Joanna Eberts

Who is Screwing Whom?

Sitting on the curb at an intersection downtown, the woman I called “Candy Lips” started talking. She wore a nondescript grey t-shirt and black shorts. Although she wasn’t scantily dressed, we could still feel the wind through our clothes. She was fascinating to watch, with her black curls bouncing and her red lacquered nails flashing in the small amount of sunlight as she spoke. She wore blue contacts to bring out her dark skin; it was fitting as her story was that of contrasts.

She wouldn’t tell me where she grew up, what her major was, her real name, or even what her customers call her. She wouldn’t tell me her age, what year she graduated high school, or which city she currently calls home. But she did tell me a lot of other things.

Her real name was not Candy Lips, nor was it her street name. She attended RIT until a cocaine addiction that led to other addictions forced her out of school and onto the streets. She hasn’t spoken to her affluent family since. She didn’t think they’d approve of her new occupation: Prostitution.

Candy did not choose to become a prostitute. She wanted to be the CEO of a major corporation, but when she blew her parents’ money up her nose, so too did she blow up her dreams. She couldn’t call her parents to tell them that she couldn’t afford tuition because she spent all of their money on drugs. She did what she thought she had to do: She moved on.

Candy tried her hand at waitressing, bartending, even working at a convenience store, but none provided enough money to pay both rent and her dealer. She danced at a stripclub for a few months but, soon, even that wasn’t enough. So when one gentleman offered her money to sleep with him, she went for it. To her surprise, it was easier than she thought. Thus, a prostitute was born.

Prostitution seemed the simplest solution to solve her growing addiction problem, but after one John got too rough and put her in the hospital, she needed a change.

“I didn’t think I could go any lower when I left school, but I did,” she said. “I spent three weeks in a hospital bed, thinking about where I went wrong. But then I realized: They have been taking advantage of me, and I could just as easily take advantage of them... and their bank accounts.”

Now Candy is drug free. She’s still turning tricks, but at a higher price and with much more tact. She said, “I didn’t appreciate what I was worth in the beginning. I was just a junkie and I needed my fix.” Years have passed since those days, though how many, she wouldn’t say.

So if she doesn’t need prostitution to support her drug addiction, one wonders why she is still in the business. Candy replied, “Pay back. I used to let men walk all over me... Now, I turn them away if I want, and who wants to be turned away by a hooker? And the ones I don’t, well, I charge them exactly what I am worth.” And does she charge. Candy said she services guys’ nights and bachelor parties for no less than five grand at each event.

She doesn’t have moral qualms about what she does either. “I consider myself an actress. I can be whoever they want me to be: Southern, French, rude, not. They have needs and I provide a service to satisfy them.” So if it’s morally understandable, should prostitution be legal? “Hell no! Then I couldn’t charge these pigs as much as I do! Where would be the fun in that?”

What used to be considered a profession of men and women being exploited by their clients leads to a new and interesting perspective. If there is more than one prostitute approaching his or her job in a similar way as Candy, then a word of caution to those soliciting their services: You may be paying to screw, but they may end up screwing you.