The Prostitution Princess

“You researched what?” He asked in surprise.

“Prostitution” I responded with a straight face, not looking for small talk, particularly not the kind initiated by men several drinks in.

His lips gave way to the mischievous grin that all men accidently let slip when I reveal my anthropological interest.

“What do you mean prostitution?” He asked, hungry for a playful response, clearly ignorant of my disinterest in prolonging the conversation.

“I studied the relationship between prostitution and capitalism.”

He’s eyes revealed he wanted more.

I reluctantly explained that My interest was in the impact of capitalism on sex workers in contemporary US society, how the body is conceptualized as something which should remain whole, but the process of commoditization mandates fragmentation. I considered morality, and relationships, and ultimately how a woman living on the fringe of society is given no option but a schizophrenic existence. I took a sip of my wine and looked him in the eye.

What once was excitement, had been exchanged for terror. In this man’s eyes, I transformed into a monster: Smart, arrogant, immune to his advances, and partial to my own company.
He walked away.

I was relieved. Flirting takes too much energy these days, particularly when it means foolishly giggling about things I am passionate about, diminishing my accomplishments, subduing my intelligence. I would rather someone run away from fear of me eating them than wake-up one day to only discover I am a stranger to my forgotten self. When individuals act astonished that I am an artist, an anthropologist and a business women, I respond with equal astonishment that they fail to see the obvious relationship….

“I think the problem with people these days is they try to put everyone in a box. You are this, or that, but God forbid you be a dynamic individual. How then could we put a label on you?” My new friend laughed.

I couldn’t agree more. Society seems to entice us with stereotypes that we are encouraged to inhabit. I could rant about those who buckle beneath the weight of status symbols and cultural propaganda, but I am also guilty of this crime. I tried the hippy gig for a spurt, followed by the rebellious city girl, only to disregard this for the preppy cape cod, Lily Pulitzer wearing sorority sister. I’m afraid, however, that I am a cracked vessel. The truth has always seeped through.

I passed a little girl the other day, wearing roller skates, a cape and a crown, fist tightly clinched around her magic fairy wand. It wasn’t Halloween, it was Tuesday, and she had important things to do. I looked at her with hidden admiration, jealous of her inhibition and sense of purpose. She wasn’t smiling, but daunted a serious glare. She was on a mission, be it a mystery to the rest of us.

I wonder what would happen if I rolled up to the office dressed as a princess with a purpose. My suspicion is that it might not go over so well, and that I would either be asked to remove my skates or rolled out.