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Previously published in Free Inquiry Magazine
*Editor in Chief Paul Fidalgo
A few years ago, I attended my first secular convention. I had become involved with the Freedom From Religion Foundation (FFRF) after a local megachurch used my son’s elementary school to promote a Christian religious event. The event was billed as a bike giveaway but was nothing more than a thinly veiled violation of the Establishment Clause of our First Amendment.
Shortly after, I contacted the FFRF and explained the situation, and the FFRF sent a letter to the school district. The district immediately complied and stopped the school from further promoting the church and its “message of hope”—which would of course consist of the threat of eternal damnation mixed in with some lively music and maybe some snacks.
FFRF’s convention that year took place in San Francisco, which was only a short drive from me, so I decided to attend. It was not only my first atheist convention but my first convention of any kind. I had been a closeted atheist for some time, but up until I needed help my atheism consisted of following atheist social media pages and smirking at their edgy memes.
Walking in a little late to the Friday evening speaker, who had the room utterly hanging on his every word, I was a little overwhelmed. I would come to learn shortly that the eloquent speaker was Salman Rushdie—a person whom, up until then, I hadn’t heard of. I googled him while I was sitting in the audience, and it wasn’t long before I was also hanging on his every word. It wasn’t long until I started to feel a sense of connection with the other attendees. It felt so good to drop the pretense of belief, to know that I could openly say I was a nonbeliever. The relief was palpable. And the feeling of acceptance in that regard was like a warm hug. Both figuratively and literally. There were a lot of pre-COVID-19 hugs.
I was introduced to the president of my local FFRF chapter, and we started to chat. I became a little worried about how much of my personal life I should divulge. I was a full-time stripper (or exotic dancer if it makes you feel better) at the time and was accustomed to coming up with a cover story about my job. But as I looked at my newfound friends, I took a risk and told the truth. I got a little bit of a wide eye, but rather than outright judgment, my revelation was met with curiosity.
The more people I met and the more I talked about my job, the more it became clear to me that there were some parallels between being an open nonbeliever and an adult entertainer. I found that while there were plenty of assumptions based on stereotypes and misconceptions, most people were willing to listen. And more than a few pointed to the fact that my own experience in dealing with stereotypes and misconceptions might lend itself to the many still closeted nonbelievers.
I had already self-published two books dealing with the stigmas and stereotypes of my job, and with the help of my FFRF chapter president and mentor, I wrote a third book about secular humanism and critical thinking. With that book I hoped to reach those who may still be apprehensive about coming out as atheist or skeptic as well as to further enlighten people about my job.
While it seemed, at least at first, that the secular community was more accepting of my profession than those outside it, I began to find that I was still sometimes taking a defensive stance on the subject. The warmth I had felt had cooled some. I found that in some cases I was in the unfortunate position of having to defend myself from the stereotypes that I might be a drug addict or the victim of abuse. These explanations frequently felt like they were falling on deaf ears. I often felt the need to justify my own feelings about my job, to clarify that I willingly chose my profession, as opposed to having no other options.
Some people seemed to need a sad or melodramatic reason for why I chose this career. Was I simply rebelling against a religious upbringing? Nope. Did I grow up poor and needed a way out? Nope again. In fact, I grew up in an affluent part of southern California where our religion was centered around the divine prophet Ronald Reagan and our place of worship was the mall. That was my family’s version of Catholicism. The truth is, I really hated working a regular job, had an inherent disdain for authority, and valued my independence.
I found myself becoming apprehensive once again about being open about my job as a stripper. It’s not often that someone refuses to believe that you, as an atheist, don’t worship Satan or eat babies. People simply take your word for it. Trying to tell someone that you don’t abuse drugs or that you actually enjoy stripping can be met with stubborn skepticism, the kind of skepticism that seems impervious to new evidence. It’s not unlike a believer telling an atheist that they must really believe in God but pretend not to because they love their sin more than their creator—a stance most atheists find insulting because it sucks to be told that your feelings, beliefs, and experiences aren’t valid. But that’s exactly what I encountered in some cases—that I had fooled myself into thinking I actually like my job.
Not Just a Religion Problem
Religion has long used sex and sexuality as a means of control. The idea that the biological functions and feelings that most human beings have are wrong or dirty has deep roots in most theology. That sex and sexuality have an innate connection to morality or ethics is a misconception that leads to slut shaming. It is the false idea that to be a good person one must be sexually pure, sexually conservative, and conform to other people’s ideas of how often you should be having sex and in what context or how you choose to use your own body.
Having what some might consider too many partners or expressing sexuality openly without shame is frowned upon. These are parts of ourselves that are supposed to be concealed, lest they tell anyone we’re easy or slutty. Trading one’s sexuality for an income is even more of an afront. It’s almost unthinkable that a woman would choose to objectify herself for money and … gasp! … enjoy it. There is no way that she would consent to providing such entertainment without chemical influence or having endured some emotional, sexual, or physical injury.
And yet, even after years of writing about my experiences and the experiences of those I have worked with, I still find myself accused of self-delusion. I’m told that I’ve convinced myself that I enjoyed dancing nude on stage to avoid the cognitive dissonance that would come if I were only honest with myself about my feelings. That I simply refuse to believe that I am not in fact owning my own sexuality but being exploited by the patriarchy. That my empowerment is an illusion that I created for myself to avoid feeling shame.
In almost all the mainstream reporting about sex work and sex workers, there is an underlying implication of victimhood. And not just from journalists aligned with Christian anti-trafficking organizations that are really anti–sex work. If they were really against human trafficking, they might pay attention to the largest form of human trafficking, which is labor and not sex. These anti–sex work and anti–adult entertainment groups rely on the narrative that women would not choose to enter sex work without an addiction or other hardship that makes them feel like they don’t have any other options.
And that narrative is happily perpetuated by reporters who have never worked in the industry themselves. They seem to want to chase the story of the broken and abused sex worker who found his or her way out; the redemption story of heartbreak, abuse, and addiction and the climb out of the hole that is sex work. Even the stories of successful and happy sex workers contain a whiff of “Well, she did what she had to do” as opposed to the often more accurate, “She did what she wanted to do.”
Bodily and Emotional Autonomy
Despite the overturning of Roe v. Wade, most Americans still hold the opinion that women are entitled to make their own choices when it comes to their own bodies. But many don’t necessarily apply that same logic to sex work and adult entertainment. Denying the fact that sex workers not only choose sex work but enjoy it and find it empowering is denying them their autonomy. It’s not ever appropriate to tell someone that they don’t really feel the way they say they do. However, I and other current and former sex workers experience this regularly.
The secular community may not back this up with the threat of hellfire or the promise of salvation, but that doesn’t make it any less dismissive and demeaning. Purity culture and the idea that openly expressing sexuality and promiscuity are wrong—whether for money or just for fun—aren’t only for religious zealots. These damaging and limiting ideas have permeated the secular culture as well.
For the most part, I still feel at home in the larger secular community. I have made so many wonderful connections and have found an openness to new knowledge and experiences by many of those I have met. Those without theology still represent the majority of those who are willing to cast aside dilapidated and often sexist beliefs around sex and sex work. And I am eternally grateful to those who are willing to listen and learn.
But there are still many times I feel like I am screaming into the void and that convincing people that sex work is a chosen profession might be futile. That it can be liberating and empowering still falls on deaf ears and closed minds—as well as the fact that sex work is not always about sex but often about human connection and compassion.
Despite all that, I am going to continue to give a voice to those who are chronically and even deliberately misrepresented and misunderstood when I am able to. Not all current and former sex workers are in a position to be open about it due to the prevailing stigmas around the profession. And that makes me all the more determined to continue speaking out with the hope that one day the message will get through to both believers and nonbelievers alike.
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