I forgive Esther Rantzen for That s Life. Not many people can reach into their souls and find such forgiveness possible, but for me it s suddenly been made easy. She s produced an excellent documentary series on BBC1, Prostitute. She s doing the interviewing, but surprisingly and to great effect, she is off-camera. Each programme is devoted to an in-depth profile of one person whose profession is or has been prostitution. Perhaps because of her saccharine-sweet familiar presence, the subjects are at ease in front of the camera. And she gets away with asking really brutal questions by, one presumes, efficient use of a sympathetic milk-of-human-kindness smile.
Frank was this week s prostitute, a gay guy with a Scouse accent, who s 34, and who s been HIV+ for nine years. I found it disturbing and moving at the same time. His was the second in the series of four profiles; the first was of a mother of three children, a beautiful Sade lookalike. Both have had their complete lack of self-esteem forensically exposed for us all to see; it leaves me wondering how much they were paid, and if they feel it was worth it. Whatever it was, it wasn t enough.
I have known and loved prostitutes; however, I ve never paid for one. In a sleazy sort of way that sounds like boasting, but I do not mean it to be; the prostitutes I have loved have been troubled and wounded each in their own way. In Frank s case, he came from an abusive large Irish family, and he was fostered and put into care all through his childhood. He described his father as evil. He only has fondness for his foster parents and his care workers, one of whom who said that Frank as a child was always seeking approval, always reaching out for love and affection.
good personality
The reason for my fascination with Frank is that he lived and breathed the values of the gay scene in London; and a lot of his dilemmas are ones that I am familiar with. When he went out on the scene, for a dance or perhaps to meet someone new, he always needed a drink; he spoke of his nervousness at meeting people, that his stomach cramped with the tension.
Although at one stage declaring that he was confident that he had a good personality, he later admitted that although he felt handsome on the outside, he certainly didn t feel so on the inside. He said that if someone he loved asked him to give up prostitution, he would do so today . Esther suggested that so far, no-one had loved him enough to ask. He could only agree. What subtle crimes are committed in the name of television. He spoke bitterly about the men in his life; how they ve always been good-looking, with good bodies; but they ve been also selfish and cold-hearted.
When Esther suggested that perhaps he was making a mistake in placing so much importance on appearance, he wearily conceded. Perhaps it was too difficult to explain to the hostess of That s Life about the compulsions of the male sex drive. It s certainly beyond me.
I imagine that there must have been at least one man watching who would have been moved enough to want to get to know Frank better, to offer him at least some of the love that he craves; enough to make him feel handsome on the inside. However, the sad thing is that that viewer would probably not be good-looking enough for Frank. I ve looked into eyes like Frank s, hard aging little rent boys eyes, and they have always passed right through me, cold, hard, and judgmental.
skinhead look
Despite myself, I feel my body s not good enough, my face is not the hard London chic, and my eyes are too soft, too questioning. Since losing the skinhead look over last autumn, I don t even have the look to grab attention in the first place from guys like Frank.
But I have to admit that part of me is like Frank. But for the fact that I had loving parents, perhaps I too would be a prostitute. I recognise his yearning, his disillusionment with the men he s fallen for. I recognise in me sometimes that peculiar shame about his own neediness. And most of all I recognise the split in me between going for Mr Nice Guy and Mr Cool; no matter how often I tell myself, I keep on going for Mr Cool.
Mr Nice Guy, who s a bit feeble and openly needy after only the second night, and sometimes on the first, sends shivers down my spine. I d rather go for Mr Cool. At least you know where you stand with him; there s no bullshit, no romantic expectations. You can lock away the emotional part of you and convince yourself that you don t get scathed.
Both Frank and Talia, the woman in the first programme, spoke of having plenty of sex anyway, and figuring that they might as well get paid for it. I alluded to this devaluing of sex as a currency a few months ago, when I was pontificating from the lofty moral heights that four months of celibacy brought. Their way around it was to charge for it, to not give themselves away.
Now that I m back in the game (but, thankfully, not on the game), I still recognise that potential sense of cheapness as a reality; but I also know that one of the gifts of such a lifestyle is the stories I hear from men I d never meet otherwise. However fleetingly they pass through my life, I ve reluctantly come to the conclusion that I enjoy it, and I prefer it to staying at home with the cats.
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Apropos of nothing in particular, I rang the London Gay Spiritual Group today, to find out more. The man sounded like an enthusiastic vicar, inviting me to meet his other parishioners who were very friendly indeed . He said he wasn t really into religion, and that there wasn t any particular religious standpoint expected of the members. I made the mistake of asking him why he started this, having people over to his home every month, running a newsletter, going to all this trouble. He told me that it was channelled by his higher being.
I know it s weird, but I might end up going next month. I ll try anything once. It may even be worth writing about. But of course I don t live my life just so that I can write about it, and get paid for it. There s a word for that . . . n