All language subtitles for Modern.Whore.2025.1080p.AMZN.WEB-DL.DDP5.1.H.264

My name is Andrea Werhun.

I'm a writer and performer,
and I'm...

also a sex worker.

In books, movies,

and every syndicated crime
drama imaginable,

sex workers are typically
portrayed as victims

or villains.

Shame and stigma
can silence us.

It's high time we told our
own damn stories.

Here's mine.

In my early 20s,

I worked as an escort.

Clients hired me
to a play a role,

and I love to perform.

It wasn't always glamourous.

Can I jizz on your titties,
baby?

That costs extra, baby.

And I wasn't always the
professional you see here.

Here it comes, baby.

Here it comes!

Once upon a time,

I was a university student
with a dream.

A dream of making more than
minimum wage.

I quickly realized the power of
a little unzipping.

I went to university to study
English literature.

That was my major,
and I minored in religion.

The first time I went to
a strip club,

what I saw was a kind of
sexy church.

I saw these poled priestesses
on the stage,

being worshipped by this doting
male congregation

who are, you know, being given
the opportunity

to go to confession for like,
$20 a song.

And so I thought,
"I want to do that."

And I did eventually become
a stripper.

More on that later.

I had a friend in one of the
classes I was taking in school

tell me that I should consider
escorting instead.

One night, I noticed that all
the stories I'd penned

for my creative writing class

involved the exchange of sex
for money.

It became clear...

Whoredom is your destiny...

Whoredom is...

...your destiny!

And how does one
become a sex worker?

Well, let me show you.

Under the cover of darkness,

I stalked the streets like
a cat in heat,

fondling for society's
sexy underbelly.

Password?

Come in.

Cloaked in the darkness of
night and little else,

I penetrated a secret set of
sinful sluts.

Just kidding.

I looked up escort agencies,

picked the best-looking
website,

and sent them an email.

And they contacted me
immediately for an interview,

which opened with...

You got the job.

Oh.

Great.

The agency owners were a
suburban couple

- named Trina and Craig.
- Here's how it works.

We'll do your advertising
for you.

I'll pick you up,
drop you off.

You collect the money and
text me that it's all good.

I'll start the clock,
you do the deed,

and I'll wait outside and let
you know when the hour is up.

- Any questions?
- Yeah.

Do you provide the condoms?

No.

Okay. Um...

How often should I get
an STI test?

Like, every month?

Every month would probably
be too much.

And how likely is it that
I would get an STI?

Uh, not likely.

That would be very rare.

You know, some people
get away from sex work

without ever having had
an STI.

Me, I had chlamydia,
I got gonorrhea,

and then I did a seven-day,
you know, round of antibiotics

and they were gone.

And that's because
I got tested regularly.

Also, I was wondering,
is this legal?

Yes and no.

But the cops have bigger
to fry.

And we've never had a run-in
with law enforcement.

You're fine.

The fact that she's saying
she's been able to run

a successful escorting agency
doesn't change the fact

that criminalization
impacts us as workers

in a way that it doesn't
impact her

as someone who is not
sucking cock for money.

How dangerous is this job?

We've been in this business
a long time.

You're totally safe,
nothing's gonna happen to you.

She is not going to be
transparent about the risks

that I face,
and the vulnerable situations

she is about to put me in

because she doesn't want
to scare me away.

So, what do you want to be
called? You need a fake name.

I'd thought about
this a lot.

I was taking a romantic poetry
class at the time,

and I had fallen
head over heels in love

with William Blake.

In Visions of the Daughters
of Albion,

a virgin goddess named Oothoon
walks in woe

when her eye is caught
by a marygold.

"I see thee now a flower,

"now a nymph.

"I dare not pluck thee
from thy dewy bed."

Pluck thou my flower,
Oothoon the mild.

Another flower shall spring.

Because the soul of
sweet delight

can never pass away.

That virginity
is forever.

Marygold!

Nah.

How about Mary Ann?

You kinda look like Mary Ann
from Gilligan's Island.

Sure.

Mary Ann.

The Virgin Mary,
and her mother, Saint Anne.

Two generations of maternal
divinity

to protect me
on this whorish path.

I remember signing an
agreement,

but I'm not sure what it said.

Trina and Craig couldn't get me
on the schedule fast enough.

His name is Sanjay.
He's nice.

He's more nervous than you are.
Trust me.

Come in, come in.

Hi.

Jacket?

Oh. Thanks. Um...

- I'll be right back.
- Sure.

- Hey.
- Hi.

So, how long have you
been doing this?

Not very long.

Um, this is actually
my first appointment.

You're my first client.

Really?

Wow...

That's great. That's great.

He was being kind,
he was being respectful,

and we were pleasuring each
other.

And I thought,
"If this is what it is...

"...that's kinda fun!"

Sanjay leaves me in the room
with half an hour left.

Please lock up the room
whenever you are done.

Goodnight, Mary Ann.

Goodnight?

Okay, I've just, like,
hit the jackpot here.

I get to like,
relax in a room by myself

after this momentous occasion

where I feel like I had just
lost my whore virginity.

Was it really me?

A new friend, companion,
and partner in crime

smiled back at me.

And her name was Mary Ann.

Toronto Sirens.

Well, hi there,
Trina. It's Chuck from Texas.

You have a gal for me
this evening?

Have I got the girl
for you! She's new.

Her name is Mary Ann,
and it's her first night.

You're gonna love her.

Yee-haw!

Who is next?

So, Mary Ann,
do you like Mozart?

Yeah.

Good, good.

Do you like butt play?

Um...

I don't know.

How about rimming?

Uh...

Uh... I...

I don't know.

Come on.
Lick my ass.

Please?

I should have charged him
extra for that.

By the time I reached
my final client,

I was feeling like
a triumphant sexual queen.

Max and I were sucked into
a flurry of mutual interests.

Poetry, religion, politics.

When he asked the dreaded--

What's your story?

Oh, I'm just a travelling
painter,

passing through.

Wow. I thought maybe you were
in university.

No...

No.

You have a really
intellectual vibe.

I've read a lot of books.

Come here.

We had some time left,
so I read him some tarot cards.

Max was smart and courteous.

Had I just met my ideal client?

I made $700,

and that was life-changing
for me.

To go from minimum wage,

where I worked at a cafe

and I might get $700 on
two paycheques,

Here I'd made it in one night
and had a ball.

My new job was exciting,

but the prospect of telling
my friends and family was not.

So I kept my whoring a secret.

Max had been my ideal client
when I met him.

The next time I saw Max,

I was selling tickets
to a psychology conference

when he showed up in line,
and I almost had a heart attack.

I was so freaked.

I revealed that I was not,
in fact,

a travelling painter
passing through.

And was, of course,
a university student.

And that more than that,

what I really wanted to be
was a writer.

You could come over, you know,
just to write.

You mean, you'd pay me?

Yeah. Why not?

Let's do a two-hour
writing session.

Okay.

I thought, "Could my life get
any better?"

So I show up to this paid
writing session,

and as soon as I get there and
we're sitting in his apartment,

he starts asking me questions.

What was your childhood like?

What happened to you to lead you
down this path?

Are your parents still together?

Were you abused?

Mary Ann, I deal with people in
your field every day.

They either come from
a broken home,

or they have a long history
of sexual trauma.

You claim you have neither,
which...

I find hard to believe.

You just don't fit the mould
of someone

who does this
kind of work.

Shall we go to the bedroom?

I thought I was here to write.

Come on.

He was trying to enter me.

You know, he was trying
to open doors

for which he had no key.

He was trying to barge into me

and I did not like it at all.

Max.

I'm not comfortable.

That was great.

Do you want to go home now?

Yeah.

I just felt like
such a naive baby whore,

to have believed a client

when he said that he wanted
a paid writing session.

I would not go into it

without being prepared
to have sex.

You don't get any training
for this stuff.

I mean, you kinda
have to walk through the fire

to learn these lessons.

Bottom line,
you can't trust clients.

Personally, I don't think there
is anything more important

than community.

You know, especially
for an industry

that's as isolated as ours.

When sex workers get together
and we talk shop, magic happens.

Even if we are experiencing
our work in isolation,

we can hear each other and
totally understand each other.

My name is SJ Raphael.

I have done everything from
escorting to stripping,

cam work, street work.

I was mailing my underwear
to weird men overseas

for a really long time, until it
didn't become lucrative anymore.

You name it, I've done it.

SJ, they are one of
my most cherished friends.

We met through advocacy work.

I'm Vixen, I am a former escort.

I've now transitioned into being

a nude online cam girl.

Vixen is a good friend of mine,
and we met at an orgy.

My name is Kitoko, and I am a
former escort and pro sub,

or professional submissive.

Oh, and a current artist.

Kitoko is an incredibly gifted
artist and collaborator.

We made a short film together.

I'm Robin. I've been a stripper
for five years now,

and I am also a formally trained

animator and illustrator.

Robin is an amazing performer.

We worked at the same
strip club.

Being white, cisgendered,
and conventionally feminine

has definitely benefited me
in this industry.

How have these factors
impacted my friends?

Certainly there is that
archetype

of what a "whore"
should look like,

what a sex worker should
look like.

The lingerie, the hair,
the makeup, the clothes,

the this, the that.
As a gender diverse person,

I present far more femme
than I feel

because I make more money
doing it.

It's easier for me
to get clients,

it's easier for me to have
the long blonde hair,

like, put on the dress, like,
do the thing,

and then make, you know,
the money that I am charging.

The way that I look,
the way that I carry myself,

isn't quite a reflection of
who I am internally.

But money talks, and I very much
curate to the male gaze.

I applied to a a bunch of
different agencies

multiple times, like, up to,
like 20 times for some of them.

They told me not to expect to be
as successful as any of

the, like, white women there or
the Asian women there.

They see Black women as like,
kind of like, alien.

Like, they're just like,
"Who would ever desire you?"

Or like, "We don't know to get
people to, like, come book you."

As someone who is mixed race and
spent a lot of their time

being told that I am barely
Black to begin with,

to walk into a strip club and
face this, sort of,

1970s style racism
where I am told verbatim

that I am too fat and too Black
to work in an establishment

blew me away.

Walking into a change room and
seeing that sign on the wall

that just said "No braids,
no buns, no Afros."

And the only thing more
offensive than that sign

is the fact that it wasn't
actually a rule for everyone,

- it was a rule for Black women.
- Yeah,

I have never had trouble making
money in a club

no matter what my hair
looks like.

Customers love the hair,
they love the beads,

they love the dreads,
they love the locs.

It's managers.

We'll get into
strip club managers later.

And now, back to escorting.

And so,
Mary Ann kept on whoring.

Lucky lads across
the Greater Toronto Area

met the cutest little gal
they'd ever seen.

And boy...

...Could that cowgirl ride!

Soon, I had regulars

who booked me regularly.

Mmm. Mary Ann.
That's very good.

Mr. McAllister
was an English teacher

and a writer in his spare time.

I really like it when
you do that.

We always had quick sex
off the top.

All the character development
leads to the inevitable...

Followed by talking about
our shared love

of crafting stories.
Occasionally, he blurted--

I'm a lonely man, Mary Ann.

A lonely...

...lonely man.

Which, over time, became...

I feel like you're my
girlfriend, Mary Ann.

I am like your girlfriend.

I prefer new clients
to regulars.

People kind of like,
fall in love

or think they're falling in love
and then suddenly,

they are like,
"What about this money?

"Can we, like, throw it away?"

And it's like, that's not
the point of this.

Yes, a regular is great until
they get possessive.

But they always do! I'm sorry,
it always ends like that, right.

Yeah.

Don't be so good
at your job, then!

Well...

I definitely broke the number
one rule.

I ended up dating
my very first client.

And, uh, we're not--
we're not together,

so, probably made the wrong
choice there.

It's such an intimate thing.

It's such an intimate booking.

It would be crazy to think that
people don't get attached.

That people feel a deep
emotional connection.

Personally, I like regulars.

My preference is to have
long-term relationships

with my clientele.

For me, it comes down
to whether

a client respects
your boundaries.

We've established that clients
can lie to our faces.

But how do they behave beyond
the appointment?

Sex worker review boards are
the domain of hobbyists,

that is, men whose hobby
is paying for sex

and writing about it,

employing a variety
of colourful acronyms

to degrade sex workers for fun.

So, of course I searched
my name.

Mary Ann
has a great sex body,

very soft, but firm,
if that makes sense.

Mary Ann resembled
Mary Tyler Moore,

but with slightly bigger boobs.

Mary Ann's legs
were not memorable

as they are fairly short.

It's hard to describe
the feeling of reading someone

write about you

and what it's like
to have sex with you.

This was, like,
a genre of erotica

that was written by men
for men.

A user named Don Juan posted
my first review on the board,

which was entitled "Wow."

I had noticed
Mary Ann ever since her photos

went up on the Sirens site.
My first impression was "Wow."

I would estimate her figure
at five foot five,

120 pounds, 34D-24-35.

We started with LFK.

I was gently massaging her
breasts when she said...

You intrigue me.

Why, baby?

Most guys want to take a look
before they feel.

I remember things
a little differently.

Don Juan told me he was a
plastic surgeon from Florida.

I went to school
with Barack Obama, baby.

What do you think of that?

My duty was to act impressed,
not to sniff out facts.

I suspected the plastic surgeon
thing to be true

because Don Juan had
a technical fascination

with my breasts.

I don't believe it, baby.

These are too good to be real.

Then we progressed to DFK.

My tongue in her mouth...

Her tongue in mine...

Our tongues meeting
outside of our mouths.

Hungrily. Passionately.

It did get her wet.

Then she took me
into her mouth.

I propped myself up...

On some
pillows to get a better look.

She told me that she wanted
to taste me.

Okay, I definitely did not
say that, okay?

I didn't say any of this!

Cut, cut, cut, cut.

All right, darling, you're doing
great, you're doing fabulous.

However, that's not the line.
The line is...

"I want to taste you,

"I want to taste you."

You know, pretend you're eating
a, uh, portobello mushroom,

you know, and it's in your
mouth, and you can taste it,

and it's swirling around
in there.

And then you just enjoy it all.
All right, you got it?

Good. Great. Action!

I want to taste you.

Yes!

We finished
with a mind-blowing...

CIM?

No. COF? Hmm.

I'm not sure which.

And I really didn't care.

Whatever
it was that Mary Ann did,

oh, baby.

Oh-ho-ho. It was fabulous.

Everything that he says
that the did and that he said

just didn't happen.

What do you guys think
about reviews?

I don't get to review them.

I needed one review
and that launched me.

Mm-hmm.

It can really make or break
your career.

The dark side of reviews is that
they are definitely

a form of coercion. Clients will
take the threat of a bad review

and use it to push your
boundaries.

There's, like, so much pressure,

and you feel like you have to
consent to everything, and...

It feels like being a product
in an Amazon review.

- It's definitely violating.
- Yeah.

Reviews taught me
that sex work is more

than just what happens behind
closed doors.

There was something fun about
performing this role for people.

And then going back into
my regular life.

Mary Ann was me,
but obviously heightened

and more curious and more
adventurous.

It was sexy, it was sexy

to have this little juicy
secret.

My secret life was fun until...

Hey, baby!

Yeah, baby!
You lookin' good to me.

Oh, yeah!

Stupid ugly bitch.

Until shame crept in.

There's two sides to a secret.

It can be incredibly
emotionally taxing

to hide from people,

especially the people
you love.

We all have this internalized
whorephobia within us.

This is a prejudice that is,
you know, 2,000 years old.

This is nothing new.
We are all born out of

this whorephobic muck.
And I have it too.

The shame that I felt
wasn't in the act.

It was the shame of others,
and it was inside me,

and I could hear its voice,
and it was awful.

You think you're so great, huh?

Making all that easy money.

Shame believes that sex workers
are lazy.

And disgusting.

What is the difference between
a Corvette and a dead hooker?

Shame likes dead hooker jokes.

I don't have a Corvette
in my garage!

You're nothing

but a dirty, stinky...

Shame tries to make me
hate myself.

Trash whore!

Shame makes you lonely.
Like, it really does.

And it's also, like, shame goes
hand in hand with fear, too.

That's the thing.
It's like, I don't disclose,

or I didn't use to disclose
because I don't know

what's gonna happen to me
if I do.

During the pandemic, I had to
stop full-service sex work

and so I was thinking about
creating an OnlyFans,

but I was like,
super stressed out because

if I have nudes on the internet,

could that make it impossible
for me to, like,

adopt a child, or just pivot
and like, teach?

I feel like it's not so much
that sex work itself

oppresses me, but like,
the stigma that follows it,

um, is like, always a threat.

I have never been very good
at hiding.

But I understand that there are
risks,

and so I continued to hide,

and it took a great toll on me.

Especially when it came to...

My mom.

You probably never expected
we'd be here.

Um, well,

I wouldn't say it's beyond
my imagination.

You were always a free spirit.

And I respect that.

I learned from the best.

No, you're more free,

more free than
I ever was,

but I'm free in a
different way.

Ooh. In what way?

No. This is about you.

It's not about me.

- We were always very close.
- Mm-hmm.

- At least I always felt.
- Oh, definitely.

Yeah. Like, I felt

like I could always
be myself around you.

We could always
joke around about stuff.

Right. I don't think

there was ever anything
we didn't talk about.

That's right,
and so,

when it came
to doing sex work,

that was the first
time in my life

that I really felt like I was
keeping a secret from you,

and that was really,
really hard for me to do.

My mom is a
beautiful angel,

and she's also a very
religious person.

She's a Catholic.

There were always pictures

of the Virgin Mary
around in my childhood.

I like to joke that she
venerates a virgin mother

so she got a
whore daughter.

No parent is like,

"I want my kid to
become a sex worker!"

It's, like, kind of a nightmare
scenario for a parent, right?

I would say you were
pretty devastated.

Mm-hmm. Well, I
was happy for you

that you were not carrying
that burden anymore.

You know, you had
been set free.

So, I can deal
with that.

I can deal with truth.

That's not a
problem,

but I do remember not sleeping
for about three nights.

You did call me
in the middle

- of the night--
- Mm-hmm.

--you know, during those
first three nights,

and you were concerned
about my safety.

Right,
and your soul.

And my soul.

En route to our respective
appointments with a co-whore,

I mentioned my most regular
client, Walter Wack.

He's the worst.

Oh, my God. I know.

He's so rough
with me.

Yeah. He does this thing where
he, like, crunches me up,

and it really hurts
my hips.

Yeah, well, he
fists me,

and he's rough.

Okay. He's definitely
never fisted me.

And he calls me a dirty,
stinky cum bucket trash whore.

You name it.
Weird guy.

Okay. He's only ever
called me nice things.

Well, I guess he
likes you.

Violet.

I was one of
many escorts who saw Walter.

Sarah.

Addison.

Rebecca.

Uh, Andrea.

I mean Mary Ann!

Going to Walter Wack's place
was, like, Groundhog Day,

because it was
always the same.

His door would be ajar.

He'd yell from the
shower, "Come on in!"

There'd be a boom box
on the floor

playing the same music.

I always entered on
the same song.

I would undress and
wait for him to emerge.

We'd have the same
sex every time.

One evening, he
did something unusual.

He booked me twice
in one night,

bookending five
appointments total,

and by that fifth
appointment,

I was pretty sore.

Walter was doing his
usual plow,

crunching up my hips.

I was in pain,

trying to be
a trooper,

get to the end,

but finally, I felt
like it was necessary

to say something
to him.

And I was kind of scared to
say something to him,

because... it meant going
off script.

But I said,

"Walter, you're my
fifth appointment of the night,

and it kind of hurts."

And he said...

"That just makes me want
to fuck you harder."

And so he did.

Ten minutes of torture left.

He called me every horrible
name he'd called Sarah,

but I was afraid
to leave.

You never have
to see him again.

Walter
was blacklisted...

for me, not for the
other girls.

If someone has had a
client blacklisted,

then there should
be transparency

so that everyone at
the agency can choose

whether they want to
see that person or not.

These guys, they're
repeat offenders.

They eventually do the same
thing to every single one of us,

and it's not fair that we
don't get to decide

if that happens
to us or not.

We're not trying to even
punish the predator.

We just want to
not see them.

We don't want to have to
be prey. Yeah. Like--

But if, you know, sex
work were decriminalized,

we'd actually maybe be able
to build a relationship

with law enforcement if
that's what we wanted to do.

Or at the very least, labour,
you know, sort of rights--

- Labour.
- You know, which involves

workplace safety, and this
is a workplace safety issue.

Exchanges like
this one were rare.

I worked at the same
agency as Andrea,

and we never met.

And a part of me
thinks it's by design.

We were two
opinionated girls.

The conversation would
have never stayed surface level.

Having us have
too much knowledge

is never a good thing in terms
of an agency perspective.

Like, knowledge
is power,

and they don't want us
to have that kind of power.

Being an escort,

you don't only see
people physically naked.

It's emotionally naked.

To find out how
much hate and negativity

people carry
within themselves,

it affects your soul.

We're supposed to
keep your secrets,

and that includes
the secret

of how you
truly behave, you know.

And that's why we experience so
much violence from people,

because there's this
assumption

that we're not going
to tell anyone.

We don't have
anyone to turn to.

There's no one to
protect us.

My mom was concerned
about my safety,

and she was right to
be concerned.

On the day that I
graduated university,

- we went out to lunch.
- Mm-hmm.

We sat down
at the table,

and the first thing that
you said was,

"When you going to quit
that job of yours?"

Right.

And I'm like...
..."Okay.

By my
next birthday,"

which was a
year from then,

and you said...

"I'd like to have that
in writing."

Yeah.

And so I signed
a contract with my mother.

"I, Andrea Werhun,

"vow to stop hooking on
my 24th birthday.

You have it in
writing."

I had one year
of whoring left.

With these
appointments,

these hour-long
appointments

with people you've
never met before,

it's like
I'm a comet

entering the stratosphere of
somebody else's world,

and then I get to
see them naked.

And then I get to
have sex with them,

and I get to make them come.

And I, like,
hit the Earth,

and I'm gone. And that's it.

You get to the
core of a person,

and then
you're gone.

There's just, like,
something really fascinating

about how close
you can get to a person

in such a
short period of time

and the level of intimacy
that you can feel

with someone you've
never met before

and then just be gone.

You know, you have sex
with a few hundred clients,

and you start to
notice a few patterns.

So I think I could teach
a class on sex work.

No matter what you
call them--

clients, johns, tricks--

the men who pay for
sex have a bevy of reasons

for procuring the services
of a professional.

Take your travelling
businessman, for instance,

tired and in need of a relaxing,

no-strings-attached fu--

However, many of our clients

are very much attached.

Shocking, I know.

Here's a line I often heard.

I'm just paying you for
a service.

It's not like we're having

a passionate affair
or anything.

Then why not tell your wife?

Having a wife is too good a deal

to screw up with
a truth bomb like,

"When I tell you I'm staying
late at the office,

"I'm really doing lines of coke

with an escort in a motel room
off the highway."

Perhaps I seem like some kind

of husband-humping femme fatale,

the heartless, scheming villain

of the story,

but my madam
would always say...

I think we save marriages.

It's safer for men
to see an escort

than have an affair with
the secretary at the office.

It's a lot less mess.

But--

Enough about them.

How about our clients
with disabilities?

My client Paul was
a favourite of mine.

His legs may have
been paralyzed,

but my word,

that tongue was limber.

And of course,

the lazy bachelor,

sometimes too lazy.

Do you watch hockey?

Sort of.

I see you're
a big fan.

Oh, yeah, ever
since I was a kid.

How old are you?

- Why don't you guess?
- Twenty-seven?

I'm older.

A whiff of his dick

conveyed notes of
cheese and black mold.

Why didn't I ask Gus to
hit the showers?

Why did I let his curdled
cheese string into my mouth?

We've got Mary
Ann in the head zone.

She appears to
be struggling, Bob.

She sure is, Tim.

And the blow job

comes to an end.

- Is that it?
- Mary Ann is now going

into the cowgirl
position.

Oh! And it looks like
Gus has got

some stubble going
on down there.

It must be scraping the shit
out of her you-know-what, Bob.

Mary Ann is determined to ride
this john through the pain.

- Wow.
- She is working for the money

- tonight, boys.
- Mary Ann is dismounting.

- Your turn.
- And it looks

like Gus is remaining in
the reclined position.

He's going soft.

Mary Ann's got
her hand on the stick.

He shoots!

She scores! Mary Ann
has done it again,

proving why she's one of
the most valuable escorts.

Yes! Yes!

And finally, there are the
heartbroken newly single men

in need of a
bosom to cry on.

I don't want to play games.

I just want sex.

I heard
that Jeremy had seen

every escort at
the agency but me.

Excuse me. What?

He was a
typical finance guy--

You got to be kidding me!

Drunk,
volatile, loves hookers.

Is he always
like that?

Oh, for
fuck's sake!

For as long
as I've known him.

Jeremy was legendary for
his multi-hour appointments.

My co-whore Violet
held the record--

36 hours.

When she finally
had to go,

she was promptly replaced
by another girl,

and now, it was my turn
to get to know the legend.

What's your sign?

Scorpio.

Me too!

We had
a lot in common.

Around the five-hour
mark, I asked...

So, do you have
any children?

My kid's birthday party.

Drunk here.

Really drunk in
this one.

That stupid
fucking bitch!

She's ruined
my life!

- Everything's gone!
- Okay.

- It's ruined!
- Okay.

Jeremy, you are
a Scorpio, remember?

And Scorpios
are ruled by Pluto.

That's the planet of
transformation,

of life and death
and rebirth.

If anyone could
change their life,

it's you.

Though sex workers aren't
officially therapists,

we try our best.

Let's do some coke.

There's a certain
suspension of reality

in the time an escort
and her john share.

The time allotted is
a sacred space

in which both
parties feel free

to be themselves without
judgment.

What do you like?

I like sex.

I don't know
about that.

Oh, no!

Jeremy demanded I
cuddle him all night.

Paid to sleep?

A sex worker's dream.

Mary Ann.

Mary Ann.

Mary Ann, that's
very good.

When I told
Mr. McAllister

I was leaving the biz,

from the high horse of a
john in the arms of a whore,

he said...

You know, Mary Ann,

it'll be
hard for you.

Dating, that is,

you know, having worked
in this industry.

What makes
you say that?

Well, a lot of people
don't respect pr...

Men are too jealous.

Men don't respect...

Women like you.

I never told
you this,

but I have
a boyfriend.

You do?

We have been
together for...

Thirteen years.

How did we meet?

Well, we met
in university,

last year of university.

You came to a
house party at my house.

That was the first time
I met you, and yeah.

Then I kind of chased
you a little bit

for a few weeks.

I knew, "Okay. This guy's
a philosophy major."

"He's got to
be pretty bright.

Maybe I'll just take
a chance and tell him."

So I said, "I'm an escort,"

and you were like, "Cool."

Yeah.

I thought that you were an
interesting person.

I did think it
was cool.

It was something
unique and different,

so I wasn't going
to allow that

to affect my
interest in you.

So mature.

Why didn't it
bother you?

I see sex work
as a job.

It's a job where you use your
body and you use your mind,

like any other job.

People use all sorts
of different body parts

to do their labour,

and we're not concerned
about it unless it's sexual.

There's something about
sex that--

I guess because it's
so closely tied to love--

that people feel like
it has to be controlled,

you have to possess your partner
or own them in some sense,

and that it isn't real
love unless you do

or real commitment
unless you do.

Hello?

Time's up.

Okay. Thanks.

♪ The light shines down
the valley ♪

♪ The wind blows
up the alley ♪

♪ Oh and I wish
I was lying ♪

♪ In the arms
of Mary ♪

♪ She took the
pains of boyhood ♪

♪ And turned them
into feel good ♪

♪ Oh and I wish
I was lying ♪

♪ In the arms
of Mary ♪

♪ Mary was the girl who taught
me all I had to know ♪

♪ She put me right on
the first mistake ♪

♪ Summer wasn't gone and I
learned all she had to show ♪

♪ She really gave all
a boy could take ♪

So long, Mary Ann.

The perennial
Marygold,

plucked from its
dewy bed,

must die,
and so did I.

Mary Ann the whore lived,
died, and was born again...

on a farm.

I had been working on a
farm for a couple seasons

before you came
to live with me there.

In a way, I
went to the farm

to escape my shame,

to prove to myself that I
was more than just a prostitute,

but shame
was with me.

Hey, saggy titties.

After my second
season on the farm,

I needed to stop.

I think you enjoyed it,

but it's not your life.

It's not the life you want,

and that's fine.

- It wasn't exactly my calling.
- Yeah.

On top of the physical
toll it was taking,

I was not making
any money.

I was broke.

Broke? You're a joke.

You're a washed-up whore
with no prospects.

What are you gonna do,

put "proficient at blowjobs"
on your résumé?

So I decided
to become normal.

I moved back to the city

and landed an
entry-level nine to five.

I worked during my
lunchbreaks, evening overtime,

and still never kept up
or did things quite right.

It was hell.

Commuting in rush hour to
a job that I hate...

I would rather
fuck a stranger.

When you
tried a regular job,

you'd come home,
and you'd be crying.

Yeah. That's no life. No.

So I quit and got a
gig as a bike courier.

There was no
résumé required,

but there
was snow and ice.

I was falling off
my bike,

getting my tire caught
in sewer grates,

car doors being jut out
in front of me,

and so I wondered,

what was more dangerous,

working as a bike courier--

--or as a stripper?

I think, like, work in
general is exploitative.

It's hard to be empowered
under capitalism

when we're all
basically purchasing

our survival.

So, I'm disabled
and neuro-divergent,

and sex work was a
really good fit for me,

because it allowed me
to build a practice

that was specific
to my needs.

Sex work, for me,
gave me a way

to, like, do more
than survive.

It gave me
a way to live.

Do you feel like sex
work is something

that compliments your
artistic practice?

Yeah, definitely.
I don't think

that I could be an
artist without sex work.

Like, I'm not a
nepo baby.

I wish I was.

My artistic skills make
a lot of sense in sex work.

Like, it is
a performance.

It's gendered performance.

I had deliberately
worded my agreement with my mom

to refer strictly
to hooking.

I left stripping
out of it.

Alright. So, you work
seven-hour shifts,

minimum three days a week,

three shows per night.

Lap dances
are $20 per song.

Champagne room, $400
per hour per girl.

Now, whatever happens
in the champagne room...

Stays in the
champagne room.

There's a security guard
at the entrance there

to keep an eye on the time so
there's no discrepancy

with the, uh, song counts,
because sometimes--

--rarely here--

--customers,

uh, they try and
rip off the dancers.

So--

--you want
to start tonight?

I texted with Maurice
about my stripper name.

Sophia means wisdom.

The Holy Spirit.

The divine feminine.

I'm not the best
pole dancer in the world,

so I had to learn how
to work my angles.

For me, there is nothing
more powerful than nudity,

eye contact, and a smile paired
with a few signature moves.

Fireman!

The Twirl 'n' Squat.

The Floater!

And Hollywood.

Oh, and ATC.

That's ass to crowd!

Oh, yeah.

But I wasn't always the
professional you see here.

On my second shift,

I meet a guy
named Bob Abrams.

He called me over to him,
and he said, you know,

"Sit down and have
a drink with me.

I'll make it
worth your while."

So, what brings
you here tonight?

You are so fucking hot.

Do you know what it's like
having two kids at home?

Of course you
don't.

Yeah. Oh, my.

I love you. You're
fucking awesome.

His wife at home
with their newborn,

Bob Abrams
smelled of a man

who had everything
handed to him.

We got wasted.

Up in the VIP, I gave Bob
a passionate lap dance.

Bob took his
dick out.

You are so hot.

Fuck. Let's fuck.

No. No.

We finally called it a
night at 15 songs.

He wanted
to see me again.

Bob emailed me to arrange
our next meeting.

More on that later.

Soon, I had regulars
at the strip club,

and Ron was the
cream of the crop.

Hello, mysterious man.

Hello, Andrea.

Ron is one
of my regulars.

He was known at the club
by the other dancers

as being
Sophia's guy.

We'd sit on a couch,

watch the game,

eat a burrito.

All the while,

baby, I'm being paid.

It was so good.

We'd get to the VIP.

I'd take my shoes off.

He'd give me a foot rub.

You were wearing
those ridiculous heels.

- What do you call them?
- Pleasers.

Pleasers. Right. And
so you were complaining

about your feet being sore from
wearing those all day,

so I just naturally started
giving you a foot rub.

And that became, like,
a regular thing,

and I took it
really seriously,

because one time, I
said, you know,

"Is this your first
foot rub today?"

And you said, "Well, no."

So the next day,
I went to YouTube

and started searching how
to give foot massages.

I was like,
"I'm going to give you

a really good
foot massage if I can."

So... I started
bringing in the creams,

you know, getting really,
you know, professional about it.

You are one of the
good ones. That is for sure.

What do you think
is the secret

to the long-term relationship
that we have here?

You're a good
listener as well as having

a lot of stories
to tell,

and I mean, in
seven years,

I've gone through some
major life events.

And there's been things that
I've wanted to talk about

that I didn't feel
comfortable talking about

to, you know,
family or friends.

Ron is an
ideal customer in a few ways.

You know, he
understands the context.

He knows he's going to see
you for a set period of time

for X amount of money,

and on top of that,

he's kind. He's respectful.

Well, to me, kindness and
respect are my core values,

and I don't really
understand--

I mean, I've read your
stories and heard stories

about clients
who are not that way.

If only all customers
could be like Ron.

I actually really don't
even know this guy,

- if I'm being honest.
- Oh, really?

One night, I was chatting up
Stavros, an artist...

So, yeah. We actually met at
an ultimate Frisbee tournament.

Okay. A couple of
nerds. I like that.

...and his friend
Mark, a doctor.

Pretty much.

So, Sophia...

Who touched you?

Um, what?

Who touched you?

What happened in your
childhood to bring you here?

Apparently, Mark
would rather examine

my emotional wounds than
my dance moves.

Um, that's an incredibly
inappropriate question.

Dude.

Asking
sex workers

to divulge previous
traumatic experiences,

that's called trauma porn.

The questions run
the gamut.

They may seem
kind of innocent,

you know, like...

What
was your childhood like?

"What happened along
the way to make you this way?"

"What broke you?"

You think something's
wrong with me

that I'm doing this
for money,

that I am broken.

It doesn't make any sense why
anyone would feel entitled

to ask us about our
childhoods--

- No. None of your business.
- Especially in a situation--

--especially in a situation
where we're being hired

- to be sexy.
- Mm.

You know,
it suggests that, like,

our trauma is part of
the sex appeal.

Yeah. Would you ask
that of your server?

You know, would you ask
that of, like, your dentist?

Like, I wouldn't
do that.

I don't have
to be a victim,

but now, I feel like
you are victimizing me,

because you are trying to
take things from me

that I didn't offer
to you. You're trying

to take things from me. You're
trying to take, you know,

my emotional labour.
You're trying to elicit--

What, do you want me to cry?
Do you want me to sit here

and cry and tell you about--
Like, that's predatory.

One night, I
was riding high

on a '70s set guaranteed
to give any boomer a boner.

Fancy a dance
in the VIP?

Soon as I finish
this beer.

So, what brings
you here tonight?

Well, you know,
cat's away.

Our banter was
solid, until...

So, um...

What's the worst thing that's
ever happened to you here?

How do
I actually respond

to people who are asking
me for trauma porn?

Sometimes, I
deflect.

And sometimes, I
answer the question.

You know, I'll look a person in
the eye and say, "Rape."

Rape? Yeah.

That doesn't happen here.

I told him
my story.

Remember Bob?

Bob shows up at
the club.

It's, like, a
Monday night at 6:00 PM.

We go up to the VIP, and
it's early enough

that there isn't even
security up there.

We're alone.

Can I
take it out?

I do my job, which is
to get naked by the third song.

Let's fuck.

- No.
- Oh, come on. Why not?

I don't want to.

It'd be fun.

I don't have
any condoms.

But he doesn't listen.

He takes my hips,

forces me down,

and puts his
raw dick inside me.

Don't do that again.

Because I don't have a
good sense of my boundaries yet,

I do continue to
dance for him,

and it happens two
more times.

Then he stops
the dances.

And I'm putting my
clothes back on.

What's the
matter, babe?

You look so sad.

And I
say to him,

"I'm disappointed
in myself

for letting you
transgress my boundaries."

And obviously, there's
such a big element there

of victim blaming,

as if it's my fault,

and he replies...

Why? Do you have something?

Oh, yeah. That's
disturbing,

and I'm really sorry that
happened to you.

- Thanks.
- Yet, you came back.

I mean, it was
an isolated incident.

Most guys are fine.

So, you want
to go to the VIP?

Yeah. No. Not
after that story.

I am thoroughly turned
off now.

So why'd you ask?

Christ. I didn't
think you'd been raped.

You don't
look like the type.

The type?

What type of person
looks like they've been raped?

And what type of person
asks that question?

Dude.

Come on. Something must
have happened.

Women don't
just become strippers.

Man, I thought
we were having fun.

You really want me to relive my
trauma for your entertainment?

You know what?

Let's go to the VIP.

Now?

Yeah. Why not?

Look. I don't want
a dance.

I want to apologize.

The only reason I asked you
that question before

is because I was sexually
abused as a child

and I was wondering
if you were, too.

I'm sorry.
I just thought

maybe you
were as well

and I-- I
don't know.

Mark is a doctor.

He's not a sex worker.

There's people
in every industry

who have experienced some
form of abuse.

I would guess that it's
pretty equal across the board.

Uh, yeah.

I hope you can
forgive me,

and you don't have
to dance for me.

I don't know
all the reasons

why people ask
us these questions,

but I wish they wouldn't.

It didn't really occur to me
what had happened was rape

until I realized I hadn't
told my boyfriend about it,

which is always kind
of a flag,

because it usually
suggests to me

that there's some
type of shame

and I'm afraid
of talking about it.

I took the week off
from work.

I talked to the manager

who hired me.

I think this
is your fault.

There's security buttons
in the booth for a reason.

If you felt uncomfortable, you
should have hit the button.

You didn't,
so that's on you.

Well, you go from "You
can touch me here and here"

to something
shoved inside you,

and it happens so quickly.

Men know that people
aren't coming to the rescue

to sex workers.

Girls-- a lot of
Black girls, particularly--

are told to
keep their head down.

You're not supposed to
have any issues,

because it's
not worth your job.

The more money a
man seems to spend,

the more important he tends to
become versus performers.

Did I think about reporting the
incident to the police?

Ms. Werhun, the alleged incident
occurred at a strip club.

Now, first things first.

What kind of decent woman
works at a strip club?

- The kind that needs money.
- Money!

And would you say
that money is a prime motivator

- in your life?
- Well, I need money to eat

and pay my rent and
clothe myself, so yes.

Fascinating. Now, let me
get this straight.

Did you write this book?

Yes.

Your Honour, Ms. Werhun's
book is called Modern Whore,

and as she's
clearly stated,

she is a modern whore
motivated by money.

Ms. Werhun,
is it possible

that you fabricated
a rape allegation

against a married family man
who earns six figures

just so you'd have another story
to tell, you know--

--for the money?

I got an email
from Bob

asking when he could
come in and see me again.

Smiley face, as if
nothing had happened.

I responded back,

"Do not come to the
club ever again."

On those nights where
something did happen to me--

- Mm-hmm.
- I don't have to be afraid

for a single second that
you're going to feel

like I must have done
something to provoke it

or that I, you
know, deserved it.

- Mm-hmm.
- A lot of sex workers,

when they are open with
their partners

about what they do, they get
that kind of attitude.

You've never, ever, ever,
ever been like that with me.

- Mm-hmm.
- So, thank you.

Yeah.
You're welcome.

And yeah. For a lot of people,

that reaction might be
a fear reaction.

The response to trying
to reduce the harm

is to coerce the person
to not do sex work

or not put themselves
in situations in the future

where those things
are possible.

A few years later, I saw
Bob at the club again.

He was with an
entourage of people.

In that moment, I didn't feel
like I could do anything.

I felt... frozen.

It goes without saying
that the strip club

is a booze-drenched
environment.

It's a bar, after all,
and a pick-up line.

Hey, can I buy
you a drink?

Um, yeah.

I was probably having upwards of
12 drinks a night at work,

and when I
wasn't at work,

you know, I was partying, too.

I had a habit

of getting blackout drunk

and hitting my head.

For the first time in my life,

I was having seizures.

Ah!

Ah!

May I have another?

Why did I keep doing
this to myself?

Late one night, I was drunk
and riding my bike home

with a shopping bag
dangling from my handlebars.

It got caught
in the front wheel.

I flew off the bike.

I had suffered a
traumatic brain injury,

a pretty bad one.

I'd scraped the entire left
side of my face,

and if I hadn't been
wearing a helmet,

I would be dead.

Given my history
of seizures,

I was eventually
diagnosed with epilepsy,

and alcohol
was a trigger.

Andrea, if you have
another drink,

you might have
a seizure and die.

You want to write
another book, don't you?

I was scared shitless
by that comment,

so I haven't
drank ever since.

Six weeks later,
I was back at the club,

no alcohol,
much less confidence.

Fancy a dance
in the VIP?

Yeah. Yeah. I'll pass.

Come back
in 15 minutes.

Maybe I'll
change my mind.

Okay.

Strippers face a
lot of rejection...

in lingerie,
no less.

Sober sex work is always a
really interesting topic

for me to speak on,

because I
have done sex work

for my entire adult life
and part of my youth,

and I've done it under the sort
of auspice of sobriety now.

But I've also
done it, you know,

while being an
intravenous drug user,

while being, you know, someone
that was a heavy drinker,

while being someone
that, you know,

has done various other
sorts of substances

and also hired
exclusively to do

a lot of, like,
pay-to-party events,

because men hate
to do drugs alone.

What do you think of
the stereotype

that we all use drugs
to do our jobs?

I think that goes
hand in hand

with a lot of
different tropes

that come
along with sex work.

Substance users are villains
or villainized in society,

and so, of course, we are
villains because we are

sex workers. So it sort of,
like, ties in with that.

What are some of the pros
and cons of sober sex work?

Start with the pros.
My judgment is clearer.

I'm a lot less susceptible to
my boundaries being pushed,

but then it's also, like...

I have to listen
to their bullshit.

I can't, you know,
numb the conversation.

I have to be engaged.

Another pro, I guess
you remember everything,

but another con is that I
remember everything, you know?

Bob returned... again.

He had started to earn a
reputation at the club

for becoming
belligerently drunk.

Want to give me a beer?

You know, he's becoming
a very rowdy customer.

This time, things
were different,

because I was sober,

and I felt like I
was finally in a position

to be able to hold
him accountable.

You know, I wasn't
afraid anymore,

so I went to one of
my better managers, Phil,

and I told him
I wanted him out.

Well, I say we make sure
that he settles up,

because, uh, I don't want to get
in the way of anyone's money.

Then I'll inform him that
he's no longer welcome

in the club.

I told the gals
what was going on.

Do you want me to throw
piss in his face?

There's nothing like
stripper support.

Is this forever?

Yes.

Fuck you, man,

and your fucking place!

Phil was
being a good manager,

and for that,
I'll always be grateful.

When you don't consider a sex
work workplace a real workplace,

it's going to be run by a
different kind of law.

It's going to be run by a law
that's outside law enforcement,

for better or worse.

I think the victim trope
is prominent

because some people
would prefer us that way.

Being a victim is a
convenient title

when what you want to do is
actually victimize us.

We can never get
away from it.

The law also identifies
us as victims.

It takes consent
out of the matter.

It makes the assertion

that everything that we
do for money is by coercion.

We're either victims

who have no ability to
make choices for ourselves

or we're villains,

and the only choices we
make are bad and harmful.

And all we want to do
is hurt people,

particularly men.

But I don't think that
sex workers are even permitted

the grace of having
our work considered labour,

and I think that's wrong.

You know,
there's things that I do

that keep me grounded and
remind me of who I am.

A lot of that has to
do with writing

and creative expression
in general and performing

and being silly,
being a little ham.

I'd like to be...

An artist.

I'd love to make
a living with my art.

But I can't
afford it, yet,

and so until
that day--

--I work.

So long as the laws
don't protect us,

the stigma against
sex workers remains.

I can see your
cellulite, whore!

Alright, bud. That's
it. Night's over.

What are you doing, man? I
paid $10 for this beer.

- I'm not going anywhere.
- You've been nursing this beer

for almost two hours,
my man. Let's go.

- No. No. Come on! No!
- Let's go.

I'll get you! This
is not the last of me!

When it comes to my
own shame in sex work,

I don't have any.

The reality is,

not only have I
fucked for money,

I'm currently naked
on the internet.

I have no shame.

Let's be fucking
for real.

But when I
fell in love

and what I
did for work

was going to
affect him

and how his
family saw me,

that was the first time
I felt shame.

There's whorephobia against
the sex workers ourselves,

which, you know, brings us
the closest to violence,

and then there's all this sort
of, like, stigma by proxy--

- Yeah.
- That the people around us

have to experience just
by loving us.

Mm-hmm. Yeah.
People might have

a perfectly happy relationship
with a sex worker,

and then they encounter
some kind of outside stigma.

And they can't
overcome it.

And they're missing out
because of that.

Yeah. Yeah!

You taking the risk

and being brave and
being open

has forced me
to come to terms

with how I
talk about it

and how open I
am about it as well.

And is that
a good thing?

Yeah, of course. Yeah. I think
being truthful is important,

and I think being
honest is important.

I'm, you know,
sitting here on camera

because I hope that one day
you can be face out

and not be
assaulted, you know,

just because someone
knows you're a sex worker

or not be stalked online
or not be harassed

or, you know, banned
from apartments

and banned from
other types of work

and banned from,
you know, social spaces,

which has definitely
happened to me.

I think that that's the power

of, like, sex worker
storytelling.

It's, like,
reminding the public

that, like, we're actually
just, like, human.

It's not like sex workers
are these big, bad monsters.

Like, we're just people,

and, like, we deserve,
like, very basic rights.

We need to tell our stories
so that it normalizes sex work

and so that it normalizes
the quest for safety in our work

and the quest for respect
in our work and the quest for,

you know, basic, like, human
dignity and human rights.

I would like sex workers--

at least,
like, full service--

to kind of be seen
like a chiropractor.

Not everybody believes in it.

But like, the people who
love it love it.

That's right. That's right.

- And they swear by it.
- And they swear by it.

I'm so grateful

that despite your own
misgivings about my work...

You still love me.

Of course.

I just want to
thank you for...

...not abandoning me.

I could
never abandon you.

Would not happen.

When you were born, I remember

just looking at you all night.

I would just watch you
while you were sleeping.

I think I like
being looked at.

Maybe that's part
of it.

I think I associate
it with love and care.

Yeah.

The greatest privilege of
my life is being loved by you.

- Thank you, honey.
- So thank you.

Thank you. That makes
my life worthwhile.

Love you, Mommy.

This is the part of the
film where the sex worker

is usually punished for
her deviant ways

or saved from whoring
by a white knight.

Eternally, we play the
role of victim or villain.

We need a new archetype.

If the femme fatale--

Is a bold, sexually
powerful villainess

who destroys men
to get what she wants,

the femme vitale is
her positive opposite,

a person who loves themself
and fights for their community.

They are loved and
give love,

pleasure, joy.

When sex workers
tell our own stories,

we become the heroes,
not the victims,

of our
own journeys.

I have a story
that would remain hidden

if I let shame
take over my life,

and shame is
antithetical to truth.

Despite the odds,

sex workers
are here.

We are alive
and always will be.

One day, we will grow
like wildflowers,

unruly and free.

♪ Ooh ooh ooh ♪

♪ Ooh ooh ooh ♪

♪ Ooh ooh ooh ♪

♪ Ooh ooh ooh ♪

♪ Ooh ooh ooh ♪

♪ Ooh ooh ooh ♪

♪ Ooh ooh ooh ♪

♪ Ah ah ah ♪

♪ Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh ♪

♪ Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh ♪