JUSTINE BARRON’S SLOW-TRACKED LIFE (PART I): how i sold my sex to buy my soul in miami

 
 
There are two main kinds of prostitution memoir stories: In the first kind, a sad vulnerable young girl with no self-esteem talks about numbing herself to a life of repetitive exploitation. In the second kind, a quirky young woman finds empowerment by getting paid for dominating men.
 

 
I don’t know where to put my story.

Let’s back up. Because before you can judge me (and I want you to judge me), you should understand what I was going through. For about a year, I wasn’t sure that I existed.
 
On the map, I had moved from New York City to Miami to be near family. While it was beautiful and relaxing, Miami felt like some kind of Twilight Zone: all the rules of life were flipped, and I seemed to disappear.

It began with a vague feeling. Then I started actively collecting evidence that I wasn’t making any mark on the world. I wasn’t there. People were closing doors in my face, cutting me off in lines and traffic, glazing over when I ordered tea, not checking me out, ever. (I wore too many clothes for Miami.)

Also, everyone in Miami spoke a different language than me, usually Spanish. But even when they spoke English, something wasn’t connecting. A typical conversation between my barista, an American, and me:

Me: Can I have an Earl Grey tea please?

Him: (Long pause) Who?

Me: Tea. Earl Grey?

Him: (Longer pause) Food?

Me: (Look of incomprehension and ennui)

That really happened, just like that. Enough conversations like that, everyday, and I was no longer sure that the problem was other people  - that people in Miami were just dumb and whorish, as I initially judged. I was the common denominator. Maybe I was supposed to learn something in Miami, or pay for my sins of arrogance.
 

 
I WASN’T THERE: THE EVIDENCE

There was a lot of evidence that I didn’t actually exist. To wit: I dated this guy for a few months. I think we dated. We ate food together, we talked, we engaged in life-affirming activities. I do remember all of that. But if I really was there, in that relationship, then wouldn’t he have told me that another woman was having his baby more than a day before it happened?
 
I had a flashback over our whole relationship: him, showing me his drawings; him, taking me on the back of his scooter; him, ordering dinner for both of us; him, lecturing me about how hard it was to be a black man (he was half-Irish; he looked white). It was just like The Sixth Sense. Maybe I wasn’t actually there for any of it.

It was happening at work too. I had a job. I thought. I was a grant writer for a university. But it didn’t feel like a job. They didn’t have any room for me in the main offices, where everyone else worked, so they put me in a remote office on the second floor of the Student Center, at the end of an absurdly long hallway called the “handicapped wing,” because it had a bathroom designed for students with disabilities, which nobody ever used. My office had one big glass window, facing the hallway. So I was in a fishbowl, on display, for nobody.

They also didn’t have any real work for me. And that was because, the rumor was, they were busy interviewing other people for my job. It’s a long story, but nothing to do with my performance, because, if I had done a good job or a bad job, then I would have existed.

So with the move, the break-up, imminent job loss and hurricane season approaching and threatening to wipe out all traces of me and nobody would notice…. I sought therapy.  I sat in that office, and I stated my life. I cried. I remember that. I remember the box of tissues. I remember writing checks while looking at pictures of his happy family.

But then I called him to let him know that I was going to be losing my job and  my insurance would no longer cover his sessions at full price. I was upset and needed to talk about it. But he didn’t return my call. Or any of the other calls. Or respond to my email.

So, if your own therapist doesn’t return your calls, do you exist? It stopped even being depressing.  It became a phenomenon.
 

 

CROSSING THE GREAT DIVIDE
 
There was another phenomenon happening. You know how dogs sniff around ghosts? For some reason, although no one was seeing me, men kept flashing me their dicks. It happened everywhere: the parking lot of Starbucks, on the beach, on a first date, even my massage therapist whipped it out. I swear. That happened.

It might have been my “I see dead people.” When you’re a ghost, you have another purpose. Although, that might have just been Miami.

So for awhile, I made my peace with not existing. I floated into work late and left early. I’d wear sweatpants and flip-flops and not wash my hair. Sometimes I’d take my “work” to the lounge area and watch Jerry Springer with the undergraduates. I’d pig out on those 99 cent bags of candy in cheap plastic from the convenience store to get through the afternoon, then crash and go back for more. It was as if I were revisiting my own body during its “Sophomore Slump.”

Then I’d go to my office and I’d sing, loudly. As it turned out, my fishbowl was soundproof.

I discovered this when I found out that there was another absurdly long corridor on the other end of the floor. At the end of it was another fishbowl office. And, in that office, sat my counterpart: an older woman — her office filled with files — slouched over her desk, crying. How many years had she been there? I wondered. How many years had she been crying?
 
Meanwhile, in my fishbowl, instead of crying, I discovered Pandora and created an epic playlist called “Songs that Cry Out to be Cried Out” filled with all of the power ballads that I’d secretly loved as a youth but was too cool to admit. I sang for hours in my “studio,” as I liked to call it. I got pretty good. I could hit Mariah notes.

Sometimes at work, I would also surf Craigslist personal ads. I wasn’t trying to meet anyone. I was just reaching out across the lonely divide. I even posted a fake “Missed Connections” ad once, as a prank. It read:

Starbucks, 12th and West. Me: tall, blond, with a puppy in my purse, in workout clothes. You: looked like you were making real estate deals. You seemed aggressive. Did we have a moment?

I had one significant reply:

It wasn’t me, but I wish it were. You sound great.

That was my summer fling.

I worked like this for months. The entire time, only one person walked by. I had just eaten one of those 99 cent bags of plump jelly beans with the crusty outer shell, aged to perfection and was blissed out on sugar, staring at an email probably marked “time-sensitive” until it went blurry, with my hand down my pants, rubbing my belly.

Maybe the tips of my fingers were a little lower than my belly.  It was warm down there. It reminded me that I was human.

Then, a guy walked by. I almost sat up, but I realized that he was blind. Or, I think he was blind. He had on sunglasses and was carrying a cane. And, it was the handicapped wing. So he was probably blind.

But then he approached my fishbowl window and peered in, shading his eyes with his hand. I was confused, so I didn’t move. We “stared” at each other in a deadlock. Eventually, I sneered and stuck out my tongue at him, and he walked away.

I was a ghost, so it makes sense that a blind person would see me. That happened. Just like that.
 

 

I FINALLY GOT PAID FOR IT

Eventually, I got the email that the University was letting me go. They gave me two day’s notice, because two weeks is what you give to people who exist.
 
I was sad, so I paid the ex-boyfriend a depressing visit. Then, around 1:00 am, while I was driving home on the highway, a man drove up next to me in an SUV and started honking at me.

Him: Hey cutie! Pull over!

Me: What? No.

Him: Come on. I’m so horny!

Me: So?

Him: Please.  I want to jerk off for you!

Me: Ew!

Him: Please!  I’ll give you a hundred bucks.

Me: (Look of revelation)

I looked at him. He looked safe, like an aging jock. Are aging jocks safe? I can’t explain or justify it, but something clicked in my brain, and I decided that this was the best way to end the night.

We pulled off the highway. I stayed in my car. He got out of his car and dropped his pants.
 
Me: You’re going to pay me, right?

Him: Yes, let me see what you look like?

Me: No. Don’t come closer. I’m cute enough.

I said that. And he did it. I squinted. I’d seen enough unwanted dicks that year. But somehow, I couldn’t avoid seeing two things and they remain imprinted on my brain: the pointy end of his skinny dick and a shiny wedding band. And that felt like enough of a sacrifice to deserve to get paid.

He finished his business and then asked me if he could pay me 25 dollars instead. He was probably disappointed in the service I provided.

Me: You said a hundred! I will scream and honk my horn and call the police if you don’t pay me what you said!!

Him: Okay, I just don’t have it.  I can give you thirty.

Me: Seventy-five or you’re in trouble.

Him: No shit, okay I have fifty.

Me: Fine. Give it to me.

And he paid me. And I drove home. And that sealed it: I was officially a sex worker. Well, it was Miami, you know. So “When in Rome…”

Let the judgment commence, please. Degrading and pathetic, you think? Not to mention risky and rape-baiting. You think I finally hit bottom?

I don’t see it that way. I see this encounter as a positive turning point. It validated me, literally. Sure, I was a discounted whore. But I had tangible value that I negotiated. I’m saying that becoming a sex worker, gave me a sense of self-worth. Literally.

I held onto that fifty bucks for awhile. After letting it air out the germs in my car, I hung it on my refrigerator and swore never to spend it, like that first dollar at business. And then I spent it a few weeks later, because I didn’t have a job.
 

 
I BECOME A REAL SOMEBODY

Things did get better after that. I negotiated a great a contract at my next job. I got my act together, gave up the junk (the cheap candy), and the whoring around. I bought a bikini and made friends with beach people. I started existing, Miami-style. I only posted one more fake Craigslist after that, another prank, this time in the racy section. It was simple:

i want to bite your dick off.
 
Well, wouldn’t you know it? I had dozens of responses, maybe fifty!
 
Men were falling in love with me, I kid you not. One man sent me a picture of himself at work, in front of filing cabinets. “You look like you have a clean dick,” I wrote back. I played around with them for a bit, until I realized that most of them were serious.
 
Ultimately, I’d figured something out about what it takes to really be seen, with seven words. It’s pretty simple in fact.
                                                       
 
Justine Barron writes, performs, and tells stories around Los Angeles. Her work includes award-winning film and television scripts and numerous personal essays and comedy shorts. She is a three-time Moth Storyslam winner and regularly performs her stories around town. She also performs with the improv comedy teams “Twig Storm” and “The Beatles(s).” Her comedic work is found online at www.justinebarron.com and twitter.com/justine_emma.

Images by Justine Barron