The most difficult part of sex work is getting comfortable with feeling like a field nigger.
I have no doubt my clients appreciate me and perhaps even love me, but I will never be invited inside the home. No one wants dirt in their home, especially not the house niggers.
It will always be obvious that I sleep outside on the dirt. If you can’t tell by my cheap make-up, bottle-dyed hair, and dirty used shoes, then look a little closer at the bags under my eyes, the rot behind my teeth, or the chips on my shoulder.
I think that my masters really do have compassion and really do want to help me off the ground, but the one thing I need is the one thing that can’t be given to me. It’s the way of the world. Pleasantry is all that one can expect from oneself.
You don’t want to invest more than that, anyway. Not in a field nigger. They’re ticking time bombs, ready to explode their “drama” wherever they happen to be. Just one of the reasons we’re not allowed inside.
Written on 18×24″ sketch paper when I accidentally started smoking again last year (after the second to last time I quit).
Smoking keeps me from having a relationship with myself or anyone else. At least one that is attentive, intimate or mindful.
Tonight as I was edging myself into a hot bath, squatting with my ass just above the water line, I picked up a cigarette to smoke while waiting for my body to adjust to the temperature. My lighter had gotten wet on the side of the tub and didn’t work. I found a matchbook on the toilet but it immediately got wet from my hands. I tried three or four matches before I ran naked to my bedroom to fetch more matches but couldn’t find any, and then out to my kitchen where I had more success, but not without spending a great deal of time and getting distracted by at least one other activity. Finally I ran back into the bathroom, lit up, and dropped my body into the water, which of course wasn’t as hot as it was before.
As I stretched into the water I became aware that I wasn’t relaxing. I was working. I was thinking about taking a hit of my cigarette, exhaling the smoke, ashing, keeping my cigarette dry, neighbors complaining about the smell of the smoke, how the new matches would likely get wet, too, and I’d have to go find more, etc.
Bath time is supposed to be my repair time. It’s where I come back into myself.
But if I’m smoking, I’m smoking.
Just like smoking keeps me from being intimate with myself, it also keeps me from connecting fully with another person. Smoking is my priority, and it will always be the first thing on my mind. I am always thinking about when I can leave you and go smoke a cigarette.
Smoking keeps me running–running away from you so I can go be alone to smoke and ignore myself.
When I’m not smoking, or rather, when I consider myself a non-smoker, the possibility of motherhood opens up to me again. It isn’t direct but it’s affirming.
It seems so much more acceptable to be a housewife at home (or even just at home) when I’m a non-smoker. Like, I’m up and showered and dressed because I didn’t just roll out of bed and immediately want to go for a cigarette/coffee/walk, only to return an hour later and have to fling myself into my working day.
So I guess I feel cleaner and more attractive.
I feel like someone would be more open to the idea of taking care of me (housewife style) as a non-smoker.
Smokers are always on their own agenda of when they get to smoke next. As a smoker all I can think about is smoking.
So the possibility that I could be a kept woman presumes that my keeper will know how I feel about babies/family. Which presumes I know how I feel. And I don’t. Which means that I can keep that possibility open, but not as a smoker.
My market value as a woman goes up when I am a non-smoker. This is reflected in my attraction of unstable men when I am a smoker, and financially apt men when I am a non-smoker. Men tend to know what they can get.