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Escorts in Florencia Caqueta

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I started whoring on the street ten years ago when I was in college. I was in the last semesters of my degree and it had been a short time since I became independent from my parents. With little money in her purse and commitments to pay, increasingly confused, she did not know how to continue paying for transportation, food, and rent.

One day trying to forget my financial difficulties, I met Juana, a transgender girl in a bar in the Zona Rosa in Florence. This time she paid the entire bill: the drinks, the food, and even breakfast at the sunrise. I didn't believe her. How did Juana, with all the contradictions and discrepancies that arise from being a transsexual woman, have enough money to live well?

 

When we started talking, she was reluctant to declare what she worked for, she came up with stories and said she was an aide-de-camp and a model, but after a couple of hours and a few good drinks she admitted it: she was a sex worker or rather a whore. From a very young age I always felt a certain curiosity about those women who transformed and camouflaged themselves in the lights of the city with bright, extravagant dresses and shoes with very high platforms that only they could master.

 

After that chance meeting my life became another, that is, the change was radical. I told Juana the economic problems I was going through and at once she looked at me from head to toe and with a scrutinizing look she looked into my eyes and she told me "you have potential". A few days later, we met Juana and she took me to the area where she worked and she gave me what they call “the good luck kick” like Jorge Barón. Juana taught me some secrets to keep in mind, to be careful with this one, to be careful with the other, to pay attention to her faces, but no more. At night I began to heel in the streets, as they say vulgarly, in the mornings I slept a little and in the afternoons I attended my classes at the university. My life became filled with responsibilities, and like millions of impoverished people in this country, I had to clench my heart because defecting was not an option.

 

Those were really difficult times, not only because of the implications of looking for them on the street. The city is an asphalt jungle: police harassment, extortion, aggressive people and the occasional violent client; however, the most complicated and hard thing was the invariable shudder of conscience, the guilt did not take away from thinking that I lived doing something that I had to consider ashamed of.

 

Today I know that this cowardice, this shame for being a sex worker or rather a prostitute or whore, which is better to say without euphemisms, was nothing more than the stain that is put on whores for doing the greatest act of justice: charging for fucking, that's something that society imposes as an obligation on us prostitutes.

 

The company of other whores made me able to survive all these years, Yamila, Brissia and Yadhira I'm sure of that, and of course, Juana, they not only became my co-workers, they almost became sisters.

 

Every time we feel attacked in the street, the first to jump are other whores, here nobody else defends you, when we had our birthdays we celebrated with a tequila and if someone had a problem, we made a cow to cover the expenses.

Solidarity I began to meet in the streets with other female sex workers. Here I learned the importance of having support networks among women. We never live with options to exercise our rights, we learned that the hard way, because on the street, surviving is the most important thing.

In order to recognize myself as a sex worker, I had to go through a long process, years in which I suffered the criminalization of my work, the injustices, the null labor rights, but above all the brand and the stigma of calling us whores in the double society. moral.

 

It hurts me a lot not being able to openly tell my family what I do, it hurts to admit with shame and shame that I can't prove income to be able to rent a decent house, it hurts to have to tell lies to doctors about our sexual life in order to access the EPS. Illegality and clandestinity sting the soul and clearly impact our lives.

 

My recollections and memories have open wounds, because for me and like those of many street companions, cabineras, sexcamers, the sores do not precisely come from our work itself, but from the context of violence and stigma that exists outside.

 

Now I can see many signs that, based on abolitionism, they deny the recognition of labor rights. Attitudes that from the privilege of classes request to reduce the working capacity of whores.

These abolitionisms that from their beneficial morality believe that whores "sell the body", and the rest of the popular class workers who work for a minimum do not. As Georgina Orellana would say: "if for every time a parishioner who He hires my services, he acquired my body, with all this time as a whore I wouldn't even have my tits left, and here I am, alive and kicking and also fucking. Here I will continue, shining, with my whore on my forehead if they want it, but with pride and a lot of decorum ".

 

And it is that whores have always wanted to protect us, sending to hell the complications inherent in sex work. He doesn't understand that we whores collectivize our knowledge, organize ourselves, create self-care and defense skills. We the hell do not need to be rescued, what we need are decent work environments without hiding or criminalization.

 

Yamila, la Brissia, Yadhira and Juana, we whores continue to intertwine our pride from the streets, we continue to walk with our convenient conventions of foxiness, I invented that term to properly assume it as a "solidarity" between whores, those who explore our disagreements and Sufferings like a boost to heal between us and, by the way, an engine to change the world in which we have had to live. Because sex work is work even if it's done lying down.

Disrupt the label of 'whore', remove the patriarchal content “'bad' women, women of a bad life, without their own desires, 'objects' at the service of male sexual desires” and claim the capacity for self-affirmation, independence and the autonomy that sex workers have, is an act of feminist protest of the first order”, asserted Cristina Gardeazabal at the round table called “We bad women”.

 

 

The purpose and the glimpse

Our objective was to accompany Diana, a political leader of the LGBTI community in the city, on a tour that would allow us to tune our senses and see, hear, smell, feel the neighborhood and its inhabitants.

 

When I arrived, I felt somewhat out of place, I didn't know exactly what I had to do. Very at 9:00 o'clock in the morning of any day, a festive atmosphere was felt, like the preparations for a festival. I can't imagine what a late Friday night would be like in this place.

 

The landscape of the neighborhood was just what I expected: the normal commerce of any neighborhood, accompanied by homelessness and eager early whores. When I arrived, I saw everything naturally, what I didn't realize at that initial moment was that my work had to be oriented right there, in the gaze.

 

My first opinion was, surely, the same as that of many of you when seeing a black woman of 1.90 meters in height, black hair with red sparks tied up in a high bun, she was wearing a light sweatshirt, a low-cut camisole and she was wearing a coat huge that practically dragged him. Her thick voice revealed her gender, but her vocabulary backed up her gender. A masculine woman who knew all the ins and outs of the neighborhood inside out and knew them like the back of her hand.

We started our way around the place, learning her story and looking for Diana's words that were lost in the noise of the cars and street vendors. I didn't like the way they looked at us, we were nosy, like tourists, it was the typical picture of the gringo who sees homelessness as a show. That's how I felt, so I decided to change shore and see the group from afar. It was unquestionable, the cars honked at us, the people from the houses looked out and the business hid. In order to truly see the neighborhood, it was unavoidable to get away from the others, but that created fear, you never knew what ground you were treading on. Keeping an eye on the group from the other side allowed me to see how they were watching us, the people from the neighborhood were curious, some looked a bit serious and a few others were really annoying.

 

The Santafé neighborhood is not a tourist place, there is no doubt about that. Even apart from the group, I was undoubtedly part of them: my boy scout mode was giving me away. However, the people in the shops saw me as a potential client, which allowed me to be calmer, I think.

 

But the look made sense when we got to the places where heterosexual prostitution took place. However, I had seen more than one naked torsided male woman, but seeing many half-naked girls, offering their services, staring at me firmly and urging me to accompany them, my perception of the place changed.

 

On one side, protecting myself from the sun, I saw myself surrounded by men, who were all looking for the same thing. It was authorized to look at half-naked women. Although I allowed it, it also allowed me to get excited and even speculate on what the cost for his services would be. Thinking about it was pretty remote at first, until they got this close. Small sizes, big tits, round asses and others not so much, and sensual looks.

 

Without requisition, a video camera in a tolerance zone is the best to repel any interference. As soon as they saw the camera and the group began to move, none of them stayed, all they hide. No one was embarrassed, they did it simply out of caution, in the end they saw us as strangers, not as clients. But beyond, in the penumbra of the room, a flirtatious look instigated me, and I confessed that I liked the game, it excited me, I felt spellbound. Although many of them weren't even pretty, the mischief in their gazes mesmerized me.

 

Melancholically, we didn't go back down that block. But then I realized that my commitment had just begun: I no longer felt like an intruder with a university card, I felt like any other client, and my stiffness in my lower parts confirmed it. If it was about feeling, at the time, it was on that block that I started my ethnography.

 

The day was prospering and the girls went out in groups to work. They lived half-naked, some underwear or mesh played with their bodies, without actually covering anything. The parallel was inescapable, what an ass these old women had! It was even better than the women's. But no, you're not allowed to look, I don't allow myself to, not here, not to be prompted, no, not even to think about it, right?

 

A female worthy of a Manga movie approached us, well... the men in the group, well... me. A small waist, beautifully worked; rounded breasts, of those that must be cheap; a superlatively made butt; grand, restless eyes, a faint but seductive smile, and a voice…a voice any podcast star would crave. If it weren't for her voice, she would perfectly walk the catwalk as a model, she would pass for the woman of many dreams.

 

What a beautiful man!

No, wait, I'm supposed to be a boy and I shouldn't look at a man's ass, ever, no matter how pretty she is, right?

 

I hid myself among the group, panicking to think that I professed any attraction to this guy. I started to hide my gaze. That was the problem: my gaze. So far I see it. My interest in seeing how we were noticed, my interest in looking like a client and waiting for a suggestive look, was just an interest in showing where my gaze was going? What do I allow myself to look at? And, therefore, what do I allow myself to wish for? As if it were one who examined it.

 

Do I look freely, or are my obfuscations and manias the ones that establish my gaze? What are the terms of our homophobia? I didn't know I was homophobic, but the image of seeing an attractive woman forced by fate to be born male shattered any clarity I had on the subject.

 

It is my look that must be adjusted or, at least, put to the test. And already in the middle of the storm, or rather already entered into expenses, well, let's look. A colleague from the group offered to do a photographic study for one of them, she accepted: she was approximately 1.85 meters tall, brunette, small waist, almost no tits, and an ass that stood out from the group. "How jealous of that old woman's ass!" said one of the girls in the group. And I agreed. He was stunned to see the detail of male skin on a female organism. Her look changed from one moment to the next, it mutated: the attraction towards the camera, the seduction towards me, the annoyance of not being able to look wanting to do so, generated by my curiosity, the desire to be a potential customer.

 

And I, I did not exist, there was my contemplation, alone. Ok, but no, not as lonely as I would think, the workers, spontaneous, the mechanics and passersby of the place, looked at them with more desire than I would have guessed. There was no sarcasm or jokes for looking at a masculine woman, there was only abundant desire, the kind that one human being notices for another, regardless of her sex.

 

The bandage that makes it most impossible to see is the one that is used to prejudices, full of fear, hesitation, discomfort... even certainties: if you are already aware, you don't have to see anything, because you are looking for nothing. You are unlikely to see when your eyes are closed; and opening them hurts, pricks the conscience. Slitting one's eyes to see the detail of a man's skin with the same desire with which one observes a woman, composes an ailment in her personal novel, recalls childhood taunts, fuels fears about who you are.

 

We only notice what our fears allow us to see. We have been so effective in protecting our equanimity that we have reached the point of denying ourselves the ability to see the world. We hide in our protective bubble and from there we disown those who drench themselves in sweat, blood and shit, convinced that we have certainties that they don't; when in reality, we are denying ourselves the possibility of seeing beyond our tubes.

 

I went to the neighborhood of Santafé to take a look, it was necessary to face my fears and my prejudices to reveal that my gaze has walls and parapets, and I know that I will not be able to reveal anything, unless I destroy the bandage of my senses.