California Narrative

I was with my aunts and some boys, men, artists.  We were at a dinner party in a house made of stone, with great big stone stair cases.  The house was huge, but because of the stone and the stairs and open spaces there were not many rooms or economy of space.  To the left of the foyer was a row of red velvet dining chairs.  This was the washroom, north of that was the kitchen, within full view.  Past the foyer was the living room or parlour, where everyone else was congregated -- except for the man who owned the house, who was in the kitchen.  He was tall and thin, with black hair and a mustache, and was wearing a three piece suit.

I sat on a chair in the washroom, taking my socks off and putting them back on again.  People came by and chatted with me.  The man asked me if I had a job, and I said no, I couldn't get one.  I blamed my aunt and people like her, who had three.  Occasionally I remembered an email my old roommate had sent me, which I hadn't replied to yet.  She had invited me to a dinner party as well. I imagined it was to show off the kind of people she lived with.  I felt guilty for not responding.

When dinner was served, I sat at the far corner of a long stone table.  My chair was too short for the table, so I sat with it up to my chest.  We were brought plates with a half quarter slice of what looked like some kind of loose quinoa pie, with an arugala and tomato salad, and roasted orange peppers.  Inside the slice of pie was a single nut, an almond, surrounded by a flavour that transported you as you chewed it.  Made you feel, told a story.

Second course came, and it was the same dish as before.  But as you ate the nut, it told another part of the story.  Plate after plate came, and I ate and ate.  Too full to finish each plate.  I was in my own world, and in my glee.  Finally someone else understood how food could be, how flavours could be used to touch the soul.  Someone else spoke my language.  In my mind's eye I got a glimpse of the titles of the food, and how each person started on a different chapter, how each of us was eating a different chapter in the circular story.  As I came to the last dish, the story became less dark.  I liked the dark and soulful experiencing, in comparison it was if my plate was covered in whipped cream.

I could not finish the dish.  I was stuffed, exhausted.  The man took my plate, and said, you are the last one to finish, and you've never finished a full plate.  I said nothing.  I wanted to tell him how much I had loved the experience, but thought others loved it more. That it didn't need to be said.

The dinner party jumped up, and said, oh, our taxi is here.  It was rude to leave so soon after eating, but my family has no manners.  As I put on my shoes, my aunt leaned down to me and said, nobody likes California Narrative.  The style of eating was called California Narrative.

I said nothing.  I wondered if they thought they had been eating plate after plate of quinoa pie, if they did not speak the language.

The Cumshow Draft 3 w/ Audio

Audio Link ~6:45

1) If they tipped me, I would bare anything they desired. I jumped and wiggled and smiled, thank you!  I pulled my black tank top over my head, showing the red lace bra underneath.
“Wow,” they said, “how big are those?”

2) I hadn’t washed, but I hadn’t worked for days either. It was so hard to get back into it, into the habit of coming online.  But I knew I would be broke soon, and it takes so long for the money to get to me … 2 weeks, maybe 4.  I’d been using my period as an excuse not to, you can’t work when you’re bleeding.  But the tail end is here, the month is coming to an end, and the pressure is on.  With that, I set up the camera and tripod in the bathroom.

1) As I unbuckled my bra, the chat was silent in anticipation.  I slid it off, and revealed my breasts, my boobs, that jiggled and wiggled as I fondled them.  With a grin, I pushed them together to show off how plump and round they were, pinching and twisting my nipples.  I raised one to my lips, flicked it with my tongue, and kissed before sucking them.  The sensation traveled down my body and made my pussy wet.

2) I started taking off my clothes. I shut my eyes and rubbed my nipples. I tried not to look too sad or lost or like I had a very fat chin. I tried not to spend too much time in my head, so I could feel the sensation in my nipples as it tingled down and into my cunt. But it didn’t. It stopped in my gut like a lead weight.

1) More tips rolled in, and I revealed my body accordingly.  I leaned back to removed my panties, and spread my thick thighs to reveal a delicate, curly blonde bush that I stroked and twirled between my fingers. I spread my lips — deep pink, plump folds – to reveal the little gem that was my clit. I touched it lightly, and held it between my index and middle fingers, wiggling and pressing on my pelvis, a gentle pleasure that would make me bite my lip and sigh as I stared into the camera — at them
“Ohhh my,” they said, “beautiful goddess.”

2) I readjusted the camera, trying to find a suitable angle for the movement I was about make. There was no way of knowing. I lowered myself into the bathtub, a disgusting yellow green that never looks quite clean enough.  I thought of my fleshy rolls and the folds of my body.  How my pink skin must look against mustard in the bathroom with dark brown walls and ceiling, like taking a shit in a cave made of packed dirt.
“I would love to know what dirty thoughts she’s thinking,” they said.

1) One finger, then two, slipped inside.  Palm pressed against my clit.  Hooked fingers pushing against the wall of my pussy, within soft, velvety folds.  The pressure was like a pleasure jolt, a wave that grew in intensity as I pressed with more frequency.  I could feel goose bumps on my cheeks as my pussy tightened around my fingers.
“Does it turn you on to know so many of us are watching you?” they asked.
I imagined what it would feel like for them, their own fingers, thicker and less delicate than mine, if they were in place of my own hand.  How eager they would be to rub their cocks along my slit until I begged to feel them inside.

2) A pang of guilt or shame or disbelief at the disconnect between their fantasy and my reality rang deep in my gut. Like there was something wrong with me for not thinking of the men and the cocks and how my pussy felt clenching around my fingers, and the 200 men that were watching with their dicks in hands as I hated myself in the bath tub.

1) My toy of choice was a pink glass dildo. It was hard and smooth, with gentle curves that hit just the right spots, no matter the angle. I took it deep, slowly, feeling every inch of the cool glass as it moved inside me. I slid it out, paused, felt the sensation of the warm walls coming together again. I resisted the temptation to fuck myself hard and fast, intentionally denying my pleasure, my orgasm, so I could feel each individual stroke, savoring it.

2) During my period, I prefer being fucked hard. The sensation is too high or too low in the rest of my body. Frustrated with my uncooperative clit, I reached for my glass dildo.
I was dehydrated, but I was dying to squirt.  There is something so satisfying about liquid confirmation shooting from your cunt.  Rubbing your clit until it hurts.  Pounding harder, deeper, hitting that magic spot near your cervix so it makes liquid build up in that magic pouch that may or may not be your bladder.

1) Unable to resist any longer, I let out a desperate, pleading moan. I did want it, but I didn’t want it. I knew what came next. I rubbed my clit faster, and ohh… liquid gushed out of my pussy, puddling underneath me, landing on my thighs, my calves, my feet. By some miracle of physics, drops landed on my chest, and my lips.  My free hand moved down my thigh and clutched the flesh, trying in vain to find something would contain my pleasure. Sensations in the form of colours, deep oranges, bright yellows, vibrant pinks, exploded from deep inside me, spreading in unpredictable patterns to the rest of my body.

2) When you’re dehydrated, there is no liquid to build it.  Later, when they asked, I told them, “of course I squirted, I always squirt!”.  To them, my frustration looked like an orgasm.  I could have cried.

1) When the pleasure subsided, I brought my fingers to my lips, spreading them to see how my juices suspended between them. I couldn’t resist my own sweet taste, licking each individual finger, making sure I got every last morsel.

2) I breathed deep. I idly licked my fingers. The liquid was bitter, yellow. It rang on the tip of my tongue, and in the back of my mouth between my molars. It was thin on the roof of my mouth, and vaguely metallic on my lips.
“Mmm I wish I knew how sweet that tasted,” they said.
It tasted exactly like diluted urine.

“You have the most perfect body on this site,” they said.
“Do you sell your panties?”

* almost a perfect length, but should probably be shorter, more room for pauses.

Workshops Dream #38 (Literally a dream).

I was staying somewhere with my brother.  I slept in a big bed upstairs, with no walls or privacy.  Big and cheap, like Regina in the 90's.  Before I was there, a small dog had slept in this bed, small and white and fluffy.  It passed away before I came, but before it did, it had shit and peed all over the bed. My own dog, Lola in dogform, chose to pee in every spot the other dog had peed in.  On the last one she peed, then took a huge dump.  When I realized she was a dog, and not a cat as she is in real life, I began scolding her, almost poking her eye out, wiping the tears from her eyes, rubbing her eyes trying to put them back into shape.

As I did this, my brother came upstairs, and demanded we change rooms.  I was embarrassed by the bed, and all of my things in the room had a spot, and I was very tired.

Someone said I was making too much noise.  We yelled and fought, until I slunk down the stairs.  He scolded me for the items my customers were buying me, and called it indulgent.

I dumped my things on a table downstairs, a big warehouse space owned by my Uncles.  They ran a series of illict trades, including light switch vinyl cover printing.  My mother and my aunts sat at a table and unboxed old Christmas crafts to assemble them into books.  Anne forgot to double side her pages, and they mused over why she would do that, chiding her.

Still upset, I left the space to ride my bike, fighting tears back.  I rode through Centennial Square in Mount Pearl, down past the drug store, through the parking lot.  As I coasted I saw crowds of people, like groups, who were my age.  They were moving towards a side door of the grocery store.  They were singing an Arrogant Worms song, I hear the screams of the vegetables.  I fought the urge to join in.  It was harder to fight the tears back now.  I was intrigued by these people, but felt alone.  When I reached the gathering point, I went inside the building.

Inside was a huge auditorium, with a big movie sized screen.  Over 200 people were inside.  They had been singing, but the song was over.  I climbed the steps between the rows.  People were perched on the backs of seats.  One person, a girl, was telling a story, sharing an experience.  Everyone had turned to face her, listening intently.  When she was done, another person began sharing a similar, but different experience.  The group faced him as well.

I was nervous and confused, so I sat in the back corner, which was draped with drift wood.  Someone, slightly in front of me, stood up.  He had something to share.  He told the group he wanted everyone to move to his right, and face him.  He moved towards the centre of the isle, and everyone moved to the right of him.  I, feeling awkward, moved from my spot to a chair to the right of him, but still behind.  I felt he was putting us into a specific kind of grid to help his speech.

A man standing next to me fiddled with his tablet.  He complained he couldn't get an advanced item on it working.  I looked at the screen, the item he was looking at had a game controller icon.  The layout matched the page on the projected screen in front of us, some kind of app guiding this experience.  IT felt like we were in group control, no hierarchy, moving together.  I smoked a cigarette and looked at the app on my phone.  I gathered there was some kind of designated experience for thesis.  With challenges and goals to achieve.  I could not figure it out, the man with the tablet, looking at my screen told me he could not get it to work either.  I put my cigarette to the side of my chair, it was almost out.  I waved it around, not sure what to do with the still burning butt.  The man watched me.  He went to slap it from my hand, licking his fingers, but I objected.  I wetted my own fingers, to put it out myself, and pinched the flame.

We bantered.  The sharing experience portion ended, and the screen changed.  We were given different GPS coordinates and a riddle on our phones to seek out in the real world.  The answer to mine was a red crane by the harbour.

I took a bus downtown St John's.  On the bus were other people like me, and regular citizens.  Two of my people discussed how they found the brick pattern on a building soulfully satisfying.

At my destination, 8 of us trickled in and sat around the table of a man who seemed to be maybe a lawyer of some sort.  He gave us business cards, we chatted, the 8 of us, as we waited for the next challenge.  We read non-time specific ones.  One had a preamble about your variety of creative work, listing examples - writing fiction, lyrics, music, etc etc, and challenged us to combine our favourite work by another creative with the best work of our own -- to my dismay, I received lyrics as my specification.  We received a google hangouts call from Roderick and Lewis.  I was still some what confused by what was going on and whether or not this was mandatory, what I had missed.  I had been swept up in the activity and unified atmosphere without understanding why or how other people came to be here.  Lewis spoke discretely to me, about my nervousness.  I did not listen.  My eyes began to water and a tear fell down my cheek.  I wiped it away, but kept crying.  I was laughing.

Someone showed me a transcript to explain.  I was so happy in the unity.  We jumped up and went out in our bikes into the rain.  Our riddle was to find a read and white crane by the water.  It was a construction crane.  We reached it, and held our phones up to confirm the location.  Others were arriving, then leaving to the previous spots.  My phone glitched, frozen on an image of my blood shot eyes, tear strewn face.

The girl said to me, well her certainly liked you.
Yes, I said.  Because I'm so emotive.  I can't help myself.
Here I am, crying with joy.

Johnny 500 Summary

In Johnny 500, Cooper Chenning is responsible for running an escort dispatching service, called Gone by Sunrise, in Toronto.  The work environment is a flurry of activity, a team of men taking and processing orders, directing women to locations, and striving to get orders out with the greatest efficiency, so they can reach Johnny 500 before midnight - before their competing team in Vancouver.

Cooper Chenning works on the fifth floor of a building, half of which, including the kitchen and break space, has recently become shared with a Women’s Helpline.  The Helpline is run by Lynette, a woman of over 50, who has a strong dislike for Cooper, whether it is due to his personality, the treatment of their shared space, the nature of his work, or all three, we do not know.  The Women’s Helpline has a competitive bowling team, and store bowling paraphenalia in the kitchen.

The escort dispatching service’s phone number, which remains largely unused, is different from the Kid’s Helphone number by only one digit. During a particularly intense period, as the orders are rolling in, and the Johnny number rising closer and closer to their goal, Cooper’s phone rings. It is a child.  Cooper instructs him to the correct number, but the child calls back, and tells Cooper he has lost his father’s trophy, that he needs it for show and tell, and the woman at the Helpline can’t help him because it isn’t a crisis.  But he needs to win.  With this, Cooper puts his work on hold, takes down the child’s address, sneaks into the kitchen, covertly retrieves one of the Women’s Helpline’s bowling championship trophies, and rushes out the door.

Don't talk about sex // Human Machine

Audio File // Listen

Just write, just write, put the computer down and write, it’s not fucking hard.

Hands stained with nicotine juice, all fruit and froot and madcow menthol nipple top push cap chaggy jaja bottle rinsing baby twins and... are you getting married? Don’t sleep, don’t watch tv.  Write, draw. Don’t draw.  Make, don’t collect. Your photography is mundane.  Do better.  Write.

Bruised finger tips and cracked fingernails.
Purple palms.

Dread the draining battery …

Power through your crippling self doubt.  That speaks to the other useless souls who are so broke that they have to sit in a safe place in order not to die. Who do not trust the plane you sit on because, you know, you know, you hear it too.

How draining.
Stay awake. Don’t drink. Don’t smoke cigarettes. Suck on plastic metal electronic water vapor.

Don’t talk about sex.
Work.

Put plastic caps on bottle tops, so the nicotine seeps through your pores and the flavour permeates your skin.  Feel the burn on your lip when you taste a little, the tingle.
Peel and stick labels with illegable safety warnings. If on clothes, wash clothes.
Eat grease and cheap chocolate bars.
Try to convince them to buy a machine that will replace your labour. Balk at their excuses not to. Modify the business practices to suit the machine that will replace your labour. Watch them make money.  Watch them feed their children grease.  Marvel at their survival skills.

You seem like the only person with a real job.
Not a human machine.
You say, Yes, thats the illusion.

And I am tickled in the words you are using but the meaning you intend is one of
crippling self doubt.
Power through.
Pity or privileges.

Your crippling self doubt that keeps you on the system until a slip up at the bank leads to an investigation by Canada Revenue.

Meanwhile, we drink beer with the money we made as human machines, nursing our wounds.  We discuss food bank strategies.  We discuss food bank strategies, and what keeps us from eating whats available when we can. How to survive on your last dollar when you do not have three.

We repeat to one another, rice and beans, rice and beans. Protein powder and vitamin B shots. What helps you wake up in the morning? What drugs do you find or buy or acquire with well intentioned purposes, until you find you have slept for three days and have peed in all the bottles and buckets beside your bed, how did they make you feel?  Days later you are wracked with guilt for having flushed them down the toilet in a well intentioned, self preserving act.
What have I done to the environment?

And you say words to me, and I am so drunk I do not believe the words I am hearing are the words you are saying.  And I hope the look I am maintaining is one of interest, not one of shock or horror or pure disbelief.  When I reflect on those words I am not convinced they were more than a dream.

And here I am,
trying to write about
work and the sex industry
the impact of the sex industry
and work.

And I feel I am dancing around the subjects, saying but not saying.  Looking but not looking.  Seeing the stars out of the corner of my eye, but not in direct view. The words I am putting on the page are so personal and obscure and esoteric that not even my closest friends nor the people involved will be able to understand.

It is this moment,
because of these moments,
that I throw up my arms
and I draw my vagina
as a hole on my face.
And these moments,
that I write and describe
in vulgar detail
the very same.

What kind of meaning is in that,
other than crippling self doubt?

rough // what the fuck am i doing with my life

If they tipped me, I bared whatever they desired. My breasts that jiggled and wiggled as I fondled them, and twisted my nipples.  I knew that I was turning them on, and the knowledge of them watching me strengthened the sensations that coursed.

After setting up my tripod and camera in the bathroom, I started taking off my clothes. I shut my eyes and rubbed my nipples. I tried not to look too sad or lost or like I had a very fat chin. I tried not to spend too much time in my head, so I could feel the sensation in my nipples as it tingled down and into my cunt. But it didn’t. It stopped in my gut, a heavy weight.
When I received the right amount of tips, I leaned back, and spread my thick thighs to reveal a delicate, curly blonde bush that I stroked and twirled between my fingers. I spread my lips — deep pink, plump folds – to reveal the little gem that was my clit. I touched it lightly, and held it between my index and middle fingers, wiggling and pressing on my pelvis, a gentle pleasure that would make me bite my lip and sigh as I stared into the camera — at them.

“Ohh my,” they said. “Mmm.”
“Beautiful goddess.”

I readjusted the camera, trying to find a suitable angle for the movement I was about make. There was no way of knowing. I lowered myself into the mustard bath tub, which I thought of as avocado, but it was more yellow than green. Any bath tub colour other than white is an atrocity.

I thought of the fleshy rolls and the folds of my body, and imagined how they must look surrounded by mustard yellow in the dark bathroom, with the walls and the ceiling painted dark brown, like taking a shit in a cave made of packed dirt.

“I would like to know what dirty thoughts she’s thinking,” they said.

One finger, then two, slipped deep inside.  Pressed the palm of my hand against my clit. As I felt the pressure within the wet, velvety folds, the hair all over my body stood on end.

I was in the bathtub because I squirt, to contain the mess I make. Mostly, that was my location of choice, with feet up against the wall, pounding as liquid dripped and dribbled and gushed and shot into a trail to the drain. Liquid that got on my feet, that lefts dark dirty smudges on the bathroom floor from the filth that lived on my soles.
Hooked my fingers and pressed against the wall of my pussy.  The pressure was like a pleasure jolt, a wave within my body that grew in intensity as I pressed with more frequency. I could feel goose bumps on my cheeks as my pussy tightened around my fingers.  In the back of my mind, the thought of them watching me enjoy myself, and how much they would have love to be enjoying me too. I imagined what it would feel like for them, their own fingers, thicker and less delicate than mine, if they were in place of my own hand. How eager they would have been to rub their cocks along my slit, teasing until I begged to feel them inside.

A pang of guilt or shame or disbelief at the disconnect between their fantasy and my reality rang deep in my gut. Like there was something wrong with me for not thinking of the men and the cocks and how my pussy felt clenching around my fingers, and the 200 men that were watching with their dicks in hands as I hated myself in the bath tub.
My toy of choice was a pink glass dildo. It was hard and smooth, with gentle curves that hit just the right spots, no matter the angle. I rubbed the round, hard head against my clit, around my clit, before slipping it in. I took it deep, slowly, feeling every inch of the cool glass as it moved inside me. I slid it out, paused, felt the sensation of the warm walls coming together again. Each time I pushed it in, and pulled it out, I paused, resisting the temptation to fuck myself hard and fast, intentionally denying my pleasure, my orgasm, so I could feel each individual stroke, savoring it.

I was dehydrated, so I couldn’t squirt. It felt good, but I wanted to squirt. When I squirted, it felt better. There is something satisfying about liquid confirmation shooting from your cunt. But when you try to force it, it hurts. Rubbing your clit more. Pounding harder, deeper, hitting that magic A-spot, so it makes liquid build up in that mysterious pouch that may or may not be your bladder.
Unable to resist any longer, my fingers pressed against my clit. Hard, roughly rubbing. I let out a desperate, pleading moan. I could feel the pressure building. I did want it, but I didn’t want it. I knew what came next. I rubbed my clit faster, and ohh… liquid gushed out of my pussy, slow at first, as I instinctively tried to hold it in. But I couldn’t stand it any more, and the flood gates opened. Juices came squirting out of my pussy, puddling underneath me, landing on my thighs, my calves, my feet. By some miracle of physics, drops land on my chest, and my lips. It tasted sweet and salty.

When you are dehydrated, there is no liquid to build up.
Fucking myself and rubbing my clit, I came over and over again. As I gushed, the dildo slid easier, and I fucked myself harder.

Sensations in the form of colours, deep oranges, bright yellows, vibrant pinks, exploded from deep inside me, spreading in unpredictable patterns to the rest of my body. My free hand moved down my thigh and clutched the flesh, trying to find something to grip that would contain my pleasure.

To them, my frustration looked like an orgasm. 

I could have cried.
The thought of them watching me was no longer in my mind. There was nothing in my mind. My mind was empty. I was nothing but my body and the pleasure coursing through it, racked by orgasm after orgasm.I brought my fingers to my mouth, spreading them so I could see how my juices suspended between them, before slipping it into my mouth. I couldn’t resist my own sweet taste, licking each finger individually, making sure I got every last morsel. I rubbed my tongue against the roof of my mouth, savouring the taste of myself.
I breathed deep. I idly licked my fingers. The liquid was bitter, yellow. It rang on the tip of my tongue, and in the back of my mouth between my molars. It was thin on the roof of my mouth, and vaguely metallic on my lips.
It tasted exactly like diluted urine.
“Mmm I wish I knew how sweet that tasted,” they said.
I drank water from the faucet.
I wiped myself down with a wet wash cloth.
“Mmmmmm, oh yes.”

As I leaned forward, the folds and the rolls moved with me. They contracted and expanded. I dribbled water down my side, watched it flow into crevices and over mounds. My body was no longer my body. I no longer hated it. It was a landscape. A water wonderland. A puddle I played in, in the gutter after the spring thaw, when I was young. I built obstacles out of twigs on my flesh. I obstructed the water’s path with the sole of a rubber boot. I raced coloured toothpicks in the current under ledges of dirty ice.
When I was ready, I sat up, and watched their comments as they scrolled across my screen. I licked the juices off my fingers, more diluted, more mellow than they were before.  I hid my face in my hands smiling, bashful.

“You have the most perfect body on this site,” they said.
“Do you sell your panties?”

Cultural Theory Reddit Post RE: Gail Dines + Shelley Lubben

I wish reddit had a thing that saved posts in case you accidentally close a tab, oh well.  This will probably be more coherent than what I had originally written.

I came across that tumblr post months ago, when I first started camming. I actually even shared it on my cam tumblr page -- thanks for sharing it, I would have had to comb back through my posts to find it again. Portions of it are obviously dramatized, but I’m sure there is some truth in it.  Any industry can be horrible to work in, especially something so physically demanding. The post helped shape some of the decisions I have made regarding what I am and am not comfortable with doing, and whether or not I want to risk losing customers for being outspoken and encouraging critical thinking about porn and how you get sexual satisfaction.  I actually think I make more money for it / it makes cam work significantly less exhausting.  But camming is different than porn, it is based significantly more on your individual personality.

The post cites Gail Dines.  The other day I watched a couple of her lectures, after seeing her name in an academic paper on what it's like to be a female porn scholar -- [How Did You Get Into This?: Notes from a Female Porn Scholar by Laura Helen Marks](http://media.wix.com/ugd/d96dce_d7126844eedb449aadb4c47126a8adf2.pdf).  Her anti-porn stance seems to be more of a venue to discuss anti-capitalist sentiments.  I like how Melrose Gia Grant says she is anti-sex work, but pro-sex worker rights.  At the heart of it, I feel much of the work we have to do to live and eat and have shelter over our heads is explotation, and that all explotation should be fought against.  So, in some ways I agree with Gail Dines, and I think the arguments she makes are valuable, but she does not seem to have concern for the actual experience of sex workers and exploring what sex workers want / need.  Bringing down porn will not bring down capitalism and the patriarchy.

It also cites Shelley Lubben.  I imagine this is where the most extraordinary material in the post comes from.  I read two posts on the site -- one that disregarded the ability of those who work in the porn industry to make their own decisions as they are too “damaged” to take responsibility for themselves, and another that was written by a girl who was “saved” by Shelley Lubben after a history of abuse lead her to consider working in the porn industry.  But nope -- Shelley swooped in just in time!  At the end of the post is a link encouraging you to donate to the Pink Cross Foundation, a “charity” that saves people from the porn industry.  Googling [“Pink Cross Foundation criticism”](https://www.google.ca/search?q=pink+cross+foundation+criticism&oq=pink+cross+foundation+criticism&aqs=chrome..69i57.4639j0j4&sourceid=chrome&es_sm=119&ie=UTF-8) reveals that it is likely that it is more of a cultish cash grab thriving on dramatization than a charity (surprise). Definitely a part of the rescue industry, and reminded me of Magdalen Laundries -- workhouses / cites of slavery for “fallen women”, because slavery is better than prostitution (right?).

[Sex at the Margins: Migration, Labour Markets and the Rescue Industry](http://www.amazon.ca/Sex-Margins-Migration-Markets-Industry/dp/1842778609) by Laura Maria Agustin will probably be another good resource for me, I think I’ll pick it up when I get a bit of extra cash.  Reviews say it has good data.

Although I am expressing criticisms of the tumblr post, all of this is very interesting and helpful and the more I read and link things together, the more possible areas of exploration I find.  It’s definitely helping me hone in on what areas of sex work I find interesting + feel I can create critical work on.

It is so interesting that such a huge, profitable industry is has such convoluted data.