How Was It for You? is salacious, enraged, narrated with a frankness to make the Cerne Abbas Giant blush, and utterly unputdownable. The tale grips from the start and is often funny as well as surprisingly tender. Readers who imagine the sex memoir a mere noughties fad should read it and find fresh excitement in the genre without delay.
‘Eve Smith’ (a pseudonym) has many bugbears and one of her biggest are ‘rad fems’ - radical feminists. Besides their perceived sanctimony and urge to patronise, Eve detests how they distort and simplify the reality of sex work. All sex workers have a sob story behind them, have no claim to either an inner life or personal agency, and are incorrigible victims. The same failing is found in lazy screenwriters, who first instinct should be to reject stock characters and idle stereotypes.
Eve’s solution is to give reality back its quirks and nuance. You might suppose, not entirely unreasonably, that a professional dominatrix not only hates men, but does so with a fury grown mechanical. In fact, a misandrist is about as well-suited to the job as a narcoleptic is to flying a plane; it can be done, but rarely with lasting success. The best temperament for the job is theatrical: engagements must be prepped and scripted long in advance and with a feel for the ebb and flow of dialogue.
It surprised me that sex workers can and do form lasting bonds with some of their clients when the chemistry is right. One of the more quietly harrowing stories involves an elderly former client rendered housebound by illness. During her off-hours Eve devotedly visits him at home and spends long hours talking to him and keeping him company, all while avoiding despising glares from his social workers. Nor are other clients exempt. She recalls a sharp pain when she realised a handsome bachelor and devoted architect is, in fact, lonely and starved for affection. If he was lonely, she muses, what hope is there for the rest of us? That bad men exist is a fact. But it’s nice to read something as gently affirming as this:
‘I like to talk, as I actually like men. Most of the time. Yes, I think they are too easy, too desperate and far too many of them can be dogs but, here's the thing: I have always liked dogs. They're entertaining and just so grateful if you throw them a bone.’
I’ve mentioned that that is an enraged book, but often justifiably so. In parts this is personal. While no victim, Eve had an unfair share of grievances. She grew up wearing ‘jam-jar glasses and train track braces’ and was picked on mercilessly at school, taking refuge in Enid Blyton and adventure stories. Dad was hard-working, Mum an undiagnosed manic-depressive. She recalls the day she had her first kiss, courtesy of a ‘beautiful’ Scottish boy, and felt desired for the first time. The first major boyfriend, a middle-class GP, the apple of her parents’. eyes and an obvious control freak, almost choked her to death. Her love of acting led her to drama school - Eve is a classically trained actress - and with it the full force of southern snobbery. Actresses, even in 21st century Britain, are still expected to speak RP as their default mode. You can only speak in your real accent when playing a prostitute, especially when like Eve (and myself, for the record) you hail from Birmingham. (‘ “You're from Birmingham?” they'd chuckle, saying the word as though it was hard to push out of their sneering lips. “Well, you would have had to move away from there sooner or later, wouldn't you? Well done.” ‘)
I hope you agree this kind of thing isn’t merely snobbish, disgusting, needless, and wrong. It’s absurd.
I also hope that readers don’t miss the economic lessons embedded in the text. They’re not trifling. Perhaps only farmers read the economic room better than a sex worker. When Eve started out, the hourly rate was relatively high. Competition from the Internet and Eastern Europe has saturated the market, particularly in London, to the point where prices have fallen and sex work is now cheaper than ever before. Pressure to perform ‘extras’ is fierce. Workers can spend as much time branding themselves on social media as working - particularly draining are ‘maintenance’ posts - and finding the most cost-effective advertisers. This has brought hazards both local and distant. When holidaying in countries that use facial recognition software, this has dire consequences. To slightly paraphrase, blow a U.S. president for free and they make you First Lady; blow a plumber for market rate and they turn you back at the border.
The book is richly funny and its comic highlights are many:
‘I was a klutz on stage and I am a klutz in the dungeon. I have electrocuted my own nipples and set fire to my laptop.’
‘Between us, Adam and I have a wealth of experience. Street smarts, of course, but academic smarts too. Adam has had the best education that his fine brain could get him; four years at Oxbridge studying physics. Then there's me. A quick learner and streetwise, with a side of strong muscle that comes from beating men in arm wrestles for drinks since I was twenty, and then later for cash. And never underestimate how strong you have to be to get past two sphincters. So, I often think that with both brains and brawn we can achieve quite a lot together. That we're quite the team. Four hours of consultation and cussing, sweating and swearing, and we still haven't been able to assemble the cot.’
I recommend learning a few key segments by heart for your party piece or screenshotting for the Facebook feed. If there’s any justice, perhaps Brick the policeman, Doctor Tom, or the more arrogant specimens splayed on these pages will overhear them in conversation, duly sweat from the palms, and regret they didn’t treat this gifted author better.
Thanks to NetGalley etc.