Article Working in a New Zealand brothel was anything but ‘a job like any other’
Article Working in a New Zealand brothel was anything but ‘a job like any other’
When I walked back down to the foyer, the receptionist pulled me aside to inform me of his grievance. I hyperbolized his brutalization, knowing that if I simply said I was too sore to cope with what was a fairly banal experience of prostituted sex, it wouldn’t satisfy her. She narrowed her eyes cynically, but said she was willing to let it pass as this had been the only complaint leveled against me. One imagines, looking back, that the other women had to learn how to alleviate these situations for themselves — learn how to cope with the bruising, the discomfort, the tiredness, the objectification, and the hours of unpaid and thankless work they conducted for the benefit of the brothel.
A waitress might have to smile incessantly, but she doesn’t have to be mauled or bruised. A carpenter or a brick-layer might scuff his fingers or hurt his back, but he doesn’t have to pretend he finds it pleasurable. He doesn’t have to ignore the pain. But in the culture of the mega brothel world, these distinctions are collapsed and these complaints are erased. The thousands upon thousands of women who will have passed through the doors of brothels like the one I worked in are scattered into the ether, not on picket lines shoulder-to-shoulder with the punters and pimps calling for its further legitimization — for this destructive gratification to be considered just “a job like any other.””
Read more: https://www.feministcurrent.com/2016/05/02/working-in-a-new-zealand-brothel-was-anything-but-a-job-like-any-other/
nordicmodelnow
Jun 23 2025, 7:28 AM #1“My memories of johns are foggy — I vaguely remember trying not to fall asleep, and hoping the hour would pass quickly, as sweating men came and went. But one john sticks out. The boss liked us to work most nights and so the constant interference from (often) rabid men left us bruised and sore. This one particular john had a thick penis, which he liked to jab in and out of me, as hard and fast as he could. Initially, I tried to breathe deeply and relax my muscles, but the pain was excruciating. I began to hold onto his hips to slow him down, push him away from me, but he got impatient and then angry, before flouncing off to complain, as though he was the victim of some great injustice.
When I walked back down to the foyer, the receptionist pulled me aside to inform me of his grievance. I hyperbolized his brutalization, knowing that if I simply said I was too sore to cope with what was a fairly banal experience of prostituted sex, it wouldn’t satisfy her. She narrowed her eyes cynically, but said she was willing to let it pass as this had been the only complaint leveled against me. One imagines, looking back, that the other women had to learn how to alleviate these situations for themselves — learn how to cope with the bruising, the discomfort, the tiredness, the objectification, and the hours of unpaid and thankless work they conducted for the benefit of the brothel.
A waitress might have to smile incessantly, but she doesn’t have to be mauled or bruised. A carpenter or a brick-layer might scuff his fingers or hurt his back, but he doesn’t have to pretend he finds it pleasurable. He doesn’t have to ignore the pain. But in the culture of the mega brothel world, these distinctions are collapsed and these complaints are erased. The thousands upon thousands of women who will have passed through the doors of brothels like the one I worked in are scattered into the ether, not on picket lines shoulder-to-shoulder with the punters and pimps calling for its further legitimization — for this destructive gratification to be considered just “a job like any other.””
Read more: https://www.feministcurrent.com/2016/05/02/working-in-a-new-zealand-brothel-was-anything-but-a-job-like-any-other/