I’m at a dead end and how important is sex anyway?

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Dear Hera,

I’m in my mid-late twenties with a corporate job, but have recently started to wonder whether I should just loudly yell “F**K IT” and become a prostitute.

This is left field for me personally. Sure, Virginie Despentes’ manifesto King Kong Theory is probably my favourite book ever, but in my heart I am a private and sensitive soul. I don’t like being touched by people I don’t know, and stupid things like bad carpet make me anxious.

The last few years however I’ve invested my time and energy into situations that have turned out to be extremely disappointing. I’ve worked my ass off for a company that thinks the job is its own reward. My health is circling the drain. And I’m constantly cooking a bolognese for a tortured artist or falling for a really decent guy and then realising that, not only does he want me to become a born-again-virgin, but he’s actually secretly in love with an older woman from work anyway (?????????)

I’m living in a small city/town with few dating prospects, terrible wages and a chronic health condition that could use a whole lot of $$$ thrown at it. I love my friends but the ones here are all in long term relationships, and I am tired and lonely.

I suppose my real questions are:

If you’re the kind of person who takes a long time to get to mahi because you’re busy rescuing worms off the pavement, do you really have what it takes to sell your body on the now-legal but still stigmatised market?

Or is the reality that under capitalism, all work is inherently degrading unless you’re lucky enough to love it, and this is my best chance to make something out of what seems like a stagnant situation?

And how important is sex anyway???

Help!

Yours truly,
Twenty Eight

Dear Twenty Eight

I’d like to start this column with the traditional caveat: I don’t know what I’m talking about. Having said that, I don’t think you should become a prostitute (or, more accurately, a sex worker). At least becoming one isn’t likely to solve your problems, corporeal, financial or otherwise. 

There’s nothing wrong with fucking people for money. If you’ve had a bad run of relationships and you hate your job, I can see why you’d rather just undertake a corporate merger, amalgamating your various problems and cutting out the middleman. After all, if you’re getting fucked over, why not turn a profit? Especially if you enjoy sex. But there’s some truth to what they say: beware of turning your hobby into a job. There’s nothing like opening a boutique pastry business to make you never want to look at another almond croissant again. I also think the reality isn’t likely to live up to the French feminist theory. Even the most adventurous jobs still come with their fair share of bureaucracy and tedium. At the end of the day, sex work is just a job like any other, and isn’t any more likely to provide existential relief from your problems than selling air conditioning units, or teaching undergrads Chaucer. I’m sure, like any job, there are bad days and good days, and that whether or not you’re suited to it, depends largely on your disposition.

I won’t pretend to know what it takes to be a good sex worker, beyond strong personal boundaries, a gregarious nature, and presumably, a talent for fucking. But in your letter you say you are A) a shy, private and sensitive individual who b) doesn’t like being touched by strangers, and c) bad carpet makes you anxious. I think b) alone probably disqualifies you from this kind of work. Especially when you take your health into consideration. Sex work is physically demanding, and probably isn’t a great idea if you’re already suffering from a worsening chronic health condition.

Even if you thrive on the company of strangers, are in Olympic shape, and your area is full of horny singles, I wonder if this career is going to provide the kind of financial security you’re seeking. At least, for someone starting out in a small New Zealand town. You either have the choice of joining a brothel, which would give you greater security, but would cut into your profits, or you could be self-employed, which is not only riskier, but as all independent contractors know, the bureaucracy is a bitch. It’s also worth pointing out that client-based work isn’t necessarily steady. How long would you want to do this kind of work? Is this a job you can reasonably expect to make enough savings to retire on? If you change your mind and want a new job later in life, will it be harder to reenter the traditional workforce? For more information on the financial and bureaucratic realities, I recommend getting in touch with the NZ Sex Workers’ Collective, a great source of realistic, informed and helpful information. 

I’m sure there are interesting and rewarding things about sex work, and the occasional great client. But it’s also dangerous, and you can get hurt. Especially if you’re relying on this job being a primary source of income, and not a lucrative side-gig, where it’s easier to pick and choose your clients. 

But the main reason I don’t think you should do it, is you don’t actually sound enthusiastic about the idea. You sound bored, frustrated and burned out. You sound like someone who has read Moby Dick, and had a sudden yearning to go to sea. This is completely relatable. You want to shake things up and do something bold and life-changing. I’m all for bold and life changing. But there are lots of different ways to achieve that. 

Maybe you need to quit your job. Maybe you need a hobby or passion project. Maybe (and this is my personal recommendation) you need to get the hell out of your small town.

I think it’s time  for you to start packing your suitcase. You’re lonely and bored. The dating pool is more of a dating swamp. You hate your job, and your old friends aren’t enough to keep you here. Moving cities might provide a little of the novelty and boldness you’re seeking, and open an unexpected door or two. For what it’s worth, I don’t think all work is inherently degrading. I don’t think sex work is degrading either. Take almost any job that an animal in a Richard Scarry book does, whether that’s delivering mail, teaching children, or running a small fruit and vegetable shop. It’s all essential, valuable and meaningful work. It’s also true that the most essential, valuable and meaningful work is often the most poorly remunerated*. And it’s only getting worse. Christopher Luxon looks increasingly likely to drive all our best teaching professionals and healthcare workers straight into the bronzed and muscular arms of Australia. 

I think the question you’re asking is how do you find a meaningful job that doesn’t make you lose the will to live and can also pay the rent? I wish I knew a good, long-term solution to this. I’m still trying to figure it out myself. But it’s worth trying to resist that capitalist nihilism. I think there are still ways to make money that can leave you feeling like you’re making a positive difference in the world, and that kind of existential comfort is not to be sneezed at. I think sex work can make a positive difference in people’s lives, but I also think it’s fair to say it’s not a job for everyone. Only you can figure out if it’s what you really want. But instead of using it as a fallback, why not take this opportunity to consider what you’d actually love to do, and start from there. 

* If you want some interesting reading, I highly recommend David Graeber’s Bullshit Jobs

Want Hera’s help? Email your problem to helpme@thespinoff.co.nz. Read all the previous Help Me Heras here.

It’s a familiar sound to those in certain areas of the country, but it can scare the shit out of unaware visitors – as Liv Sisson’s family recently found out.

On a recent night in the tiny, remote South Island town of Franz Josef, my siblings – who were visiting New Zealand for the very first time – were sleeping soundly in their motel room. Our group had arrived at 5pm the day prior. We’d checked in at the exact same moment as five tour buses; the motel was packed.

After a pub meal and a surprise kea sighting we retired for the evening. The group was tired after a long drive, but not too tired to pile into one room and watch a Will Ferrell movie – the one where he fights a grizzly in his undies – before bed.

Fast forward to 1am. A loud and unrelenting alarm begins to sound. My parents rise. Then they remember an innkeeper at a previous stop on the road trip had warned them about this. In our room, my partner closes the window. I do not stir.

My sister Phoebe and brother Denison, meanwhile, are like… “What the fuck is that?”

The alarm is so loud they think it must be in their room. Denison checks his phone charger… is it on fire? No. Phoebe checks hers. Also not on fire. 

“And then it hits us. It’s something outside. It’s a gas leak, a fire, an evacuation… there could be a tsunami coming. All of New Zealand is right by the ocean!”

Earthquakes then cross their minds. Denison recalls that he slept through the 2011 Virginia earthquake which cracked the Washington Monument. He was napping and also five but thinks, “OK, maybe I’ve done that again.”

The pair discuss what to do. “There are no other sounds. No one is gathering outside. No one has even left their room,” Phoebe says. They are spooked, and agree they need to exit.

Denison grabs his jandals and Kathmandu puffer jacket (his adopted uniform for the trip) and goes to yank open the door. Phoebe yells, “STOP! We have no idea what’s on the other side. A fire? An invading foreign army?” The door has no peephole. 

The safest exit option is the other door. Which is glass. And also a balcony. “But at least we could see out of it,” she said.

Phoebe and Denison stand on said balcony. They peer into the pitch black Franz Josef night. They can barely hear one another over the shrill siren. Shouting, they debate their next move. This is where the siblings part ways.

Did Denison leave Phoebe behind? Or did Phoebe make him go alone? The jury is still out.

Denison scales the balcony. He’s on a mission: proceed across the way to reception, ask what the hell is going on. Adrenaline pumping, he sprints through the darkness. He makes it but the door is locked. Then he sees a sign: “Dial zero for reception”. He does so and thinks “Great, someone will soon explain this to me.” 

The phone rings. Rings. And rings some more. Meanwhile, the alarm fades. Denison hangs up and turns to face the night. It is now completely silent. 

“No one is around. I am all alone. An eerie quiet settles over me. The Twilight Zone theme begins playing in my head. I think OK, everything is over. I’m in another dimension. There must be an alien behind me. I am the designated survivor of the human race.”

But luckily, he isn’t. He sprints back across the motel lawn, sees Phoebe, yells “get inside” and bounds back up the balcony “military style”.

Phoebe shuts the curtains. “Denison reports no one was at reception. Our family members have not been heard from. Now I’m fucking scared too.” She texts the family group chat: “Did anyone else hear that loudass alarm?” She calls us multiple times. No one answers. 

The siblings cannot remember which rooms the rest of us are in. So, resourcefully, they start researching New Zealand alarms.

Their first search returns the tsunami siren. They wonder if they should get to higher ground. They check the news. Nothing. They navigate to the Franz Josef fire station’s website, which says “If you’re cooked, stay off the stove” and offers recipes to make if you’re drunk or high. 

They then cycle through recordings of various NZ emergency sounds. They play audio samples back and forth asking each other, “Was that it?!”

Finally they land on one that sounds familiar. And next to it, a note explaining that many small New Zealand towns have fire sirens, which summon volunteer firefighters. 

At 3.15am, the siblings finally have their answer. They are not being abducted by aliens. And a tsunami was not on the way. The two eventually get back to sleep. The next morning Phoebe and Denison were 0% keen to see the glacier – Franz Josef’s main/only attraction. All the wanted was a hot breakfast. 

Their story brings up a few thoughts. Firstly, I hope whoever was in need hadn’t been cooking cooked. And if they were, I hope they’re OK. 

Secondly, what’s up with these alarms? Surely in 2024 there are more advanced and less terrifying tech solutions at our disposal? I briefly looked into this, and the resounding answer is: “No, there’s not.” Fire sirens remain the most reliable way to summon our volunteer firefighters. On further reflection this makes total sense – I’m out of data half the time.

So what could be done to save other tourists from my siblings’ fate? I have some ideas. A warning in the Air New Zealand safety video, perhaps. A note in your customs card. An explainer on the answering machines of reception desks around the country…

At the very least, motels should probably warn their guests. And make sure all of them get the memo.