Being Amber Rhea

It’s been three weeks.

I still feel like I’m moving in slow motion. My Ambien hasn’t arrived yet (stupid mail-order pharmacy) so I’ve been taking Tylenol PM to try and help myself sleep. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. Overall, I feel okay in a general sense - I mean, I don’t feel the raw sting of loss constantly on the surface, the way I did after my marriage imploded - yet there’s this subtle feeling of… I don’t know what… emptiness? Even that’s not it. I can’t really describe it. But there’s something subtle and pervasive still lurking there, making me unable to sleep soundly, making me feel like I’m walking through molasses a lot of the time.

I was chatting with Jenny on GTalk yesterday and she said something like, “Grief takes a surprising amount of time.” I don’t think “surprising” was the exact word she used, but you get the gist.

I told her that I was starting to worry that I’m annoying the people around me. She said that should be the last thing on my mind right now. I know, I know.

When the initial arrangements were being made for my dad to go into hospice care, a friend told me, “I won’t sugarcoat it: this will be the hardest thing you ever do.” I’m not sure that’s true, for me. I think all the shit with my marriage was harder - although I realize it’s not really a case of degrees of hardness, but different kinds of hardness. With that, I ached, deeply; my whole body felt it, I lost weight, my mind was a mess, I tried to keep up appearances, I moved halfway across the country, I cried so much that I thought surely I couldn’t cry anymore - and then I cried some more. It was like this Xiaolu Guo quote I saw today on Rachel’s Tumblr:

People always say it’s harder to heal a wounded heart than a wounded body. Bullshit. It’s exactly the opposite—a wounded body takes much longer to heal. A wounded heart is nothing but ashes of memories. But the body is everything. The body is blood and veins and cells and nerves. A wounded body is when, after leaving a man you’ve lived with for three years, you curl up on your side of the bed as if there’s still somebody beside you. That is a wounded body: A body that feels connected to someone who is no longer there.

That’s not how this is. Like I said, it’s more subtle. But still real.

I will still maintain, if forced to choose (when would I ever be forced to choose?!) that the marriage stuff was “worse” - but this is just weird and unnerving. And even with all the caveats in mind, I still feel kind of pissed off at myself for thinking there should be a comparison.

If you’ve sent me an email and I haven’t responded, please be patient with me. Maeve, I know I need to email you. You too, Niki. And others. But please, be patient… this is a bizarre time for me. Hopefully I’ll snap out of the slow motion soon - or whenever the time is right, anyway.

…why people believe in God.

Conceptually, I’ve always been able to understand why. Who was it who said that thing about how if God didn’t exist, humans would create Him? Something like that. Anyway, that’s always made sense to me. I think we all want to feel some sort of comfort that we’re not totally alone in the universe and that there is some kind of purpose (even if the truth is actually the opposite). Because if we’re all alone, reality can seem too scary to handle.

But during the last few weeks with my dad’s rapidly declining health and finally his death, I’ve come to understand on a much more real, personal, visceral level why people find comfort in what I’ll nebulously refer to as faith.

A caveat, too: “faith” is one of those words I generally dislike, because so often it’s used as a buzzword, devoid of any real meaning. Other words/phrases along those same lines are “values” and “tradition” and “way of life.”

Anyway, as I was saying…

Over the past few weeks, I have allowed myself to feel comforted by expressions of religious faith that seemed heartfelt and nonjudgmental. And why not? We all need to find some comfort wherever we can. I still do not consider myself a religious person, nor am I comfortable with the appellation “spiritual” (though I flirted with it when I was a teenager) - but I do know that during hard times, comfort and support is important, and there’s no need to split hairs over what form it takes.

I’m inspired by my mom’s friend P., who lost her son (who was just a month older than me) in 2006 when he was killed in a collision with a drunk driver. Prior to that he’d had a severe head injury at around age 11, and in his early 20s was diagnosed with leukemia (it had been in remission for several years at the time of his death). He had recently gotten married. I cannot even conceive of the suffering his mother has endured, and yet she remains so devoted to her faith and so warm, caring, and thoughtful of others. She spoke with my dad a few times when he was in the hospital and then when he came home for hospice, and according to my mom he was very moved by it; she thinks talking to P. really helped him. She has been a source of comfort to my mom, too; never preachy, never proselytizing, but always just there, with a kind word and a sympathetic ear (and not just a trite cliché, either).

I’m inspired by Lia of Star Light Ministries, who as far as I can tell seems to have the same approach to Christianity as P.: just being there, with love, without judgment. And based on what I know about Christianity (and I do know quite a bit, actually, having studied it in high school and college, and done plenty of reading and research on my own), it seems like this is the more authentic manifestation of Christianity, although unfortunately it’s quite rare.

I’m inspired by Denise, the American Legion chaplain who officiated my dad’s funeral service. She showed such compassion and sympathy, in a way that I really believed (rather than just going through the motions like a lot of people do), and she had only just met me! She just had a way about her that was comforting, respectful, and right.

I didn’t pray in the kitchen last Sunday with my mom, her friend M., and Denise, as they were going over what the service should include. I had been sitting at the table with them, but by that point I had gotten up and left the kitchen, and had just come back in to get something out of the fridge. They were about to say a prayer and Denise invited me to join, but I said “I’m not much of a praying person…” and just stood silently until they were finished. And it’s true, praying makes me uncomfortable and I don’t like to do it (and I certainly don’t like to “fake it”); but as for faith as a source of comfort, I get that.

My mom has never been a religious person either, but there she was, praying in the kitchen, and I could tell it was a help to her rather than her defenses going up as they usually would.

When Denise quoted Scripture at the funeral, I didn’t feel the annoyance that I typically do when people quote Scripture. Maybe that’s because most of the time it seems like people are doing it in an accusatory way, with an agenda. But the few passages she quoted were relevant and I could tell she had put some real thought into selecting appropriate ones.

And as I heard, many times, “He’s in a better place now,” or “He’s not in pain anymore,” I didn’t get annoyed. I was surprised because if you’d have asked me before all this started, I would’ve guessed those phrases would really irritated me. I guess I just didn’t have the energy to get worked up about it; I was taking comfort wherever I could get it.

I am still not a religious person, nor do I think there really is a God like the Judeo-Christian God, although there very well might be something; but I get why people are religious. I realize that in the past I have unfairly judged an entire religion by the bad apples who make themselves very visible in its name. I will try not to do that in the future.

And yeah, it might be cheesy, but there is a feeling of comfort to be had in that “Footsteps” poem. I think we all need that from time to time.

As I said on Twitter, all day I’ve been feeling like I should write something, but I don’t know what.

I could post the letter I wrote to CBS urging them not to cancel Swingtown; I could write any number of screeds on any number of topics I’m passionate about; but it just feels a little fake at this point. As if doing so would deny - or at the very least, fail to acknowledge - everything that’s been going on behind the scenes, behind my eyes (not to get too emo-poetic about it).

In my last post, I said: “And all of this has made me feel like I can do it, must do it, write for my life…” But I’m not sure I know what that means, “write for my life.” Maybe it just means stream of consciousness babble and pretending no one is reading.

They (yes, they!) say that the death of a friend or family member naturally makes the surviving friends/relatives consider their own mortality. The truth is, I was terrified of death already. I know that on some level, sure, most people are “scared of death,” but I don’t think most people feel the terror and panic of it the way I often do. I’m hoping that’ll go away, or at least mellow, as I get older. But I guess it’s really just a fear of the unknown or the unexpected. Something can happen at any moment, you never know when. That is what scares me. That I could lose my whole world in just an instant. Plus, I’m bothered by the concept of history and permanence and record-keeping anyway, and when I even begin to think along those lines, it’s really down the rabbit hole.

I’ve been lucky, in some ways. I’ve made it to 28 and this is the first death I’ve experienced of someone who was really close to me, in one way or another. Both my paternal grandparents died several years ago, but I’d only met them once in my life (when I was three), so while it was sad, it was more of that detached sadness you feel when learning that anyone died.

I don’t know if I can write about all of this without sounding emo-poetic-angsty.

Crap, that reminds me (don’t know why)… I still need to contact my dad’s other children. I need to write them a letter, and weirdly, now that he’s gone, I don’t feel so conflicted about including the stuff about how even though I completely understand if they feel resentful toward me, things weren’t always peachy for me growing up. Here’s hoping they’ll get it… the only address I have is from about four years ago, no idea if it’s still current. Google wasn’t much help.

A lot of people were very nice last week, and I want to write about that. Some other people were inappropriate, and I want to write about that, too; but the niceness, in a way that tripped me up a little, is what I want to focus on first. If I can sort out my thoughts, of course.

My great-aunt Faye (whom I hadn’t seen in nearly ten years) hugged me tightly after the funeral service, and she even used the word “selfish,” but for some reason when she said it, it was comforting, just as she’d intended; even though Jenny was quick to assure me I’m not selfish. ;) But that’s another story.

Another thought I’ve had: what will happen when bloggers start dying? I know some already have, obviously; but I mean on a larger scale, like 40-50 years from now? I guess the larger question is what will blogs - or even the Internet as a whole - even look like at that point, and there’s no way to know; but I always find it sad and and a little unsettling when I come across a blog that hasn’t been updated in months or years, with no explanation - even if the truth is just that the blogger got tired of updating. It feels like there’s a missing chapter, no closure.

But I know, real life doesn’t have nice neat chapters and endings and such. Still, an abrupt cut-off just leaves me feeling unsettled.

I realize I haven’t put up a real blog post in a week. In a way that feels like ages ago, in another way it feels like mere minutes ago. Same as always; I won’t go off on the tired old babbling about the subjective, convoluted nature of time.

So much to say but I don’t even know where to start. I’ve had trouble falling asleep all week, and many nights I’ve written ridiculously long blog posts in my head as I lay awake in the dark. I’ve also been drinking too much sweet tea over the past few days, left over from Tuesday’s delicious catering from Wife Saver; but I know my fitful sleep is attributable to far more than just extra caffeine.

If I’d had any forethought (but how could I have?) I would’ve brought my old-school paper journal with me to Chicago, meaning I’d have it here with me now, and I could be scribbling in it whenever the spirit moves. I know I’ll be doing a fair amount of that when I get home. And I also know I need to do more writing here, and it needs to come from the gut, without a filter; I guess death always makes you reassess things and realize, starkly, how short and fleeting life can be. So I need to write here for the reason I started this blog: for ME. I need to write in MY style, which admittedly others won’t always grok. But that’s okay. Because it’s not about them. And all of this has made me feel like I can do it, must do it, write for my life, without worrying about who I might piss off or what some nebulous “they” might think.

It feels weird to know that I’m going home tomorrow. It’s been over a week since I’ve been home, slept in my own bed, seen my finches, watched my Tivo, sat at my desk… it’s been over two weeks since I’ve been to work. I know getting back into the swing of things will feel good. But like I said, it also just feels weird. Everything has felt so surreal this week. I feel like things are in a state of suspended animation and I’m moving in slow motion… that’s the best way I can describe it, and even that is not totally accurate. I don’t know when I’ll come out of this state. I do know that the old truism about never knowing how a traumatic event will affect you until you’re actually dealing with it is right on.

I’ve had nightmares almost every night I’ve been here (when I’ve been able to remember my dreams at all, that is). And yet I’ve stayed in bed until late morning whenever possible, until my back hurts and my shoulders are screaming for a massage, because the lethargy is just too great to overcome. Really the only thing that forces me out of bed is having to pee.

One weird thing that’s happened while I was here: my mom’s AC literally froze. As in, the AC repair guy came out to look at it and said it had turned into a block of ice. We ran the fan for a full day in order to thaw it out (it’s back to normal now). I’d never heard of anything like that!

—

Chicago, Tuesday, July 17th, around 9:00 p.m.: phone call from my mom. I had been waiting for a call and I knew it wouldn’t be good. And I guess maybe part of me knew exactly how not good (or good, depending on how you look at it; he was suffering a lot, after all) it would be. Dacia and I were walking down Belmont looking for food. I stepped into an alleyway so I could hear my mom better. She sounded quiet and deflated, like she had been crying but wasn’t crying at that moment.

“Hi Amber. Well… Dad died.”

What could I say but, after a big gulp of air, “Okay. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

We talked for a few more minutes. I don’t remember what all she said. I do remember he passed away at 8:20 p.m., and about six people were in the room with him at the time.

I told Dacia. We hugged. We stood there. She asked me what I wanted to do. I said, “I know it sounds bad, but I want to eat dinner.”

She rubbed my back and said, “That’s what you do when you’re alive. You eat.”

—

Thanks, Dorie, for looking after our finches.

More posting to come, either really soon or not.

Well, I was going to put up a somewhat flippant post about the first day of the Desiree Alliance conference, saying that it was a lot like other conferences I’ve been to, only that people were taking their clothes off. In a totally non-sexual way - the conference space doesn’t have AC, and it’s really fucking hot, so, solution? Remove some of those bulky layers! Pretty awesome if you ask me.

So I was going to write a funny ha-ha post focusing on that, and looking forward to day 2 of the conference. But the other news, now, is that my dad passed away, at 8:20 p.m. tonight (Thursday, July 17). I’m catching a 9:05 a.m. flight to Atlanta tomorrow, and then a connecting flight to Augusta at 1:18 p.m. Rusty will be joining me on Saturday or Sunday. At the moment, I feel weirdly (to other people’s perceptions, anyway) calm and collected. I really only started to get emotional on the phone with my mom because she was so upset and I was sympathetic with her.

We’ll see what the next few days bring, though. I’m sure I’ll do my share of crying and riding the emotional rollercoaster. Password protected posts to come, I’m sure.

God forbid, you can’t normalize and legitimize icky prostitution that I have such a personal moral problem with, because then…

-oh wait. Because then, stuff like this might not happen.

Well then.

As Kim said at Ren’s…

Popular opinion: Hooker murders are icky, grisly, and wrong, because, well, murder is wrong but … well, thank goodness it was “just” a whore. No big whoop, right? And, well, that’s what she gets, you know? I mean, that’s just part of the risks of being a skanky ho.

This has me so pissed off right now. What the hell is wrong with people?

This “Well, thank goodness just a _____ died and not, like, a real normal, GOOD person” attitude strikes a real sore spot with me.

ETA: Oh, and also… don’t bother reading the comments on the Bastard Logic thread. Trust me.

My feelings on the bit of it I (regrettably) skimmed echo what GallingGalla said at The Curvature:

The comment thread on the bastard.logic story made me sick. A bunch of men (and especially one guy) making every excuse in the book for why the “sentence” was justified — probably enough to create a “hating on sex workers” bingo card.

Speaking of The Curvature, thanks to Cara for also posting about this on Feministe.

This post at Bound, Not Gagged really touched me.

Her death has been heavy on the hearts of many a sex worker, indicative as it is of this juggernaut of a system that could grind us into nothing if we get caught up. For me, I think her death translates into real fear. A fear that is about fighting the good fight, and still going down. If we manage to survive and thrive in a crazy industry; if we live ethically as sex workers and use all our faculties to operate our businesses and maintain what we believe is right, we still might end up dead. Ms. Palfrey was a resourceful woman. A woman connected, perhaps dangerously, to big players in the government. And she got royally fucked. Someone, somewhere said, we’re going to bring her down. We’re going to make an example of this one. And they didn’t stop until she was swinging from a rope.

…

I regret deeply now that I, we, did not do something more concrete to support her in her struggle. It is a bare and unpleasant truth that the moment a sex worker comes under legal fire, s/he becomes untouchable. Abandoned by clients, friends, etc…how did Palfrey end up in her mother’s home? Why wasn’t she staying with me? Where were her friends? Where was her support network?

This blog was begun as a response to her original arrest. She has, inadvertently, been an enormous catalyst in the sex workers rights movement. And now she’s dead.

What the fuck.

Keep Deborah Jeane Palfrey, and what her death means, in your thoughts starting at 7:00 p.m. (Atlanta time) today, for the next 24 hours. And all the time, really.

From Chris Hall at Sex in the Public Square (be sure to read the full post). Chris is a wonderful writer.

The real tragedy of [Palfrey's] death, from where I’m standing, is not anything extraordinary about her story, but how common and familiar it is, to the point of being cliché. If the story of Deborah Jean Palfrey had been laid out in a novel or play or screenplay, I would be angry at having my time wasted by a writer who was unable or unwilling to rise above cheap hackery that was old and worn out in the days of the Victorian penny dreadfuls. But Palfrey was a real person, and it makes me sick and angry to think how often the lives of people who should live peaceful, untroubled lives are forced into old patterns.

When I heard that Palfrey had hung herself, one of the first things that I thought of was the story of Ida Craddock. Craddock was a freethinker and feminist who wrote several sexual education manuals and pamphlets in the late 19th century. She was hounded and pursued for over a decade by the moralists of the day, in particular the infamous Anthony Comstock. In 1902, she was finally convicted for sending obscene materials through the mail and sentenced to five years in prison. Craddock was 45 years old at the time of her conviction and didn’t think that she could survive her sentence; the night before she was supposed to report for incarceration, she slit her wrists. Comstock showed no signs of regretting her suicide; in fact, he commonly bragged that he had driven as many as 15 people to suicide in his crusade for public morality.

One hundred and six years later, I want Ida Craddock’s story to seem quaint and old-fashioned, like an aged relic of less enlightened times. But Deborah Jean Palfrey is dead, hung from the neck by a nylon rope; her former employee, Brandy Britton, went the same way. David Vitter is still in the Senate. So it goes.

In the eye of the media, Palfrey’s death was regarded almost without a blasé fascination, as if the urge for a woman who transgressed to hang herself in her mother’s shed was as natural and unavoidable as birds migrating. And it seems unbelievable that one hundred and six years after Ida Craddock, we have to work so hard to justify not only the course that she chose to make for her life, but that we also have to fight to make others see that her death was a stupid waste, and not the inevitable end to a badly-written melodrama.

What we do, all the blogging and writing and organizing sometimes can seem futile, especially with stories like Palfrey’s. The one thing that we can be grateful for, in a somewhat grim way, is that Palfrey had to do more than merely write about sex before she was hounded and shamed into her grave. That, at least, is something that we’ve accomplished in the one hundred years since Ida Craddock opened her veins with a straight razor. But it’s not enough.

And I’m crying, again.

Yeah, I’ve mentioned before that I can be pretty emotional, and cry at inopportune times. But this week, I think it’s appropriate.

Reposting this press release from Bound, Not Gagged until I have time to finish the other Palfrey post (not to mention the “why feminism needs to focus on women” post) that have been in draft mode for several days now.

—

New York, NY - The activists at Sex Workers Action New York (SWANK), Sex Workers Outreach Project New York (SWOP-NYC), Prostitutes of New York (PONY) and the nationally-based Desiree Alliance are saddened that Deborah Jeane Palfrey, also known as the D.C. Madam, passed away on May 1st in an apparent suicide. We - prostitutes, strippers, pro-dommes, porn stars, sex experts, and allies - extend our sympathies to all of those hurt by this most recent chapter of the “Pink Scare,” in which oppressive legislation and social stigma partner to generate hysteria around what, for us, can prove to be simply a decent way to make a living.

The circumstances surrounding Ms. Palfrey’s death suggest that Americans reconsider the current state and federal policies that govern sex work, as well as the stigmatization and sensational treatment of those who participate in this industry. From New York to California, daily reports of Pink Scare-fueled police busts, e-stings and raids, even at legal venues like strip clubs and dungeons, have reached a fever pitch. These oppressive patterns regularly marginalize and terrorize our communities, with barely a headline to show for the mass arrests. In contrast, coverage of high-profile cases include yellow journalism exposés published at the expense of sex workers’ privacy, dignity and livelihood. In an interview with Lori Price, it was Ms. Palfrey who said, “Without question in my mind, escort and adult service businesses. . . are being used as the new weapon of choice in American politics.” The public figures implicated in this type of case often receive little more than a slap on the wrist and a second chance from a forgiving public. Ironically, among the exposed we regularly find the very same lawmakers and other insiders who claim to protect people from vice through moralizing legislation. Former State Department official Randall L. Tobias was a Palfrey patron, though he implemented the abstinence earmark in programs such as the President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief (PEPFAR) and, with it, the “Anti-Prostitution Pledge” that has resulted in diminished funding for sex worker-run organizations. Annually, our government spends millions in taxpayer money to apprehend and prosecute participants in the sex trade, while more effective policies like harm reduction-based approaches, including the multiplication of living wage alternatives, are dramatically under-utilized.

In both the highly-publicized scandals and under-documented daily struggles, many sex workers now face financial ruin, emotional hardship and social opprobrium at the hands of the Pink Scare simply because their work, though it takes place between consenting adults, may be illegal and, to some, may be offensive. In two instances associated with Palfrey’s case, Ms. Palfrey and her former employee, Ms. Britton, oppressive laws and stigma cost the implicated their very lives. Why did Ms. Palfrey die? In response to this question, an activist with the International Union of Sex Workers wrote, “Whether she died by her own hand or her suicide is a cover for murder, she has been killed by the state.” Given the highly political nature of these events, SWANK, SWOP-NYC, PONY and the Desiree Alliance call for an independent investigation of the circumstances surrounding Ms. Palfrey’s untimely death. Furthermore, we, as activists and advocates, would like to stress in this instance that the criminalization of sex workers and our labor only drives us further underground, making us and our dependents more vulnerable to client and police violence, and even death, as we are further isolated. The unfortunate events of the D.C. scandal bring many of these broader issues into sharper focus. It is high time that we challenge the morals and laws that harm so many, so deeply, with so few gains and so many lives destroyed.

All I have time for today are blockquote posts, but here’s another one everyone should read, from Elizabeth at Sex in the Public Square:

I no longer think that the exposing of clients is going to be the source of any great reduction in the stigma attached to sex work. Why? Because they always apologize.

They apologize by admitting their “sins” a la David Vitter or they apologize and resign their posts, a la Eliot Spitzer, but they always apologize, and by doing so they reinforce the impression that consciously and explicitly exchanging sex for money is wrong, and they reinforce the stigma. In fact they often refer to that stigma when they include in their apologies their regret for bringing shame on their families.

Note that they do not apologize for any mistreatment of the workers. They apologize for being clients in the first place.

So my new call on Labor Day is a call to the clients and not a call to the workers. Clients of the sex workers of the world: stand up for the people whose work you are paying for. Treat those workers respectfully and protect their safety and don’t apologize for paying for their services.

Yes, you may have much to apologize for:

Apologize if you have actively worked to keep the services you pay for criminalized.

Apologize if you have said insulting, demeaning or paternalistic things about sex workers.

Apologize if you have contributed to the shaming of sex workers.

Apologize if you have jeopardized the health of a sex worker.

Apologize if you have committed violence against a sex worker.

And by all means apologize if you have lied to your partner about sex you are having with other people.

But for being a client of a sex worker?

Please, no more apologies. We can’t afford them.

Last night, after spending several hours watching TV (My Name Is Earl, The Office, and several Daily Shows from last week), Rusty and I got in bed and talked for a little while about Deborah Jeane Palfrey’s death, and the whole situation, and what to do when things make us lose faith in humanity. There were no answers to be found, but at least talking about it can do some personal good.

After Rusty went to sleep, I quietly cried myself to sleep.

Some of what I said last night was…
Read the full post »

Via Melissa on Twitter, I just found out that Deborah Jeane Palfrey (a.k.a. the “DC Madam”) has committed suicide.

Fuck. Fuck. Shit.

I am sitting here at my desk at work, fighting back tears.

No, I didn’t know her. But I’m grieving, because I have some humanity in me, unlike the media and judicial system and court of public opinion that tore her life apart.

Earlier today I was contemplating finishing a long-stored-in-draft-mode post about my fear/issues surrounding death. I think I’ll put it off for a while longer now, but this just shows… I mean… I don’t even know how to say it, but just, she’s gone now.

What will it take, people? How many more women have to die before sex workers are actually considered human? How much longer will we excuse - or, more accurately, applaud - exploitation by the media of women who “step out of line” in some way? How much longer will we keep denying that the sexual double standard isn’t just an annoyance, it actually kills?

People’s - oh who am I kidding, women’s; it’s not like any of the men involved have experienced anything even remotely comparable - lives have been ruined because of this case. And now the woman at the forefront of it is dead.

Her blood is on the hands of lawmakers and the media, and no I don’t even care if I sound like the religious guy (Pat Robertson?) who was blaming 9/11 on teh ghey… IT IS TRUE in this situation.

Fuck you. Fuck all of you who want to pick apart sex workers’ lives, dehumanize them, get the juicy details for a good story, then throw them out like yesterday’s trash when the story goes stale.

Deborah Jeane Palfrey is dead, and I think I’m just going to have to ignore all MSM (and a lot of new media as well) because if I see any salacious “tell-all” stories in light of this, I am going to go ballistic.

Bound, Not Gagged was started in the wake of the original breaking of the “DC Madam scandal”… and that is where I will be turning for information and updates. And I think now is a fitting time to revisit the words on their page, “Why a Blog for Sex Workers?”

When sex work is in the press, the coverage most always brings to the surface more issues than a single organization’s statement can address. As advocates, it would be impossible to make a statement that truly reflects the voices of this dynamic and diverse community.

BoundnotGagged is a space for these voices to be heard. It is a place for sex workers to respond to the way that they’re portrayed in the media, the way that sexist laws are used to undermine women’s rights and their feelings about the ethical dilemma of exposing a client list. The issues are deep and broad. The stories are powerful and frustrating.

BoundnotGagged is our way of responding to the injustice and hypocrisy that keeps sex workers’ voices muted and faces hidden. Sex workers may be in hiding, but they refuse to be silent.

Also, here are some excellent interviews with which to remember Palfrey:

• Interview With Deborah Jeane Palfrey, AKA The DC Madam - Radical Vixen’s podcast interview w/ Palfrey
• The D.C. Madam Speaks! - Susie Bright’s interview w/ Palfrey

And now I have to continue going on about my day as if everything is okay.

Rest in peace, Ms. Palfrey.

ETA: Noteworthy excerpt from Radical Vixen’s interview with Palfrey (as printed in $pread magazine):

Some of the attorneys that I have had and that are no longer in my life or will not be soon have said things to me like, “Jeane, don’t you just go to prison for 8 months? You’ll be out in 8 months. It’s going to take at least 8 months to fight it. I thought this person was the biggest buffoon- and he’s an attorney. Only a buffoon would say [to] give up your liberty for 8 months. I wouldn’t give up my liberty for 8 minutes. I’ve had people say, “Don’t say anything, don’t give any press conferences, don’t speak up, just be quiet, don’t aggravate the situation.” Don’t aggravate the situation? You’ve got to be kidding me. These people can come after me, destroy me, take every shot they possibly can at me, and I’m supposed to just sit back and be quiet and dutiful and well mannered?

That’s why I’m doing this interview with you. These people who are telling me, “Just take it,” these people scare me to death. I just don’t understand them.

ETA, pt. 2: What Dacia said:

These men spent a few weeks being raked across hot coals and being the targets of gentle ribbing from colleagues. There were cries of “hypocrite!” echoing all across the American media, but just beneath that is a resigned shrug: boys will be boys.

But if boys will be boys, whores will be punished. Deborah Jean Palfrey went to trial. And now she’s dead.

It saddens and angers me that this is Palfrey’s end, that she saw no easy way out other than suicide, and that women have to pay such a high price for their sexual and economic sins (especially when the two are combined), when men get slaps on the wrist.

ETA, pt. 3: See also, Anthony:

I would like to say that I’m surprised…but I’m not…because this is the ultimate (if to the extreme) means to which our sex-negative society deals with women who challenge the status quo when it comes to our hypocritical sexual mores. It’s much easier to drive the woman to suicide or simply murder her than it is to take a realistic look at how our laws and social mores against consensual adult sex (for free or for pay) do far more destruction and degradation than the actual sex acts and services that are bought and sold.

(That’s right, GenderBorgians, I said “acts” and “services”. not “bodies”; women who do sex work are not comparable to slaves, and they still own their own bodies, regardless of whether you like what they do with them.)

Like the Duke University rape accuser who gets slimed and virtually raped over and over again in the media because she dared to even make the claim that she was raped (and NO, MRA jackals and all other “White pity” fools, this is NOT permission to send me your half-baked comments on that case, either).

Like the rape crisis center owner who decided that a woman like Renegade Evolution should be denied the right to even counsel women who have suffered from abuse….merely because she might defile the center with her clients.

Like the cops in LA who mocked and laughed at and dehumanized an arrested street hooker into wetting her pants because they could only see her as an “object” to be used and manipulated for their benefit. (But I guess that since they were trying to get prostitution off the streets, that makes it OK for some so-called radicalfeminists, right???)

Like every Goddess-damn porn starlet, sex worker, adult model, and merely overtly sexual woman who has to face the full stigma of “slut-baiting” for simply not being as “pure” or “chaste” or “decent” for the public taste. Not even a young adolescent like Hannah Montana is immune from the anti-sex gaze; lest even sweet virginhood is defiled by her actress character flashing a bra for her boyfriend.

And all this done in the name of “protecting women and children”, no less.

…and the inimitable Susie:

I know how pissed you were. This was an act of revenge, and I know who you’re determined to haunt.

You were righteously furious at all the men who “walked away.”

That included the esteemed gents on your client list: Louisiana fundamentalist, Senator David Vitter. Abstinence Ambassador Randall Tobias, who squashed AIDS funds all over the world. “Shock and Awe” war profiteer, Harlan Ullman.

And that was just the expendable layer. None of them were charged with anything; all are living quite comfortably, in particular because they have no conscience whatsoever.