s regular income. There were other benefits as well: Having such a boyfriend helped young men to negotiate their other relationships, particularly with girlfriends and common-law wives. For instance, one of the participants, 20-year-old Jarod, went to his bakla’s house whenever he argued with his live-in female partner, with whom he had two children. Eighteen-year-old Dandan said that he turns to his bakla friends whenever he has relationship or financial problems. Although I never had the opportunity to interview or meet their clients or “boyfriends,” some participants told me that they are generally men of relatively high socioeconomic status, aged between their late 20s and 50s, and living in the same port city. The nonvendors in the community seemed to accept these arrangements and did not mind seeing these men visit the neighborhood. One variety store owner told me that it was a “good thing” because money enters the community.

The young men perceived sex work as a spectrum. Oral sex, from the perspective of the receiver, was a nonintimate act: “I can just close my eyes!” one of them quipped. Even during anal sex, intimate contact could be avoided through certain sexual positions. Kissing, however, was seen as kadiri (disgusting). By performing thus, they were not just working within the boundaries of their gender ideology (i.e., maintaining their “straight” identity) and were also fulfilling the expectations of bakla clients who idealize their sexual partners as straight and expect them to act as such (cf. Tan, 1999, pp. 276–280)—thereby making it a mutually acceptable transaction.

Sex work (broadly construed) was not confined to evening encounters, nor did it seem to be confined to this cohort of young men. Although my research protocol specifically excluded studying or interviewing minors, I heard stories of secondary school students being given an “allowance” in exchange for oral sex. While some said that they did not wish to engage in such activities, most saw nothing wrong with it. As Victor (23 years old) put it, “it is the fate of the bakla to pursue boys, just as it is the fate of boys to pursue girls.”

The young men were aware that they could contract sexually transmitted infections such as tulo (gonorrhoea), kulugo (warts), and HIV/AIDS (which was seen as a more distant threat as they did not personally know anyone with the illness). There was thus a local knowledge system for care, prevention, and the management of risks and harms. For instance, drinking detergent powder mixed with water is seen as a treatment for tulo, and if that does not suffice, taking one or two tablets of amoxicillin. There was also a perception that receiving oral sex was safe. While the young men were aware of the importance of using condoms when engaging in anal sex, they were also confident that there was little risk if they opted not to use them. They were thus willing to engage in unprotected sex if they were offered more money (1,500 pesos or US$30). Curiously, while most strongly protested the idea that they were willing to perform other acts for more money, one hinted that “for a million pesos” (US$20,000) he was willing to do anything.

Pampagilas: Drugs as Performance Enhancers

Drugs played a central role in the everyday lives of the vendors (see Lasco, 2014). Shabu was particularly seen as pampagilas (a performance enhancer) that provided strength, stamina, and confidence, and the disinhibition needed for their work:

Of course, you will use [shabu] so you can overcome the fatigue of work…because you get tired. [But] if you’ve taken drugs, you won’t get tired. (Jarod, age 20)

Although shabu can be seen as an “occupational drug” (Dixon et al., 2015), given its perceived role in income-generating activities, it can also be seen as a recreational drug as it figures in barkada activities such as the “inuman” (literally “drinking event”). In these contexts, disinhibition allows for a more intimate sharing of life experiences, while the drug’s euphoric effects make the activity more pleasurable. These sessions often lasted throughout the night, promoting bonding in the peer group.

The functional and stimulant effects of shabu are counteracted by the consumption of other substances. Insomnia, for instance, is offset by the drowsiness associated with consumption of alcohol and cannabis. If one loses too much weight due to using shabu, increasing one’s marijuana use may stimulate the appetite. Meanwhile, in the moments of unease and irritability that they attribute to not being able to use shabu despite craving it, cigarettes serve as pampakalma (inducers of calm) and pampalipas-oras (a time killer).

The effects of shabu also help the youths engage in sex work. Used to manage their body clocks, shabu allows them to stay up late and have enough energy to work late at night, when sex work usually takes place. Furthermore, shabu is understood as an enhancer of sexual performance. For example, Arvin (22 years old) states that:

You need to use shabu before the [sex work] encounter, so that you will be aroused and so that the client will be happy. It’s easier to think of him as a female if you’re on drugs.

Arvin’s final statement raises questions about the exact role of shabu in sex work. On the one hand, we can read it as another attempt to maintain one’s “straightness” at least at the level of the imagination or as a coping mechanism when engaging in practices regarded as “disgusting.” However, it can also be an attempt to pursue what is often missing in discourses on male sex work: the pursuit of pleasure alongside the pursuit of income (cf. Weitzer, 2009).

Although the young men find drugs useful, they are also expensive. As I inquired about their daily earnings and expenses, I found that many of them were spending more on drugs than they were earning by selling food and drinks and through other legitimate activities. This is where other income opportunities become crucial. Sex work—the “easiest” of their activities in relation to how much they could potentially earn from it and the “safest,” given that, while technically illegal, it rarely attracts police attention—finances drug use, which is their foremost expenditure. Sex work and drug use therefore reinforce one another.

The “Local Moral World” of the Port Community

Overall, the worldview of the young people is characterized by pragmatism. It is geared toward “making do” every day in order to survive, hence they resort to various activities regardless of their legality or consequences. The same pragmatic logic extends to sex work and drug use: The participants see sex work as “easy money”—an understandable assessment, given the difficult and sometimes criminal nature of their other activities. As for drugs, their effects are seen to enhance their performance in various economic activities (see Lasco, 2014). Drug use and sex work can also be mutually reinforcing, as has been observed in research on other drug scenes. As DeBeck et al. (2007, p. 50) observed:

The high costs associated with illegal substances may deter and regulate drug use among certain individuals, however, others drug users may resort to various forms of prohibited activities, including drug dealing, sex trade work and acquisitive crime to generate sufficient income to support their preferred level of drug consumption.

Despite seemingly not sharing certain values held by the broader society, such as adherence to the law, however, the young people have their own set of shared values. One example is the masculine virtue of “marunong magdala” (“knowing how to carry one’s self”)—that is, being able to manage the consequences of one’s actions (cf. Santiago, 1975). In a way, this places responsibility for one’s actions in the individual who is supposed to “carry” the weight of his responsibilities. Another value is loyalty to the barkada. While warning against an overemphasis on “peer pressure” in making sense of young people’s drug use, Pilkington (2007, p. 223) reminds us that “young people’s drug using practices are located in, and shaped by, the micro cultural context of the peer (friendship) group […and] such friendship groups both embody and reproduce, but may also resist, young people’s structural locations.” Indeed, the barkada is at once a social and economic unit from which, and through which, the young men draw and express their values.

However, both the ability to fend for one’s self and the sense of belonging to the male peer group can also be seen as measures and markers of masculinity; as Alsaybar (2002, p. 132) argues, the barkada is a “masculinity-constructing institution.” Among young fishermen in Palawan, taking part in the risky activity of illegal fishing is seen as a test of masculinity (Fabinyi, 2007); it is likewise learned and validated through the barkada. Among underclass Filipino men in Manila, the sale of their kidneys is explained not just in terms of economic gain but in terms of “traditional Philippines ideas about masculinity, particularly concerning the male breadwinner and also about heroism” (Yea, 2015, p. 123). In his ethnography of impoverished teenage boys in Bacolod, a Central Philippine city, Lauer (2005, p. 53) highlights the importance of the peer group: “barkadas…support teenage boys in their activities to enact various aspects of masculinity.” These examples suggest that gender ideologies are inexorable parts of young people’s “local moral worlds,” even as the dictates of a pragmatic worldview may likewise structure gender ideologies.

Masculinity and Sex Work

Returning to the construct of the bakla discussed earlier, we see that sex work is facilitated by a gender ideology that allows young men to see their clients as belonging to another gender. Having sex with them in exchange for favors does not, therefore, threaten their masculinity. While the relatively new terms “gay” and “homosexual” have confused this distinction (cf. Manalasan, 2003, pp. 1–21; Tan, 1995), the idea that the manliness of a tunay na lalaki (a real man) is not diminished by having sex with a bakla, so long as he remains the recipient of oral sex or the insertive partner in anal intercourse. There is a further distinction between nagkakagusto (romantic attraction) and pumapatol (sexual acquiescence). So long as sex remains merely a way of earning money, wala namang mawawala (there is nothing to lose).

These pragmatic notions of gender seem to be widespread in the Philippines, particularly among those living in poor neighborhoods (Rodriguez, 1996, pp. 93–98; Tan, 1995, 1999), and in other parts of the world in more diverse contexts (e.g., Caceres et al., 2014; van Wijngaarden, 2014). For example, drawing from his ethnography of male sex work in Brazil, Mitchell (2014) describes a “Latin model of homosexuality” in which men taking the insertive role in anal sex with other men do not compromise their masculinity. (In the case of the participants in my study, they were adamant that they would not go beyond the roles they described, no matter how much they are paid, though I did not discount the possibility that they were not admitting participation in other sexual acts so as maintain their “straight” reputation.)

Further complicating the cultural positioning of sex work is the participants’ longer term engagements with the bakla, and how these “relationships” create negotiating space with their girlfriends who accept that male clients are their competitors for attention. The examples above of Jarod going to his client’s house whenever he had a quarrel with his girlfriend, and of Dandan turning to his own clients whenever he has financial problem, show that beyond “sex work,” the young men also engage in “transactional sex” (Hunter, 2002) which may also help them in their social and economic lives. Crucially, the young men’s significant others—including family members and girlfriends—allow or at least tolerate these arrangements, given that they too inhabit the same local moral world, and quite possibly share the same notions (or expectations) of masculinity as the young men.

Masculinity and Drug Use

Drugs, too, are markers (and makers) of masculinity in two important ways. First, they are thought to increase “masculine” attributes such as strength, stamina, confidence, and virility. These attributes can be useful in the overall presentation of their selves as well as sex work in particular. As with male sex workers in Vietnam, “[d]rugs are used as tools for sex work, specifically, using drugs to enhance sexual performance and to perform sexual confidence (the ability to have sex with whom someone is not sexually attracted to) with male clients” (Vu et al., 2012, p. 176).

Secondly, drugs are linked to masculinity because of their “social efficacy” (cf. Whyte, van der Geest, & Hardon, 2002) in (re)creating masculinity itself—a theme that has been explored in other illicit drug scenes (e.g., Dázio, Zago, & Fava, 2016; cf. Hunt & Antin, 2017; Quintero & Estrada, 1998). In the participants’ community, drug use was almost exclusively a male activity and women who used shabu and other drugs were frowned upon. More specifically, drug use was linked to the barkada, through which it was often introduced and through which drugs circulated. As the example of the inuman (drinking event) suggests, the use of drugs—including the far more commonly-used alcohol—cements social ties, and in turn, it is through the barkada that youths are initiated into the many other practices—including sex work—that constitute what some researchers have labeled “street capital” or “street social capital” (Ilan, 2013; Lankenau et al., 2005).

Risk and Masculinity

Accompanying the recognition that people possess a degree of agency in deciding to engage in drug use or sex work is a recognition of the importance of perceptions of risk in informing these decisions. Kelly (2007, p. 426), for example, avers that “Folk models of risk constitute the basis of an informal logic which underlies the drug practices of youth”—a point that can also be made for sex work and other high-risk behaviors. Although the young men were aware of the legal, medical, and financial risks of drug use, this awareness did not necessarily correspond to medical knowledge. Their view of their sex acts as “safe,” for instance, is reminiscent of the “tops are low risk; bottoms are high” trope that Fields et al. (2012) report in the United States—one that facilitates high-risk practices (i.e., not wearing condoms). In other studies of male sex work, perceived risks also included public censure as well as violence (Harris, Nilan, & Kirby, 2011). Given the relative acceptance of sex work in their community, however, and in light of the “feminine” nature of their bakla clients, the young men claimed to experience neither censure nor violence. Even when there are risks, however, a “real man” is—as discussed earlier—one who can “carry himself” and therefore can successfully manage such risks. As with the male injecting drug users in Makassar, Indonesia, for whom masculinity is primarily characterized by “braveness or toughness” (Nasir & Rosenthal, 2009), risk-taking is incorporated into notions of masculinity and thereby normalized. Overall, we see that the young men are not unaware of risk but that their engagement with it ranges from risk management to voluntary risk-taking. Their risk perceptions, moreover, are structured by their local moral world and a gender ideology that sees risk-taking as a central feature of masculinity.

Conclusion

In the port community where I conducted my ethnography, sex work provides income for young men to buy drugs; and drugs—through their performance-enhancing effects—help them generate income as sex workers. Drugs, moreover, have “social efficacy” (Whyte et al., 2002), serving as markers and makers of social identity and cementing bonds within peer groups. Ultimately, drug use and sex work are best seen as intertwined parts of an informal economy that necessitates resort to precarious practices, and a “local moral world” that structures and facilitates them. Moreover, the co-existence of drug use and sex work makes this “scene” doubly a risk environment (Rhodes, 2002)—one where there is risk awareness and management, but where risks overlap and potentially increase harm.

I also outlined how a specific gender ideology that distinguishes the lalaki from the bakla allows the young men to undertake sex work without risking their masculinity. By accepting the notion that their manhood is not diminished, by seeing little risk, or by seeing risk-taking itself as part of masculinity, the young men of this study are able to justify their decision to continue with sex work. This ideology is shared within the exclusively male peer group, through which the young men acquire “street capital” as well as drugs, which in turn serve as markers of group identity. Drug use, masculinity, sex work, and notions of risk are thus interconnected in the context of a marginalized community.

In light of my analysis, public health experts who seek to target male sex workers in harm reduction and information campaigns should bear in mind that “sex work” is a larger, more diffuse phenomenon that extends far beyond those who identify themselves, or are identified by others, as “sex workers” (see also Aggleton & Parker, 2014). Presently, the targeting of harm reduction programs in the Philippines is restricted to “at-risk populations” such as injecting drug users and commercial sex workers (i.e., those who self-identity as such). As Baral et al. (2015, p. 262) aver, male sex work highlights “the complexity of sexual networks among these men and the need for contextually appropriate responses.”

Meanwhile, given the inexorable links of drug use to the informal economy, this study offers an ethnographic argument for the provision of employment and education opportunities that would move young men (as well as young women) away from such an economy and the risks it engenders, as opposed to the harsh penalties and violence that have recently characterized the Philippine “war on drugs” (Amnesty International, 2017). Despite the young men’s agency and pragmatism, their limited social and economic resources and tactics alone will not be sufficient to address what is at stake for them and their significant others.

The focus on the intersections between risky practices in this exploratory article highlights the need for further studies exploring the complex relationships between drug use and sex work, especially in the Philippines where drug use continues to be heavily penalized and HIV continues to rise, but there has been little ethnographic research to inform the development of appropriate policies. More qualitative research needs to be done among young people engaged in “precarious work” (Ofreneo, 2013) who, like the young men of the port, are vendors but whose merchandise is their own selves.

Footnotes

Acknowledgments

The author would like to thank Takeo David Hymans for editing an initial version of this work and Michael Tan (University of the Philippines) and Anita Hardon (University of Amsterdam) for their input.

Declaration of Conflicting Interests

The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.

Funding

The author(s) disclosed receipt of the following financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article: This study was conducted as part of the preliminary phase of the Chemical Youth Project, supervised by professor Anita Hardon of the University of Amsterdam.

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