I used to be a Sex Worker

When I say,
I am a poet,
and here is a poem of mine,
a few will pause,
listen to a line or two,
ponder a bit and if I am
fortunate, might
say how they feel,
or offer some opinion.

When I say,
I used to be a Sex Worker,
suddenly here they all come,
out of the woodwork, the
wainscot the banisters,
clanging their accolades and
banging their hearts:

“Oh what a tragedy!
Oh how your bravery
strikes to the souls of us,
(and a few other parts)."

Sex sells.
Pretty smooth and easy too.
I guess they were right.

I knew it of course,
you think splits and spins
in thongs and heels were
how my dancing found its feet?

(They were),
but that’s not really
why I got into it,
you know?

Sex pays.

I used to be a Sex Worker.
Now I’m a poet.
I write poetry,
only sometimes about sex work,
and even more rarely,
about sex.

I suppose for some a stack of
twenties has the potential for
eroticism,
but in my experience,
not when they’re
stuffed up your bra,
(sequinned or otherwise),
so they won’t fall out
when you flip.

I used to be able to
size up wallets through
solid suit-coats.
No psychic trickery:
how slick the seams,
how smooth the scars,
how posh the polish.

Teeth say a lot about
childhood security.
The straighter, the whiter,
the better,
(cause those boys don’t know
the value of a dollar).

I used to be a Sex Worker and
I’m here to tell you:
That dancer’s not in love with you.
That call-girl’s got your number.
If you want joy and enjoyment,
fun and flirtation,
and affection
(if you’re good),
then bring your money
to the stage.

If you want love,
you’re going to have to get
yourself a personality,
and the vendors for those
don’t take cash.

You’re going to have to find yourself
some poetry, son.

I’m a poet.
I write poetry.
I write poetry about sex work sometimes,
I write occasional poems about
sex. I work
hard for the
no money,
no tips, or tricks, or trades,
because poetry
is not about
what you get.

Poetry is like sex,
the real, skin-to-soul kind.
Poetry is like a
wild girl climbing a pole and
flipping
untethered
to the ground.
Poetry is like the way
words find their way into our
intimate centers,
our deep, dark stickiness,
our wells of feeling.

Poetry and stripping share
something in common:

They are the opening up,
like books unfolding,
flipping pages, legs,
the uncovering,
the turning
inside out
of ourselves,
shake us and see
what falls.

If you give us something
of value to you,
gold,
gratitude,
grace,
we will show you
some magic
for just
a little while.

-Vayl L Larkin 10/2025