Lana Del Rey and the Whorearchy
This is not for the youth.
Content Advisory: Lots of hot-hot-hot pics in the essay. It’s not an ad. It’s behind the scenes.
“What you don’t know and why you don’t know it are information, too.”
Klinkenborg, (2013).
Hypnosis
Content advisory: brief details of child ab-se.
Her vocal range caresses my deranged heart as my best friend and I inch closer to the stage, throwing elbows in the process. Despite the urge to melt into a puddle of yearning on the sticky floor, with Annie’s hand in mine we keep ducking and pushing forward. Two Warped Tour veterans1 with a choice: born for this, or Born to Die?
So it’s with a perfect mixture of unmistakable confidence and sheer will that we shove our bodies between hoards of brutal Brandy Melville adorned glitter queens. Eyes never shifting from our internet icon; stay centered on the direction you want to move. Don’t look at the people who want to destroy you!
“I heard you like the bad girls. Honey, is that true?”
Video Games, Lana Del Rey
The mission takes time and to everyone’s horror, she announces the upcoming end. Just a few songs left, but only four or five lines of people separating us from standing right beneath her feet. Annie glances down at me for confirmation and I nod with conviction; it seems that we’re as close as the fiercest of fans will allow. Determined and running out of sugar-fueled audacity, we act!
Annie bows, reaching their hands to tear the fabric off my legs (romper be damned) like the tough service butch they’ve always been.2 A quick inhale before thrusting my right arm forward3 and our wide eyes trail my offering in awe. Ripped lace scanties float over heads and fall towards the altar before they— my God.
“It’s better than I ever even knew.”
Video Games, Lana Del Rey
She f-cking catches them. She closes her manicured fist around my panties. Lana Del Rey holds my underwear tightly in her palm as she smiles down at us, still singing.
This isn’t fan fiction. DO YOU HEAR ME? It’s a f-cking Las Vegas miracle.
Pause for one second! Quick intermission for a qualifying confession: 28-year-old Alice is a recover(ed/ing) stan of LDR. My fully developed prefrontal cortex prevents me from admiring her without steaming heaps of embarrassment burying me. I can’t, I won’t— knowing what we know!
Reason A. Reason B. Reason C. There is more but I’ll leave the celebrity sin-seeking to you, if you so desire.
This story, however, does serve a higher purpose.
Return with me to the surreal April of 2014…
As far as teen Alice knows, my life peaks in this very moment! How to go on? How to stop time so we’re forever gazing into each others eyes? What’s an 18-year-old groupie4 to do?
And the summers trapped at home, leading up to it…
2012: one otherwise unremarkable SoCal afternoon, my endless scrolling is interrupted by an indie angel. I call Annie immediately to stress the importance of this miracle, to share in our witnessing. There’s no going back.
Lana, at a point in time, is a better mother to me than the biological. That’s not a lofty goal; I was born unto my first/final boss. But Lana! Oh, Lana. She indoctrinates my tender, hipster mind with the soft filters of Video Games. We trade adolescent adoration for something like acceptance. Redemption.
“He doesn’t mind I have a flat, broke-down life. In fact, he says he thinks it’s what he might like about me. Admires me, the way I roll like a rolling stone.”
Off to the Races, Lana Del Rey
Wired headphones line the inside of my sweater sleeve. With my hand positioned against my head just right, Lana croons away uninterrupted. She helps this undiagnosed autistic girl bear public-school-florescent-lighting. I dissociate from my horror show of a life into the despairing romance of Lana’s “love” stories.
Meanwhile, my brain faithfully compartmentalizes scenes from the dinner table, the morning drive to school. Brain busy— my working memory has no chance of withholding the periodic table or historical affairs at this point. No chance. As I write now, years into trauma therapy, I hardly remember these days.
A blessing? A curse? Yes, and!
“Been trying hard not to get into trouble but I, I’ve got a war in my mind… It’s all I’ve got to keep myself sane baby, so I just ride.”
Ride, Lana Del Rey
Instead of algebra, I learn that my affinity for violence (inherited) and budding insanity (unavoidable) contain no necessary influence on my inherent value. Neither does my uninhibited impulse to avenge my brainwashed mind (Evangelical/Mormon combo move) through chaotic and arguably self-injurious s-xual activity. Whether it happens in a chatroom, the shadows, or behind the Chase bank— with determination, I might still find love. I am still lovable.
Wrecked by cyclical, unpredictable abandonment in the undertow of Mom and her husband’s cruelty— she swears I earn it, promises me they have no choice— Lana stays with me. My high school sweetheart, a boy who saved my life, loses his dad in a sudden accident. He finds shelter in a habit that transforms an act of (naïve) suburban bravery into a monster; it stalks him for years. Lana holds me when he’s there, when he returns, when he’s gone.5
“You went out every night and baby, that’s alright. I told you that no matter what you did, I’d be by your side. Cause I’m a ride or die whether you fail or fly… well shit, at least you tried.”
Blue Jeans, Lana Del Rey
Lana promises a ruthlessly self-loathing Alice that crazy girls find reasons to live. Crazy girls experience love… even post-5150. Even if it means that we take whatever we can get.
Had to include the Vegas story and a bit of context about my attachment to this awful woman and her music. She’s no longer my mother or my god. Closer to an old friend I don’t trust anymore. Nothing negates that she, for a long time, kept me afloat.
Enough about my historical dependence on Miss Elizabeth Grant! Next in line, what you came for: wh-re shit. (Sorry for the censoring. We deserve a free internet.)
Civilians
I’m not the only autistic using Genius.com to decode underlying meaning in music, right? I’m just barely aware enough to see that many entries, by the people for the people, don’t encapsulate the message. But it’s fun and sometimes context comes up that resonates, true or not.
Clever, the way she builds upon her saga of sodapop inspired titles: Diet Mountain Dew, Cola, A&W. A&W stands for American Wh-re.
Curious about interpretations of LDR’s newest salacious beat, I trudge to the previously mentioned hellscape. To a professional hot girl such as myself, the message is crystal. I’m half-excited by the possibilities, half-resigned to expectations.
“I say I live in Rosemead. Really, I’m at the Ramada. It doesn’t really matter… It’s not about finding someone to love me anymore.”
A&W, Lana del Rey
She lives in the LA suburb “Rosemead” but actually stays at the hotel where she takes in-calls— that translates to a session where a client comes to your location for services, rather than meeting at his hotel or in his car, etc. It’s “not about finding someone to love [her] anymore”— it’s about getting her bag.
“It doesn’t really matter” because it’s a role and she doesn’t need to divulge history in order to do her job. SW requires workers to fabricate elaborate characters that both entertain (amuse, endear) our clients and stir up lasting desire. Last thing a working girl needs is a man becoming hyperfixated on her while in possession of personal information. Being opaque is a trusted and true defense strategy.
It’s not lying. It’s in the job description.
If a John (client) wanted honesty, he’d be at home with his wife. Transparency, especially about the nature of exchange, is not a lucrative business strategy. I learned this the tedious way; baby-SW Alice has no mystery. Though the client won’t admit it, it turns out that he wants a sensationalized, low-key hypersexual vixen who indulges his fantasy of being desired.
And then he wants to return to his wife.
See, a SW is a pricey, one-trick pony6: salespeople distributing pleasure and entertainment. Zero chance of free services! In contrast, after the initial investment (time and a ring) a wife produces all the labor that’s expected of her: childcare, cleaning, therapy, cheerleader, secretary, project manager, entertainer, interior designer, mediator, coach… you name it, she does it.
Even s-x is free of charge.7
To the wives who protest and insist SW is the reason for their husbands disloyalty: I am sorry for his betrayal, ma’am. At the same time, please understand— to you we made no vows. His temptation and desire are his own to carry. It is his choice to treat you one way or another.
It’s not that we don’t feel for you… but this is work. We don’t possess responsibility to other people’s marriages any more than some salesperson at Best Buy possesses the same responsibility when selling a huge surround sound system. A salesperson doesn’t call the customer’s wife to ensure the decision aligns with the union’s financial priorities. That would be wildly inappropriate.
It’s not the duty of a salesperson to keep a stranger’s sacred promises. Is it different when the betrayal is physical instead of financial? I don’t think so.
Women deserve loyalty. At the same time, what a wife tolerates within a shared eternal bond is up to her own discretion. Take care of yourselves.
“Sex addict. What a f-cking joke,” I move to speak to my reflection that’s now contorted by irritation. For a moment, I feel annoyed at myself for my surprise, for my annoyance. Did I expect an accurate representation of SWs on this stupid GD website?
hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have— but i have it.
I admit that plenty of civilian women, particularly Gen-Z, use “wh-re” as a self-descriptor in hopes of “reclaiming” an accusatory and historically reputation-ruining slur. All women, at least all the women I’ve met, exist with some level of awareness that a misstep in propriety may likely cause someone to damn them with a scarlet letter.
I offer a second criticism of my perspective: it’s not public information whether or not LDR engaged in SW during her low-income days. Yet I also refuse to speculate. Most SWs of the past and present are not “out” and I’m not interested in contributing to pressuring anyone into a high-risk exposure. It leaves a bitter taste in my sl-t mouth remembering how people, SWs and civilians alike, cornered FKA Twigs and forced her to confess her background as a dancer.
Lana does, however, often portray and/or align herself with SWs in music and art: Paradise the movie, Carmen, Ride8.
So what’s with the general disregard of the deeper narrative? Is LDR too successful, too glamourous to be singing about such things? The sister-kisser..? (content advisory: exactly what it sounds like.) Please.
This next tidbit may shock you, Dear Reader, but perhaps that’s why you’re here. Gotta give my people what they want. Lean in and listen closely, then; make it good for me, too.
Regarding my own clientele, particularly those possessing some element of wealth? They loathe when I refer to myself as a wh-re. They despise it.
I elaborate my suspicions as to why, but first… now that I’ve given you something peculiar to suck on, please answer my question:
Are you surprised?
A complementary essay called In Defense of Johns takes this much further (release TBD), so I’ll be brief.
Reasons Johns hate when I call myself a wh-re:
often, my clients lean into the belief that my performance is in pursuit of fun: only fun. In the fantasy for which they pay, my role is an effortlessly aroused, bratty princess who sincerely needs their attention if I have any chance of… completing my mission. Naturally, this means that $$$ given is perceived as a freely offered bonus; clients are simply benevolent friends investing in my happiness because they care.
In reality, Johns don’t want to be perceived as Johns: by me, by their wives, by themselves, by each other. So I can’t be a wh-re.9I have the privilege of formal education and it makes people treat me differently. The majority of my clients visit seeking conversation and connection rather than standard services— it’s like we’re dating, isn’t it?10 It’s like we’re two ordinary civilians… rather than a salesperson and customer interacting on a famous adult-streaming site.
I dress “professionally” in advertisements and streams, building on the previously mentioned fantasy that I’m (an uncontrollably h-rny, exhibitionistic) civilian.
racism.
classism.
the whorearchy, explained further below.
Before we proceed to the primary message of this essay, consider…
This Empire is, at its foundation, a Puritan nation. We ALL inherit a fundamental shared belief11 that SWs can not, should not be unabashed about our work. Most people agree it’s a timeless industry that will never truly go away but simultaneously, SWs should hide in the shadows and be ashamed. Who does that serve, that the women who know men would pay for cat are outcasted from society? You?
What we do with the beliefs we inherit is both an individual and collective responsibility.
Aren’t we raised to believe that f-cking for free— sorry, I mean for LOVE— is the virtuous path? F-cking for a baby. F-cking for a ring. F-cking to motivate your unenthused John— sorry— husband to renovate the kitchen? Not f-cking for MONEY. My god! To even speak of the matter… how beneath a decent, honorable, self-respecting woman!
Isn’t that the story?
I invite you to meditate on this. Who does it benefit, the narrative that “good women” only have s-x for love? And who do we depend on to give us that love? The kind that unbinds us from an otherwise inescapable sin.
Temptation towards damnation trapped right between our thighs.
Whorearchy
The culture of domination centers competition as a foundational motivation of our unconscious behavior. The mindset spreads through competitive systems of hierarchy and supremacy: prime examples being colonialism and capitalism. They call it social Darwinism; I call it a paradigm burden12 . Most of us didn’t choose this container of existence. Regardless, the pattern is prevalent in our thinking.
We want to feel safer than the rest so we position ourselves as better. If people see us as better than others, they seek proximity. In turn this proximity strengthens networks of support and care. It does make us more safe, for the moment, but not as deeply as we could be. Still, every uncritical person wants to befriend the CEO, salivating in pursuit of potential social levity.
The whorearchy is the constructed social hierarchy within the world of SW.
Full service SWs (FSSW) stand as the most street-savvy, hard-working, and vulnerable population within SW as a whole. It’s dog sh-t that civilians and SWs alike hold ruthless disdain for FSSW. This is because “the whorearchy is arranged according to intimacy of contact with clients and police. The closer to both you are, the closer you are to the bottom.” According to the logic within our inherited system of Dominance, face-to-face engagement in exchange for money or material is the worst thing a woman can do… unless they’re sugar babies. More on that later.
In this context, let’s consider an imperfect representation of the whorearchy: there are (extremely valuable, worthy and human) street-workers at the bottom level of public respectability. God bless them and keep them (and decriminalize SW now!). Above them are SWs in massage parlors or bathhouses, escorts who pick and choose their clientele online, and maybe dancers at a dive where some offer “tricks”. Next on the constructed hierarchy stand dancers working at gentlemen’s clubs, alternative bars like Devil’s Point in Portland, OR, p*rn stars, and then bikini baristas (who make whipped ice coffee, perhaps “gifting” a flash to the generous regular on occasion).
Special category for professional dominatrixes with lavish dungeons— they may rarely touch a client but if they do, the power is clearly delineated. She’s a peculiar figure of wonder and awe.
Just above dominatrixes, at the peak of stratified S-worker respectability, we find phone operators, internet models, and camgirls (that’s me). Except…
I’m not sure where to place sugar babies. People involved in sugaring sell s-x with a level of plausible deniability. For one, on the extremely rare occasion, someone in the sugar bowl may land a John who doesn’t want physical affection as much as a beautiful woman who’s willing to be seen in public with him. Extremely rare, despite civilians believing this is standard practice.
A second aspect tinging the mystique of sugar babies is the visibility of it all. Encountering a wealthy (typically older) man with a beautiful woman by his side can happen outside of a venue associated with the s-x trade. You might meet them at a yacht party; is that what rich people do? This wealthy, upstanding gentleman isn’t a John— he’s a PROVIDER. If he has the overflow of finances, it’s only natural that he celebrates his darling partner by lavishing her with gifts and relieving the stress of student loans.
The veil between SW and civilian partnership comes to its thinnest when sugar babies become wives. The presence of wealth severs our perception from the truth of the matter; who’s to say they’re not in love?! His generosity “keeps her in divine feminine energy” so she’s free to submit (WORK) to her “divine masculine.”
Violence
Content advisory: mentions of assault, m-rder, racism, and police violence below.
SWs at the height of the pyramid are not more valuable or worthy of safety and respect than any of us, but we’re granted much more acceptance and thereby, protection. We don’t touch anyone but ourselves and we don’t regularly interact with the police.
Sure, it can be difficult to keep a bank account, find a place that will rent to us, or secure a romantic partner who isn’t trying to interrupt our business. That’s true for all SWs. We, however, get the gold star of respectability in comparison to the rest of our beautiful comrades. It’s b-llshit. All of us deserve respect, care, and protection.
At the top, we’re less likely to be m-rdered while working. Stalking happens and VPNs are a wise investment, yes. However, when a John gets aggravated that I won’t cross my boundaries for his desire, he literally can’t reach out and grab me. I close the browser. I end the call. This is a privileged position within SW, but it shouldn’t be.
We’re also safer from the police. They wouldn’t give a second of assistance if we reported a violent client, but they’re not going to pick us up mid-shift and throw us in jail. They’re not going to assault us before they do it. We won’t risk a permanent mark on our record and we don’t have to be fingerprinted (though dancers in Washington State do in order to have a license to work.)
Legalization is NOT the answer. The primary solution to violence against SWs is decriminalizing SW. That’s worth another essay (or 1000) but I’ll attach resources for learning more until I get to it.
Listen to me: we do NOT want closer contact with the state or their on-ground military. Since you’re reading this far, I imagine you don’t have loyalty to 12. Regardless, I must tell you something I will never forget.
Have you heard of an NHI murder?
After an L.A. resident filmed police beating the sh-t out of Rodney King and forwarded it to KTLA, international scrutiny fell on the Los Angeles Police Department. Nurses at the hospital treating King reported that the officers who brought him in bragged and joked about how often they hit him. When the footage aired, in solidarity against state-sanctioned violence people tore the city to shreds.
“And so many of us find that when we scream, no one hears us, when we reach, no one reaches back… this is something to be angry about. Rage is a response to something that feels wrong to us… you can bet that never feeling heard, met, and understood would ignite this feeling…”
Lexy Florentina
In the wake of horrific publicized violence of the Empire, Los Angeles launched investigations into the LAPD and its officers. The inquiry revealed the frequent use of a peculiar descriptive term: “NHI”.
NHI, as in No Humans Involved.
“No Humans Involved” refers to active m-rder and m-rder by neglect of Black, Brown, and Indigenous people. It refers to unhoused people. It also refers to FSSW working to survive.
This is the consequence of dehumanization. It couldn’t be more straight-forward. I’m finished illuminating for the night. I’m sickened and I’m done.
I’m invisible, look how you hold me… I’m a ghost now. Look how you hold me now.”
A&W, Lana Del Rey (Cop F-cker)
See also: Decriminalize S-x Work.
References:
Klinkenborg, V. (2013). Several Short Stories About Writing, Vintage.
lol
Even (unknowingly) disguised as a femme.
Or did Annie do it? They’ve always had bigger muscles… but at this stage of us, we’re so intertwined in identity the difference isn’t discernable.
who thinks she’s straight.
He didn’t die, but some friends did.
We shared 5 years! Some sober, some not. Still not sure which were which. Regardless, we were lucky in many ways and I wouldn’t be here without him. I don’t regret a single minute.
We haven’t spoken in years but I warmly assure you that he’s loved, and as far as I know, safe-enough.
This is untrue, but our work is often flattened by the perception of clients. SW requires a broad range of skills for success, many of which are taken for granted as “women’s work”. That labor, as with the labor of wives, goes unnoticed.
Not all husbands, not all wives, not all marriages. Ok? I speak broadly.
Content advisory: appropriation of sacred Native practices.
I find nothing wrong with men paying for SW just as I find nothing wrong with women, and people of all gender identities, providing the service. I wish more of clients, especially cishet men, felt open to share about the value of SW in their lives. I hope to exist in a world where the exchange of money for pleasure is no longer shameful.
I never say or indulge it (“I’m just like any of these women/whores”) but I’d be lying if I deny that it’s implied by my presentation: I’m not like the other women on this site, am I?
*Cough cough* paradigm burden.
With respect to Richard D. Schwartz, I coined the term “paradigm burder” to mean a belief that transferred for multiple generations and across our species shared understanding of the world.
thank you i can't wait to read more you're so eloquent and smart. also f 12 and every SW has a permanent spot in heaven
I like this one w a lot!