Abstract
Sex work remains a contentious area of debate. Whether or not sex work is considered to be a form of labour is in itself contested. As discussion is often about rather than with sex workers, this article brings Sarah’s experiences of being both a student and a sex worker, in two different areas of the UK, to centre stage. This candid account highlights the precarious and competitive nature of being self-employed within the current neoliberal climate, as well as the similarities sex work shares with other ‘mainstream’ forms of labour particularly within the ‘gig economy’. Existing research has focused on how/why students enter the sex industry leaving a gap in the literature regarding what happens after university in this context. It appears from Sarah’s account that leaving sex work behind may not be as straightforward as she had originally anticipated, for reasons other than just making money.
Introduction
It is estimated that around one in 20 university students are currently involved in some form of sex work in the UK (Sagar et al., 2015b: 7). Given drastic increases in tuition fees – which are now over £9000 per year for undergraduate courses and on average £11,000 for postgraduate degrees – coinciding with rising costs of student living, it is unsurprising that students are motivated by financial pressures to enter sex work (Roberts et al., 2013; UCAS, 2018a, 2018b). Decisions to enter and stay in sex work are not simply financial but are often more complex and multifaceted (Colosi, 2010). In comparison to other part-time jobs, students cited flexibility, the potential for higher income and thus fewer working hours, increased autonomy, fun, excitement and anticipated sexual pleasure (Sagar et al., 2015b). Yet, as the sex industry is diverse, encompassing a broad range of labour processes and relations – from direct sex work, pornography, erotic dancing, telephone sex work and webcamming, among others – there is no ‘one’ sex work(er) experience (Hardy, 2013; Weitzer, 2010).
This On the Front Line article presents Sarah’s unscripted story told in May 2016 of working as an escort and webcam model in two UK cities while studying at university. 1 In 2015, the first author recruited Sarah (a pseudonym) as a participant for a sociological study looking at student sex work and negotiations of stigma. As many students, including Sarah, (initially) consider graduation to be the benchmark for when they will leave the sex industry, a follow-up interview was carried out to explore her experiences of becoming a graduate and how/if she had transitioned out of sex work. The subsequent interview was audio-recorded and transcribed by the first author and later co-edited by both authors for the purpose of this article.
Sarah starts by discussing her entry into the sex industry and in doing so, sheds light on the current landscape of selling sexual services today, which are increasingly sold via the internet (Sanders et al., 2017). The account reveals that her work extends far beyond the ‘five or ten minutes of actual sex’. Nevertheless, the focus both within and outside of academia often remains on the single commercial moment when two people exchange sex/services for money, neglecting the broader socio-cultural and economic context (Agustín, 2005). For example, the multiple and intersecting forms of paid and unpaid labour, similarities between sex work and ‘mainstream’ work and the role of social actors beyond the service provider–customer dyad.
The study of sex work has undergone rapid expansion and change in recent decades, evolving into a sub-discipline in its own right (Sanders, 2018). Debates have moved beyond the polarised feminist ‘sex wars’ of the late 1970s which characterised sex work as either voluntary or forced (see Outshoorn, 2005). Given that all human activity can have multiple rather than singular meanings and consequences, sex work is now understood on a more nuanced spectrum (Barton, 2002). For Sarah, sex work is work, which she repeatedly compares to other typical student jobs – using her own examples of call centre and bar work – highlighting the advantages and disadvantages of both. Her initial entry into escorting was, however, unexpected. Despite intending to ‘just sell photos’, this quickly escalated to her first face-to-face sexual encounter with a male client. Although escorting and webcamming are legal in the UK, both remain stigmatised. Deeply rooted societal prejudices and understandings of (im)morality often force individuals to work in secret. Fearing the potential repercussions of ‘whore stigma’ (Pheterson, 1993), Sarah was left increasingly vulnerable and isolated as she (somewhat naively) navigated her way into the world of online and offline sex work. Unlike typical student jobs, being ‘outed’ as a sex worker carries potentially detrimental consequences. Students have faced and continue to face suspension from university if/when their sex worker status becomes known as sex work is considered to be a form of misconduct which risks bringing the institution in question into disrepute (Cusick et al., 2009; Sagar et al., 2015a). This means that while sex work allows Sarah to continue paying for her Master’s degree and to pursue a career in her chosen profession, the ‘dirt/pollution’ associated with her work also puts her future prospects at risk (Bott, 2006).
Sarah’s narrative fits within wider debates on the rise of the neoliberal, self-employed workforce which now comprises 15% of all workers in the UK (Littler, 2017: 184). Alongside freelancers, vloggers, bloggers, entrepreneurs and ‘mumpreneurs’, she also enjoys the potential for increased income in contrast to hourly pay or salaried work as well as the supposed flexibility and autonomy which accompanies being one’s own boss. Yet, whether it is ‘£100 an hour’ for her work as an escort, or ‘80p per minute’ when webcamming, the boundaries become blurred between what is in fact paid and unpaid labour. For example, the time taken to screen clients online and implement safety measures, to research, negotiate, arrange meetings, deal with ‘timewasters’ and no shows, self-branding, checking emails, answering phone calls, waiting on webcam for customers, the aesthetic labour and the emotional labour involved in ‘talking about the fucking weather’ with clients, often goes unnoticed.
The precarious nature of self-employment becomes evident as Sarah talks of job instability and increased competition to find work. This consequentially stresses the importance of online self-branding and self-promotion in this context (Gandini, 2015; Hearn, 2008). Sarah advertises her services via the digital platform, Website X. 2 The use of such platforms on the one hand increases levels of safety, removes traditional spatio-temporal boundaries and provides a larger pool of potential clients (Jones, 2015). Yet, as more sex workers are utilising the internet (Sanders et al., 2017), this requires Sarah to also continuously work on her profile in order to find work. Due to structural inequalities, not all workers are able to ‘compete’ on a level playing field in this context. By marketing herself as a ‘British student’ Sarah is aware of the positive impact this has on her ability to attract clients.
Gill (2010) argues that neoliberal governmentality impels workers to find/create work for themselves, anticipate what will come next, keep up-to-date with potential competition and, most importantly, maintain a distinct reputation. Similar to digital platforms used by freelancers and (in)dependent contractors such as TaskRabbit, Uber, Fiverr and Deliveroo, which set up workers and customers, Sarah’s reputation and therefore workload is also reliant on the reviewing/rating system available on Website X. In an era of feedback and evaluations, workers are often left, as Milland (2017: 230) describes, ‘walk[ing] on eggshells’ to ensure positive feedback and thus, continued work. Ultimately, this leaves many individuals within what has become known as the gig economy in a position of vulnerability.
As Sarah is ‘always on call’ and ‘always checking emails’, the never-ending nature of self-employment is then compounded by university commitments and compulsory unpaid work. There remains a clear point of comparison between Sarah’s position and that of the ‘mumpreneur’. Both workers are expected to seamlessly juggle countless responsibilities and move from one job (or gig) to another, while attention to the lack of financial/structural support for both mothers and students is ignored as the onus is put on the individual (Littler, 2017). However, unlike the ‘mumpreneur’ who is valorised through a hybrid neologism and who engages in other forms of independent employment within traditionally feminine domains such as fashion, beauty and domesticity (Duffy and Hund, 2015), sex workers remain highly stigmatised and face a range of potential social sanctions as a result of their work.
Sarah’s interview adds to the growing debate on sex work in a digital era (see Rand, in press; Sanders et al., 2017) and offers further insight into student engagement in the sex industry which remains under-researched. Academic focus has tended to linger on trajectories into the sex industry and of student experiences leaving a gap in the literature regarding how and/or if students are able to leave on completion of their degree. Initially, sex work was strategically used by Sarah to facilitate mobility outside of the industry. Nevertheless, what becomes clear is that leaving her job(s) behind may not be as straightforward as she had originally anticipated.
One of the key challenges faced when transitioning out of sex work is an inability to obtain formal employment due to a lack of education and skills (Baker et al., 2010; Brown et al., 2006; Sanders, 2007). Sarah is in a relatively privileged/unique position as her qualifications could provide opportunities outside of the sex industry unavailable to others in this context. Although the majority of ‘exiting’ research is limited to street-based workers, Bowen’s (2015) study on indoor sex workers at a more socio-economic midpoint (i.e. not elite, nor in poverty), suggests that leaving sex work is not as clear cut as ‘in or out’. Respondents engaged in both ‘square’ employment and sex work to boost their overall income. However, for Sarah, leaving sex work behind was (at the time of interview) difficult to fathom – even at times of economic stability – for reasons other than making money.
Sandoval (2018) argues that in post-Fordist popular culture, individuals are continually encouraged to resist the idea of working for money alone and to instead ‘do what you love’ despite potentially ‘unlovable’ working conditions and precarity. Across different sectors, work is increasingly posited as a key site of self-fulfilment, fun and pleasure. While Sarah claims that escorting is ‘just a job’, it appears to be much more as labour and leisure are blurred. Having ‘nice times, meals and conversations’ with ‘hot’ men are not conceptualised as work per se. Colosi’s (2010) analysis of stripping as fun, thrilling, exciting and adventurous also applies to Sarah’s understanding of escorting. Despite her work remaining hidden, she feels a strong sense of rootedness within the sex worker community which has become a core part of her identity. It is argued that the excitement of working in the sex industry is often derived from the nature of the job itself as well as the thought of engaging in a forbidden occupation and/or as an act of rebellion (Colosi, 2010). The aforementioned are generally unattainable in ‘mainstream’ jobs which could explain why Sarah feels ambivalent about ‘closing the door’ to that part of her life. Further tension is created, however, at the thought of having to continuously uphold secrets and lies alongside the ever-present uncertainty of being potentially outed. Similar to entry routes, decisions to leave sex work are often complex, practical and emotional. Yet, as dominant discourses on ‘exiting’ sex work based on ‘trapping factors’ and ‘barriers’ preventing individuals from leaving also imply that sex work is something individuals should leave, or need to be rescued from, this undoubtedly shapes the ways in which individuals are able to reflect upon their current, future and past involvement in the sex industry (Ham and Gilmore, 2016). Opening up the debate is therefore essential. Sarah – alongside other sex worker activists – argues that those looking to ‘protect’ sex workers in this sense are not listening. As sex workers are often spoken for, rather than given the opportunity to speak for themselves (Wahab, 2003), this renders the publication of Sarah’s story particularly important as a result.
Sarah’s account
‘Getting in’
I had no money, times were hard, and I just couldn’t pay my rent. I saw an advert and I intended initially to just sell photos online because, well, I’m not that kind of girl, well, I didn’t think I was that kind of girl. I put a profile up on WebsiteX which is a website that is apparently also for hookers. At the time I didn’t know how it worked. You have a free gallery where people can log on and check out girls and then say if for example, they like your picture, then they can pay 50p, £1 or whatever, you set the prices, and they can see your private gallery. So, I opened a private gallery with two of the exact same photos and charged 50p. No pictures show my face, even if they pay they can only see my body. I went to bed and didn’t think I’d get any responses because I took the most hideous photos literally just of my boobs and I was like ‘what am I doing?’ When I logged on the next morning I had money well, credits on the website and I had over 200 emails. People were emailing me saying ‘I’d really like to see you’, ‘You look amazing’ and I’m thinking it’s just a nipple, what’s all this about? They didn’t just want to see my pictures they were like, ‘Do you wanna fuck?’ I don’t know why, I just replied to the first person and said ‘yeah, £60’ because I didn’t know what to charge and the escorting, it just went from there really. I didn’t mean to. It was just a crazy night of not knowing what to do about money and then I ended up getting myself trapped, well not trapped that’s the wrong word, but ended up going through with what I did not intend on doing. I intended to just put a couple of pictures up make £100 you know, not that it would turn into this and that I’d become an escort. That happened in Northern City five years ago when I was 18 and I just carried on. When I first started I genuinely had no idea and I just thought all these hundreds of emails were from genuine guys. The problem is when you first start you’re at your most vulnerable because you haven’t got a clue what you’re doing and there’s nothing really to protect you. So, it was a lot of going on websites to kind of figure out what’s normal what’s not normal and figuring out on WebsiteX for example, if they are timewasters.
An era of ratings, reviews and feedback
I mainly make my money as an escort by my clients’ reviews on WebsiteX which has a review section a bit like Amazon. People can say that was good, that was bad and that’s where my clients come from. I don’t see people who don’t have feedback from real escorts and they have to make a booking on WebsiteX because if I die then at least they can fucking trace them. As well, it makes me feel like they’re more legit because if they didn’t turn up or if they were bad I can give them a review and I can report them. I always put their number into Ugly Mugs 3 which is amazing because a few times their number has shown up so I use that every time. I don’t give them my mobile number until the day and if they don’t play by my rules then fuck it.
The ‘competition’
I’m doing a Master’s now and I’ve moved to Southern City. Northern City is very different. I was one of the best girls there weirdly, because there aren’t that many girls there. I market myself as a student and it really helps because they think you’re a naughty student or they’re helping you to pay for your education. Plus, it means you’re not dumb. I’m also British which gets you a long way and I’d been in Northern City for a few years and got a good reputation. Then I moved to Southern City and there’s so much more competition. There’s so many more girls who are classy and you know stick thin or whatever, so the competition is different but then the clients are different so it’s just a different work environment. But, because the market’s saturated I have to work harder on my profile. In Northern City I didn’t have to put any effort into it. I used the same picture for years and it kind of just worked for itself whereas in Southern City I have to constantly update my pictures and update my profile. In Northern City most of the guys there I knew were regulars. It’s different now. I have a couple but not as many as I was used to; it’s much more hit and miss in Southern City. Most of the time it’s businessmen who come here for work and I’ll meet them once and never see them again. They just come for conferences or whatever so it’s different work, it’s not building up any kind of friendship or whatever you want to call it.
‘It’s just a job’: Stigma and precariously (over)working
I stopped for very short periods of time but ended up going back. I couldn’t live in Southern City and be on the course that I’m on. My student income is £400 a month, my rent is £700 a month, I have to pay my travel then I’ve got to pay a little bit towards my fees in September, so I have to make quite a lot of money just to eat. I really wanted to do this course and I’m on placement which is essentially voluntary work for the course so I’m full time. There isn’t time for me to have a normal job anyway even if I wanted one. My shifts change, I could be on-call one night, so I could never commit to doing bar work 10 p.m.–2 a.m. or whatever, that’s just not feasible at all and my parents aren’t around to support me or wouldn’t have the money to support me anyway so, you know, it’s just the way it is. I’m kind of just working whenever I can. I’m always on call, my phone is always on. I’m always checking my emails and stuff, so I try to get at least four or five hours a week. The problem is, is some weeks you might get 10 people that want to see you but then some weeks, Christmas time for example you ain’t gonna get regular bookings because everyone’s got no money. January’s dead, February’s dead and in school holidays business disappears, so I’m always trying to plan ahead and take as many bookings as I can. Sometimes if I’m not getting any money from escorting then I’ll just webcam. It’s not bad it works out about £1.50 a minute but then the website takes a cut, so I lose about 60p and then once the tax goes, even though I get a rebate, HMRC are still taking the tax so really you make like 80p a minute webcamming which is not bad, it’s really not bad. But, you could be sat waiting online for someone to come on for two hours and not make a penny. You’re sat there totally ready and nothing comes. So, you might make £5 or whatever but if you’re just going to be a webcam girl unless you’re really established or beautiful or whatever you’re better off escorting.
Student sex work happens more than people think. I certainly know a lot of students who do it. I don’t think there is anything wrong with it as long as they’re not forced. It’s just like you’re forced to get a bar job or forced to work in a call centre it’s no different as long as you’re okay with doing that kind of labour. Not everyone is but, if you are then I don’t understand what the big issue is personally. Sometimes I like it, sometimes I hate it, sometimes I leave work and I’m tired because it’s work and some days I don’t want to go to work like any job. Some days I don’t mind it; some days I go have a posh meal with someone and have sex with them for five minutes and go home again. The biggest problem for me is the secrecy which is what bugs me the most. It’s not the actual work, I see it as work. Just as I go for a physio session or for personal training, they’re giving me a service and essentially, I do the same. They play by my rules well, the majority of them play by my rules and I play by theirs and it’s a two-way thing. Sometimes I do hate it because of the negative press and obviously it puts you into a group. I’d be struck off my course and I’d be seen as unfit simply because I’m exchanging money for something most people do anyway. Students have been struck off for sex work, you can Google them and they’re named and shamed. It’s awful, it’s so scary. It would go to a tribunal and you would be struck off because you’re misrepresenting the profession outside of your work.
It’s everybody else who has a problem with it. People on my course think it’s disrespectful to women but it’s work and that’s what really winds me up. If I’m consenting, which I am, and they’re paying me, which they are, then I’m working for them. Okay, it’s a little bit more intimate than most but actually, I’m just working. Women or feminists who are apparently protecting sex workers, they’re not listening because I don’t feel that I’m being exploited by men. In a sense I’m exploiting them. They’re paying me £100 for a lot of the time, five or 10 minutes of actual sex. That’s how long they last and then 20 minutes talking about the fucking weather and I’m leaving £100 richer. They just paid my rent for the week so who’s being exploited there? This job is allowing me to do a course and to not have to work in a dead-end job in a city I don’t want to live in. So, you know, there are positives. I’m not hurting anyone and I’d never do illegal shit but people confuse it and think that you’re trafficked or forced into it. I’m not a bloody slave, I get paid and if I don’t get paid then nothing happens.
Getting out?
Like I said there’s times when I’ve left, not for long, and I miss it simply because some of the guys make you feel quite nice, some of them are quite hot, and they’re paying you. I’m a very, very average looking girl I’m not like some bloody model or whatever and I have really nice times with clients. I have really nice meals and conversations; some of them I would be friends with outside of work. There are things that I miss and that does pull me back because they’re not bad people on the whole. Unless you get a dodgy client. I don’t know what it is I just don’t seem to be able to let go of it. I don’t know why. It’s the money in a sense, but even though no one knows, it’s a big part of my identity it’s just weird not having bookings and I just go back. One time in Northern City, I wasn’t rich but I was comfortable, I wasn’t fighting for money every week and I left for like a month and went back and I didn’t actually need the money there and then but I did go back. I wish I could put my finger on what actually keeps me in but I feel, and trapped is the wrong word but, I do feel trapped in the sense that I’m not sure how I’ll leave like I genuinely don’t and I don’t know why. Even when my money will be stable I can’t imagine shutting down my profile. The thought of doing that, closing the door to that part of my life, I think it will always be there which I hate to think about like I hate to think that’s a possibility because when I first started in my head I was like this is a university thing I’m in this to pay my fees it’s just money. Then I realised that actually, it’s probably not just money. The stigma really bugs me, it really, really bugs me the way people talk about sex work and sex workers. It’s not the clients that bug me, it’s not the work that bugs me it’s other people that really hurt my feelings and I’d love to not be a part of the stigma and secrecy. But, I feel quite strongly rooted in escorting as well. I feel part of the community and I wouldn’t want to leave it and not be a sex worker anymore.
Footnotes
Acknowledgements
Jessica Simpson would like to thank Sarah Smith (pseudonym) for collaborating on the article and for sharing her story. Many thanks to Dr Rachel Cohen, Professor Eugene McLaughlin, Paul Brook and to the three anonymous reviewers for their guidance and feedback.
Funding
The authors received no financial support for the research, authorship and/or publication of this article.