Dead hookers. If you consume enough media—Law & Order, CSI, Criminal Minds, or even just the nightly news—you’d think they were an inevitability. A tragic but routine casualty. Society treats them as the expected outcome for an “at-risk” group. At-risk: a sanitized way of saying we know, but we don’t care.
Why bring up dead hookers? You might be wondering. Then again, maybe you’re not—because if there’s one thing society loves, it’s a fascination with sex workers. Dead or alive, but especially dead.
We love to hate. We love to judge. Promiscuous women, like Lilly Phillips who had sex with 100 men in one day? We love to hate and judge them. Regular Women, like stay at home moms? We love to hate and judge them. Educated Women, like our PHD in Olfactory ethics, Dr. Ally Louks? We love to hate and judge them. Other Women? Women love to hate and love them, too. It’s true, unfortunately. We have all been raised with patriarchal views and standards at the forefront of society and culture. With a male-dominated society being the “norm”. A male-dominated society, in many ways, normalizes male domination in all of its forms, which often means acceptance of a certain level of violence and brutality.
From before I was a sex worker (although an extremely privileged sex worker, one who has never had to vet potential clients from anywhere but from behind my computer screen, one who has never been forced into the work by circumstance or coercion) I was always fascinated with the stories about promiscuous girls of any kind which ranged from fantastically glamorous (think Pretty Woman) to horribly gritty like when working girls showed up on episodes of Law & Order or in real life documentaries on serial killers. Interestingly, the girls are never the focus of the case, merely the impetus for them to bring a monster to justice. Then, the girl is portrayed as nothing but a willing sacrifice, an individual from an at risk group brought to slaughter by her own risky behavior.
Now, having first hand experience with both being and knowing sex workers, I can scarcely watch anything that depicts any arena of sex work. Beyond being terribly cliche, (cue the dead hooker trope), media like this often makes flat-out incorrect depictions and assumptions about sex workers and their patrons. It’s painful to watch and, too often, the plot ends up with the sex worker dead or insane. A bleak outcome either way. I’ve worked safely as a sex worker for seven years, without addiction or physical assault. I know that I am lucky in many ways but, I do believe that there is a disproportionate portrayal of “Johns” (a term for clients used by sex workers and police) as violent and misanthropic (again, unless you’re thinking Pretty Woman).
Truthfully, it’s both. It is both safe and dangerous. The clients are both gregarious like Richard Gere and misanthropic as many serial killers can be described. Girls at all levels are concerned about their safety. Rightfully so. Money can be made again or on another day. Your life can never be replaced. For sex workers, you are always gauging how much you are able to mitigate risk, trying your best to ensure your safety to whatever ability you are able. Much of this ability will depend on your privilege. Regardless of privilege, I’d be lying if I said my husband and I don’t both understand the real purpose of my screening process. The information I collect isn’t just for vetting—it’s for after the fact. If something were to happen to me—if I were assaulted, kidnapped, or worse—this would be the trail left behind. A safeguard, but only in hindsight. It’s a grim reality, one reinforced by the very media that thrives on stories of women like me.
Reading Lost Girls unsettled me—not just because of the staggering number of victims or the negligence that let their killer evade justice for so long, but because of how rarely sex workers are portrayed with dignity. These women were more than just bodies discarded in the dark, more than the tired "dead hooker" trope. Their lives mattered. Their stories mattered. And yet, it took relentless pressure from their families to get anyone to care.
That lingering thought—the ease with which sex workers disappear, the indifference of institutions meant to protect—stayed with me. It resurfaced when I started thinking about my own work, the risks I’ve taken, and the quiet calculations I’ve made to ensure my own safety.
About three years ago, when I was confronted by a client’s angry wife, I had the intrusive thought: What if she murdered me and framed her husband? A woman scorned. The more I sat with the idea, the more it made sense: an escort’s murder is the perfect unsolved crime. After all, isn’t that what we’re told? The willing sacrifice, brought to slaughter by her own behavior.
With that in mind, I began writing a book.
I have been surprised at the prospect of writing a book about murder. Even as I have began the book’s undertaking, I find myself surprised by the topic, even though if you looked at my streaming service watch history, you probably would not be. I grew up reading mystery novels like the Nancy Drew series and then graduating to books like Agatha Christie and John Grisham novels. Mystery. Murder. Righting a wrong. Bringing the truth to light. Maybe it’s because I’m also autistic but, I love solving a puzzle or a so-called mystery.
In researching my novel, I’ve studied true crime books like Lost Girls by Robert Kolker. I watched the eponymous Netflix documentary when it came out in March 2020. It was during the height of covid when I was taking a break from in-person work for obvious health concerns and not-so obvious privilege reasons. I remember watching the documentary and being gripped by the usual things— the sheer number of missing women, all of whom were identified to be sex workers, the high end neighborhood in which this all took place, the lack of headway made by police in regards to the initial disappearance and subsequent findings— but, I also remembered being gripped by something unusual— the respectful and empathetic way the victims and the families were treated in the interviews and the overall story. These victims, these women were not merely dead hookers in this documentary. The focus wasn’t only on the police and their love affair bordering on erotic obsession with imagining who the killer was and the heroic reception they might get once he is captured. Instead of a rugged detective chasing a worthy foe, it was a group of women—mostly mothers and sisters—demanding the police do more, forcing the media to pay attention.
I finished reading Lost Girls last week and was once again gripped by the story and the way that Robert Kolker brings these girls to life as he explores their murders. The book has an epilogue to give the broad stroke updates on the case since its original publishing and the Netflix documentary. I won’t give too many spoilers as I very much recommend that you read Lost Girls but, in addition to finally finding the remains of the woman who’s disappearance was the impetus, in ways, for the finding of all the other victims, it was revealed that everything needed to find the suspect was essentially available to police at the very onset of the case. There was an eye-witness account, including a physical description of a man and his vehicle. Due to completely unrelated police corruption, this information wouldn’t be looked at seriously until a new District Attorney and Police Chief came to office in the county where the crimes took place. Finally, after more than a decade, a man matching the eye witness description who owns a vehicle which also matches the eye witness description is now on trial for 6 murders which, is barely half of the victims which were uncovered in the area searched related to this case.
Lost Girls has sparked deep discussions—both with myself and with my husband. The unrelated situations of corruption and classism only added to the already difficult plight of the dead hooker and reminded me of a book that I’ve read years ago and a book that I’ve had on my shelf waiting for me to be able to read it. The latter being Dead Girls, a collection on essays by Alice Bolin. The former being The Scarlett Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne. I expect to be finished with Dead Girls by the week’s end. I’ll re-read Hawthorne’s work next week and hope to have a coherent and interesting comparative lit essay for you about all three.
Something about my tenure in this industry coming to an end has allowed me to pick up books like these and write an essay like this. I think my time in the industry needs to come to an end before I can really undertake the novel that I have begun but, have been stalled out on since I went back to in-person work. I used to tell myself that sex work would fund my creative endeavors and allow me to follow my passions. I used to tell myself that I would do a lot of what I do for work as an escort for free when I was polyamorous. I used to tell myself that I was just helping facilitate a fantasy for others and it is true. I have facilitated many fantasies coming to life. I have been a muse, spurning on hopes, dreams and desires of others. A vessel, emptying myself out so that you can fill me with your fantasy and I can make it so. Abracadabra. I speak and it is so. We are both now living your fantasy. When I live out your fantasy with you, when does the fantasy stop and reality begin? Where and when do I assert my needs when the entire fantasy is really about me not having any? To be the perfect woman— one without drama, one without needs. Getting diagnosed as autistic absolutely changed my ability to do these things.
I had been going to therapy a few years into escorting primarily to deal with feelings of what I believed was loneliness and depression. Sex work is often stigmatized as are the people who do it. I was no different and often felt isolated. I started seeing a therapist which over the course of 3 years lead to an autism diagnosis. Apparently, most people don’t feel as though they are cosplaying as a person! Viewing myself through the lens of autism has both made a lot of sense given my history/behavior (like teaching myself to read) and has helped me understand myself (and what I refer to as my constant state of melancholy and inherent loneliness). The downside of my autism diagnosis has been a low tolerance for that which causes dysregulation, overstimulation or burnout. I can no longer “perform” now that I know I shouldn’t feel as though I am cosplaying as a person.
My autism diagnosis has lead me to employ much more empathy with myself. I can no longer gaslight myself into having the same energetic outputs as I used to. The juice is no longer worth the squeeze. Being part of the neurodivergent community has taught me so much about myself. I see so much of my lived experience in the experiences of others. In fact, there are quite a few neurodivergent sex workers out there for good reason. It is one of the few professions that will give you control over your own schedule (crucial for avoiding or dealing with neurodivergent burnout), creative and general control over how and when you show up for work. Entrepreneurship is attractive to the neurodivergent community and helps many thrive. I will remain an entrepreneur—but I will no longer be a commodity.
Moving forward, I will tell myself things more along the lines of the world needing my authentic self as opposed to always masking and facilitating fantasies that are not mine. I will tell myself that my passions deserve to live at the forefront of my life and not in the space between the cosplaying as everyone’s muse. I will tell myself that writing, thinking and analyzing are tasks worthy of undertaking and making my living doing them. I will try to tell myself not to worry about the Scarlett Letter that comes with being a sex worker, the “once a whore, always a whore” trope which I think has evolved into “onlyfans detected, opinion rejected”. I will remind myself that mother, or PhD or whore, I will be a target for the domination that is implicit in a male dominated world; that there will always be someone who wants to put me in my place for who I am and where I have been. I am grateful “that place” won’t be in an untimely grave.
I won’t be a dead girl, even if I’m a lost girl.
Great writing thank you for sharing!
This really hit me. I'm neuro atypical also. The primary diagnosis, for ADA purpuspes, was AD/HD. But, the testing psychologist said it could easily have resulted in autism. I think each of us is really different in our experiences. But, what you write makes me think about many aspects of myself too. Thank you. This will trigger all sorts of things over the next few days, weeks, or months that will escape in writing. What frustrates me is that when it percolates up, I probably won't remember the trigger.