Fuck You, Pay Me #6: Letters From Johns Revisited

This is part 6 of “Fuck You, Pay Me,” an ongoing series of posts on writing, editing, and publishing. Read the rest of the series: Part 1: How To Become a Writer in 12 Easy Steps, Part 2: The Pros and Cons of Traditional vs. Indie Publishing, Part 3: Scenes From My Life Writing a Porn Novel, Part 4: Why I Hate Memoirs (but Wrote One Anyway), Part 5: 19 Ways to Make Money as a Writer, Part 6: Letters From Johns Revisited, Part 7: Some of My Favorite Things I’ve Ever Written (Journalism Edition), Part 8: Some of My Favorite Things I’ve Ever Written (Fiction Edition), Part 9: How to Promote Your Book Without Going Crazy.

Recently, I’ve been thinking about Letters From Johns, a 2008 project in which, over the course of a year, I shared emails that men sent me about their experiences paying for sex. (As you can see on the project’s website, by submitting their letters, the letter writers were granting me permission to share their letters, anonymously, of course.) This letters project was part of what would become a five-year project I called The Letters Project, and which included Letters From Working Girls, Letters From Men Who Watch Pornography, Letters From Men Who Go To Strip Clubs, and Letters From Cheaters. The Letters Project as a whole got a fair amount of media attention, including coverage by Salon, CBC Radio, and Newsweek. In a weird coincidence, I launched Letters From Johns on January 3, 2008, and then New York governor Eliot Spitzer was entangled in a prostitution scandal a little over two months later, the latter bringing some attention to the former. (That’s timing for you, I guess?)

In August of 2013, as The Letters Project was winding down, I published an essay about the project: “You Were My Studs.” I wrote about how the whole project had started with a shot in the dark: I had put out a call on my blog, asking readers why they had paid for sex. Within a few hours, I had my first answer: “The Night I Drove a Call Girl to Her Next Stop”; it begins: “I am writing because I can’t tell this story to anyone I know and retain my dignity, but since your soliciting I figured I can get it off my chest.” There were more letters to come. As I wrote in my essay: “Over the following year, I heard from over 50 johns. Their letters came at all hours of the day and night. They were from young guys and old guys, white guys and black guys, military grunts and corporate drones. The letters were poignant, exhilarated, nostalgic, terrifying, revelatory. They were all confessions.”

One letter in particular, “I’m a State Investigator,” struck me:

“I keep a coded diary, in case it's discovered. 1 dot is oral, 2 dots is vaginal sex, and 2 connected dots is anal sex. In the event that someone questions the dots, they are associated with good/bad days: no dots are normal days, 1 dot is a good day, 2 dots is a great day, and 2 connected dots is the best day for that week."

As I wrote: “Of course, the letters weren't about sex, or prostitution, or johns. They were about love and loneliness, from guys who just wanted to be touched and men who had gotten dumped, stories in which call girls really had hearts of gold and mercenaries cruised foreign streets in search of bodhisattvas-for-hire.” After a year, each letters project was closed to submissions, and while I received many letters, I rarely responded: “I surmised the letters were not for me; they were for their authors.” But, as I recounted, I did reach out to one john: “I Am Ashamed of Nothing I Have Done.” In an email, I asked him why he had written a letter to me (a woman).

His response, in part:

“By that, I mean I never considered that I was writing my letter to a woman. You're Ms. Breslin, with a blog about john experiences. Like my several john experiences, I was reaching out to no one in particular; I was, in hindsight, trying to find some elusive unidentifiable emotion. Although I gave you 'a perpetual, royalty-free license to use, reproduce, modify, publish, distribute, and otherwise exercise all copyright and publicity rights with respect to that information at its sole discretion, including incorporating it in other works in any media now known or later developed including without limitation published books,' you cannot take from me the liberating experience you elucidated from three simple questions. Thank you. And again, thank you, if only for a few brief moments of experiencing ... .... ..."

Looking over the letters now, I remembered a lot of them, and how I got a kind of thrill whenever I received a new one. It was fascinating to revisit them today.

Like Letters From Johns’ “I Am a Gentleman”:

“There are many who would maintain that my philandering disqualifies me from claiming to be a good person, and definitely from being a good husband. Frankly, I don't care what they believe. I have a hobby that is infinitely more interesting to me than travel or theme parks. The ladies I prefer can hold conversations and appreciate the occasional session just to stroke their bodies. They do not judge. They do not become angry at requests. They treat the experience as an encounter between equals. There is no power struggle. There is no drama. There is privacy, and usually conviviality. What we do behind closed doors remains there.”

Or Letters From Working Girls’ “I Am Just An Ordinary Woman With The Knack Of Making People Love And Trust Me”:

“I am just an ordinary woman with the knack of making people love and trust me. These were just men who needed to love somebody who would let them. It's all so simple. Not complicated in the least. There were no perversions too perverse to get in the way of the trusting bond that was needed. Women suffer out loud, and men suffer in silence. Until we allow men to suffer out loud, many a wife will wonder where her husband is during his lunch hour, and in my opinion, a lot of those wives deserve it. (Not all of those wives.)”

Or Letters From Men Who Watch Pornography’s “I Was a Geek”:

“I've come to accept pornography as my surrogate sexual lifestyle: devoid of complication, disease, and odoriferous unpleasantness, and heavily populated with a wide range of women to satisfy every craving, it is a hollow yet adequate solution to my otherwise celibate bachelor existence. And while I am still aware of the inherent pathetic quality of being a man alone at my age, I would much rather be the connoisseur of an under-appreciated form of entertainment continuing to transcend the aesthetic limits hitherto placed upon it by forces of official history than a harried everyman, harangued by the burdens of emotional turmoil, personality conflict, atrophying sexual energy, and ludicrously inexcusable asinine conversations and circular arguments.”

Or Letters From Men Who Go to Strip Clubs’ “I Am Gay”:

“All of that is uncomfortable to witness, because none of it can be commented on nor helped without becoming far too intimate far too fast. The club creates the illusion of heterosexual intimacy, a coy game of it, but it refuses to actually allow or engage the real thing. So long as everyone involved simply enjoys the game, all is well; but the moment someone needs more than the game, they absolutely cannot have it, and so they stand there, open and raw and unable to share. Most of the other dudes are too engaged to notice, but the detached strippers and the detached gay man notice.”

Or Letters From Cheaters’ “I Have Always Been a Cheater”:

“Eventually, this split life I was living took a toll on my relationship. One day I pulled the plug. I tried to reform myself. I took up a daily meditation practice. I tried my best to avoid massage parlours, prostitutes and gangbangs. About eighteen months ago I met another wonderful woman. We’re talking about building a house outside the city, starting a business and, of course, having a child. I’m happy. But… I still can’t stop myself from looking at the online ads; I’m still not quite there, if you know what I mean. Sometimes I worry that everything is really just work and performance.”

Sometimes when people ask me what I write about I say sex or porn or the business of sex. The real answer is probably closer to intimacy. That’s what these letters, the best of them, anyway, the most real and raw and revealing, are about. Every so often, I think of one of the Letters from Johns that’s stayed with me: “I Have a Physical Disability.”

Here’s his letter in full:

“I have a physical disability known as Cerebral Palsy and am in an electric wheelchair. I have always struggled in my own existence, largely because I rely on a lot of people to assist me with the most basic tasks, such as dressing, showering, getting in and out of bed, and other basic things that many people take for granted. Although I am verbal, and highly intelligent, having acquired two university degrees at the age of 24, people do tend to judge a book by its cover when it comes to things such as dating and sex.

My entire life I have been trapped inside a body that I hate. It never does what I want it to. It always conspires against me. Although I am confident in my intellectual ability, I do not have a very strong self-image. This is largely because every girl I have asked out on a date has rejected me. Some were even cruel enough to say, ‘Why would I ever go out with a cripple like you?’ Even now, I still have not yet had a girlfriend.

A few years back, I was hanging out with a few other disabled guys who were less physically able than I was. They mentioned that they regularly used a pro because it was the only way they could get the release they craved the most. Most of these guys couldn’t lift their heads up on their own, let alone have the ability to please a woman the way they wanted to. They would go to a brothel and get a hand-job once every few weeks. One of them described his first time with a pro in a way that will stick with me for the rest of my life; he said that ‘It was the first time I felt like a real man.’

Sometime later, I fell in love for the first time. After pursuing her for several months, I was rejected once more, but this time was much harder to swallow than the others that came before her. After several weeks of feeling sorry for myself, I decided to do something about it. Remembering the words of my friends, I decided I would visit a brothel. However, unlike my friends, I knew I wanted more than a hand-job. I wanted to lose my virginity.

I searched through the phone book, found a brothel I wanted and asked about the processes involved. I soon discovered that like most things in my life, this could not be a total secret. If I wanted to have sex, I would need somebody to help me shower before and after, as well as to lift me onto the bed. This would put most of my other disabled friends off immediately, but it did not deter me in the slightest. Without a moment's hesitation, I asked my older brother if he could help me. Although he was initially stunned, he reluctantly agreed.

On the night we turned up at the brothel, we were two completely different men. I was excited, nervously anticipating what would await me. My brother, in contrast, was absolutely petrified, afraid that someone he might know would walk in. After a short while, some girls made their way out and introduced themselves. I picked one and we followed her into the room. She stepped out while my brother helped me get organized. I told him to go for a walk, and I’d give him a call when I was ready.

The whole experience was everything I hoped it would be. She started by giving me a massage, which eased my muscles that are normally tight and non-compliant. As she completed the massage, my body felt like it could do anything I wanted, something I had never felt before. She went down on me, and we had sex. She made me feel safe and confident in myself. For that portion of time, having sex with her (even if I had to pay for it) made up for a lifetime of rejection.

It was the most enjoyable experience I have ever had in my life. I would put it down to two things. For once I had gained control over my body, and it felt like I was in control of my life. The worst thing about having a physical disability is the lack of control I have in life. Everything is very clinical, get up at this time, eat at this time, have a shower at this time, and go to bed at this time. I have no control over these things. This time, I got to do things on my own terms. Second, it was the first time I felt like I was being treated like a sexual being with desires and needs that were important. All my life I have been viewed as an asexual being whose desires should be avoided or neglected. The trip to the brothel taught me not to be afraid of my sexuality and not to push it into the background.

I am now a regular customer, although not as regular as I’d like to be. This is mostly because my brother has moved overseas, and it is hard to find people who will willingly accompany me. However, each time I go, I no longer feel like a cripple. I feel whole.”

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Those Letters from Johns

Yesterday, I tweeted some links to a project that I did a decade ago: Letters from Johns. Started on a whim (n.b.: everything interesting I’ve ever done was started on what amounted to a whim), the year-long project featured anonymous letters men wrote me about why they’d paid for sex. On Twitter, I mentioned a few that had stuck with me: “My entire life I have been trapped inside a body that I hate,” “You can, in fact, buy intimacy by the hour, even if one half of it is feigned,” “I keep a coded diary, in case it's discovered.”

What had the project revealed? What struck me as I looked through the letters a decade later was that it had provided a rarely-seen window into male vulnerability. Ten years later, men are still expected to present themselves as a cardboard cutout of masculinity. These letters showed what was hidden.

You can read more about The Letters Project, which includes Letters from Johns, Letters from Working Girls, Letters from Men Who Watch Pornography, Letters from Men Who Go to Strip Clubs, and Letters from Cheaters, and the press coverage that five-year project got here. You can read an email from a john about why he wrote me a letter here: “You were my Studs [Terkel].” And if you want to write me an email about why you’ve paid for sex, you can do so at susannahbreslin @ gmail. Who knows? Maybe I’ll relaunch the project to find out what’s changed, if anything.

Buy a copy of my digital short story: “The Tumor” — "a masterpiece of short fiction.”

TEACHING SEX

Dr. Jason Winters, a professor at the University of British Columbia, teaches the very popular, sex-focused PSYCH 350: "The Psychological Aspects of Human Sexuality."

The course has a companion blog, which mentions several projects I've done, Letters from Johns and Letters from Working Girls.

His past research includes a "'boner-measuring' phase," during which "[I measured] sex response in sex offenders." 

[The Ubyssey]

THE PROJECTS: YOU WERE MY STUDS

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THE PROJECTS is a series focused on reinventing the journalist as an autonomous creator, exploring new avenues for digital self-publishing in a transforming media climate, and inspiring a new generation of creators to redefine how they do business in the digital age. Part 1 is here. Part 2 is here. Part 3 is here. The projects section of this site can be found here.

I started The Letters Project on a whim. It was January 3, 2008. At the time, I had no idea the project would last five years, or that it would garner attention from media outlets around the world.  

On that day, I posted a call to my blog, asking readers to send me emails about why they pay for sex. Within a few hours, I had received my first email: "The Night I Drove A Call Girl To Her Next Stop." It began, "I am writing because I can’t tell this story to anyone I know and maintain my dignity."

That afternoon, I created a blog and named it Letters from Johns. "Why do you pay for sex?" the sidebar queried. I posted my email address, asking for more letters. The authors would remain anonymous.

Over the following year, I heard from over 50 johns. Their letters came at all hours of the day and night. They were from young guys and old guys, white guys and black guys, military grunts and corporate drones. The letters were poignant, exhilarated, nostalgic, terrifying, revelatory. They were all confessions.

"I keep a coded diary, in case it's discovered. 1 dot is oral, 2 dots is vaginal sex, and 2 connected dots is anal sex. In the event that someone questions the dots, they are associated with good/bad days: no dots are normal days, 1 dot is a good day, 2 dots is a great day, and 2 connected dots is the best day for that week."*

Of course, the letters weren't about sex, or prostitution, or johns. They were about love and loneliness, from guys who just wanted to be touched and men who had gotten dumped, stories in which call girls really had hearts of gold and mercenaries cruised foreign streets in search of bodhisattvas-for-hire.

On January 14, 2008, I launched Letters from Working Girls. I heard from fewer sex workers than I did johns. They were too busy living the life, I assumed. Those I did hear from had a wide range of experiences. Some were in their twenties and used the internet to turn cyber tricks. Some had long since retired and recollected fondly the good old days in which they had sex for money. 

"One guy, in particular, we all loved. We called him 'park bench.' He did not get undressed, he laid face down on the table, and the girl sat on him, naked, reading a magazine, not talking to him. After about 20 minutes he'd say thank-you, and that was it."* 

On March 10, 2008, the New York Times revealed that then-New York governor Eliot Spitzer had been paying escorts for sex. A few days later, Newsweek discovered The Letters Project and asked me to write an essay about why men who have a great deal to lose would risk paying for sex.

"For some men, especially those who are seen as particularly moral or righteous in their public lives (think of all those fallen preachers), part of the appeal is the fact that it is illegal and a moral transgression in their eyes."*

On April 26, 2010, I began Letters from Men Who Watch Pornography. I didn't hear from many men who wanted to examine why they watch porn. Introspection is the enemy of pornography: a literal boner-killer.  

"Am I addicted? Yes, probably. But I would rather say that I'm addicted to the world and to beauty. And while not all porn is beautiful (believe me, I know), sometimes a glimmer shines thru it and that is what I'm looking for."* 

On October 26, 2011, Letters from Men Who Go to Strip Clubs went live. This iteration begat a great deal of media attention. Salon deemed it "bizarrely poetic," CBC Radio concluded, "men go to strip clubs for much more than just naked women," and the Telegraph found it "startling."

Compared to the letters from johns, the letters from men who go to strip clubs were lighter, more playful, less torn. In some cases, strip clubs functioned as a kind of school for socially-awkward males who couldn't navigate the real world of courting women. In the clubs, they were assured a positive response from the dancers -- as long as they were tipping. The nudity was secondary to the connection. 

"The reason I go to places like this is for those moments when they stay and talk.  That's all I wanted.  They don't have to be naked.  They could be wearing a suit of armor for all I care; I just want to talk to someone who cares, and $1 every 3 minutes is a lot less than $250 an hour for a therapist."*

On September 24, 2012, I reached out for Letters from Cheaters. Adulterers didn't want to talk, apparently. Or perhaps the term "cheaters" was too pejorative. Maybe part of the thrill was keeping the secret a secret.

"Sometimes I worry that everything is really just work and performance."*

Every letters project lasted one year. Then I closed it to submissions. Over those five years, rarely did I respond to the letters. I surmised the letters were not for me; they were for their authors.

I did reach out to one john. He was John 21: "I Am Ashamed of Nothing I Have Done." He was ex-military, and he had traveled, and been a john, around the world. He had closed his letter with this assertion:

"One can try to hang a sign on us, the collective john, as perpetuating the global conspiracy of sex/slave traffic, and I'll grant that my Thailand trip may have/probably did contribute to some sort of thuggery. But in the end, I am ashamed of nothing I have done."

I asked him why he had written his letter and if it had made any difference that I was a woman. He responded:

"I read a piece on Slate or maybe MSNBC about the Spitzers of this world that referenced your blog. I found the concept of your blog akin to one of those Avedon-type coffee table books--voyeuristic and interesting enough to keep it in plain view for guests to peruse while the host/ess is at the bar scaring up some more mojitos or martinis or whatever. So I navigated to the blog, read a couple of the letters and decided I had a story to tell.

We create stories to share, and before I navigated to your blog, I had nothing to share. When Studs Terkel shows up at the door, the Average Joe asks, 'Studs who?' Yet he's created an indispensable repository of American history by asking simple questions. You were my Studs, showing up unannounced at my door, like a census-taker, with three simple questions. Although I loathe writing this, I will: 'This is why I sent the letter.

The writing experience was cathartic for so many reasons. The facts of the matter matter to me in such a profound manner. I love(d) the mother of my beautiful daughter, but I had such intense revulsion that she shared our crazy love/sex with someone else that I had nothing other than the 'nuclear' option available to me. While writing the letter to you, I experienced a range of emotions I haven't felt in almost a decade: achingly deep love, disloyalty, loss, freedom, puppy love, freedom... in a sort of linear fashion. I even had a Jenny and Forrest reunion synapse trigger while writing my letter. Although you may have picked up my closet romantic self in the letter, Jenny and Forrest will not be reuniting in an antebellum estate anytime soon.  And, yes, I did find writing about my Czech beauty very titillating. I was able to transport myself to another time, carefree and full of wanderlust. I saw the room, I saw her body, and I felt, f-e-l-t, the excitement I experienced. It was wonderful, and as I sit here writing this reply, I feel nothing of the sort. (Too bad.) This is near-clinical, but not quite.

By that, I mean I never considered that I was writing my letter to a woman. You're Ms. Breslin, with a blog about john experiences. Like my several john experiences, I was reaching out to no one in particular; I was, in hindsight, trying to find some elusive unidentifiable emotion. Although I gave you 'a perpetual, royalty-free license to use, reproduce, modify, publish, distribute, and otherwise exercise all copyright and publicity rights with respect to that information at its sole discretion, including incorporating it in other works in any media now known or later developed including without limitation published books,' you cannot take from me the liberating experience you elucidated from three simple questions. Thank you. And again, thank you, if only for a few brief moments of experiencing ... .... ..."