The sex workers interviewed about their jobs were profoundly offended to be called porn stars, even though theyused a good portion of the interview as an audition for those types of films.
One of them felt very strongly that her profession demanded respect and that most women weren’t feminists because they pointed out her job is to show her butthole to random men on the internet.
For a moment, her strong opinions and the opinions of others who called themselves feminists shamed me. But then I remembered my dad’s salary, the tips I get from clients for not showing my tits and doing their hair instead, and decided my feminist agenda aligned with my own values, and I shouldn’t let others shame me for those.
My eyes tear up.
I wipe them with my sleeve. “It’s the onion,” I explain to the man who’s sitting across my kitchen bar with his leg elevated on the other bar chair in front of him. The man who likely witnessed the humiliating altercation with my ex.
“The couch is more comfortable,” I say. “If you want to move there.”
“You shouldn’t have gotten the ice packs,” he says.
I frown. “The frozen veggies weren’t enough.”
“I’m aware. If I wanted you to buy the packs, I would have asked for them.”
I point a knife at him, about to give him a lecture on being more grateful, but something tickles my nose. I sneeze into my sleeve. “Pardon.”
“I can chop onions,” he says.
“Oh yeah?”
He nods.
I pass him the board, and he continues chopping while sitting down. I wash my hands and say, “I have a leak in the shower, if you know how to fix that.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t.”
“Are you not good with tools?” I tease.
The man looks up, eyebrow lifted.
Oh, maybe that sounded sexier than I intended. Eh, now I have to own it. “I really do have a leak, and my dad is a math teacher, so he’s no use.”
“I’m only good at one thing.”
When he doesn’t tell me what the one thing he’s good at is, I rub salt on the steaks. “I want to ask what you’re good at, but I have a feeling that you’d have told me if you wanted me to know. Maybe I’m better off not knowing?”
A short nod confirms my suspicions.
He passes me the chopped onions.
“Do you like allspice?”
“Sure.”
“Or do you prefer plain steak?” I ask.
“I’ll eat whatever you season it with.”
“That’s nice. I’m not used to that.”
The man taps two fingers on the bar. “I watched the argument you had with that guy downstairs.”
I oil the pan and, once it’s hot, add the steak. I dump the onions into the chilled bowl of cut and salted tomatoes and add fresh cheese on top. The potatoes are baked already, waiting for the steak.
“Cooked well done?” I ask.
