Ernestine Pastorello
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It Took Half An Hour
🕑 Added 2020-04-22 18:00:03 +0000 UTC1 April 2020
Evening
Home (of course)
I have implemented the scheme.
It took half an hour.
These times provoke a lot of thoughtful (and of course now my phone is blowing up and I’m distracted from my thoughtfulness) gazing out the window. My bedroom window looks out over the courtyard (I’m in the “vorderhaus”), and, as this new normal of everyone in their home most of the time goes on, it becomes increasingly interesting to look into the windows across the courtyard and see what people are up to. Or at the roof, which still has rails on the edge from when Berlin had heavy snow. Or at the ground, where there are sometimes children playing or people greeting each other in German such that it echoes throughout and can be heard by everyone. You know. European living. Charmant.
My plan is as follows:
I have met a new friend with not one but three cats.
I have been warned by friends that, when there are cats involved, my judgement can be affected. I am in acute feline withdrawal since leaving home in January and…
…this is not what you want to know. Sorry. Back to the scheme.
Ok, so she has not only three cats but an extra bedroom, and as a veteran of the profession herself, made it known through channels that she was happy to rent it to ladies looking for an incall.
Of course I’m looking for an incall. I’ve been looking for an incall since I left my Airbnb two months ago. Brilliant. Wonderful.
We met. She is a bit of that sort of cat owner, if you know what I mean (no shade–I undoubtedly will be that way myself someday if I am not already), but generally, it was a delightful cup of tea and a really good chat. And I needed a good chat.
You all know me to be a relatively level-headed, rational, I daresay (to the occasional chagrin of gentlemen on multiple continents) businesslike sort of dame.
But the definition of “rational” has altered substantially over the course of the last month.
To be clear: I am afloat. Barely. By the skin of my teeth and more than my fair share of great good fortune that I fully intend to pay forward someday. But it is rough with the city shut down and my profession not only relying on the opposite of distance but being actually not legal here right now (the hairdressers, the freelancers, and me, the sex worker). I intend to post some way that people who are really worried can chip in, because I have no idea how long this state of things lasts, but in the meantime…
…I still get the occasional request. And then the whole annoying conversation of “I come to your place?” “No, I live with others.” “You come to my car?” “No, you fucking idiot,” etc., etc., ad nauseum.
But I found an incall!
And now…
I have read all the things from the scientists. That article that everyone should read (and you really should too, if you haven’t):
“Why You Must Act Now”, with all its models and graphs.
Also, this extraordinary piece of photo journalism by the New York Times about what happens if this gets really bad.
So I’m informed.
I’m also a prostitute. In my marrow.
I tweeted a few weeks ago that prostitutes, as a species, have profiteered from most major calamities in human history: War? We got you. Sailors. Love it. Earthquake? Fire? Revolution? When we’re not firing the guns or holding up the signs or storming the barricades, we’re there, existing in between the margins, offering comfort and release to everyone else. Whores thrive on moments when the social order breaks down, because that’s where we live anyway–in the margins, in the cracks, in the dark places where nobody looks until the bombs start to fall.
However. A pandemic passed even by casual physical contact? Oh boy. Shit. Merde. Mierda. Scheisse.
So, Ernestine? Will you social distance? Will you forbear to work?
Yes, I have been social distancing. In fact, I have been taking it extremely seriously, not leaving the house unless for shopping or an essential appointment, washing my hands as advised when I return, not touching nose or mouth….you know the drill. I don’t wear a mask (and I’m pissed that some asshats in Florida have massively delayed the shipment of my stuff, including Josephine, my sewing machine, to Germany, because I’d like to be able to help make masks), but I am extremely careful and mindful. It is my duty, as a human–as a humanist–it is part of my code of ethics–to protect the weakest among us, to do everything it is possible for me, a single person to do, to keep the hospitals from overflowing and to save lives, if possible.
But what happens when one’s code of ethics comes directly into conflict with one’s identity?
I think you see where I’m going.
My need to work does not, at its heart, stem from the leftovers of Protestant-work-ethic complex, nor my mother’s voice in my head (“Get a real job, you crazy artist”), nor, entirely, from economic urgency–although it is absolutely a factor, due to the fact that, as yet, the government of neither country I belong to has provided adequately for my basic needs.
I want to work because I want to be Ernestine. I need to dance (on ladders, apparently), and I need to be Ernestine.
In this moment, we are all discovering what is minimally required for us to stay sane under these conditions.
I will social distance the fuck out of this thing. But also, I’m going to offer my (once again) illegal services. Because people need it. Can you imagine being confined to your home with wife who won’t fuck you and child 24 hours a day? Can you imagine going through that alone? Tons of people are not doing ok right now. There is a vibrant discussion on “Expat Ladies of Berlin” Facebook if it’s ethical to see one’s partner, for fuck’s sake, and I pointed out that we have no idea how long these circumstances are going to last, and that mental health is not some sort of luxury good–it becomes a question of what any one of us can actually, sanely endure, until we’re ripping the stuffing out of the couch and looking with fondness and longing at the razors. My father in California is gardening like mad. He does not do well being housebound. My Italian relatives, thank god and tocca ferro, are all fine and indeed find life very minorly altered, because my elderly cousin Maria spends virtually all her time either in the kitchen or on the adjacent balcony, looking out over the town square and waving down friends and relatives. So I think that Italians are perhaps uniquely home-centered and more ok with current circumstances than other cultures, because they still have enough shared culture that they can make music from their balconies, instead of hurling themselves off of them in despair.
But a whore must fuck. She must be touched. Just like the muscles of my feet clamor to be used, the rest of me absolutely withers without intimacy. More so, I think, than most.
So I’m going to do this one selfish thing. I’m sorry. But self-care is not a luxury. Each of us must take up some amount of space in the world. I enjoy the part of my work in which I am constantly finding myself giving others permission to take up the space that they need to keep body and soul together, even if they have been conditioned for years–sometimes decades–not to.
Very fondly and wishing you all the best of health in all ways,
Ernestine
