Harlots, Whores, and Bums is the second book by historian, journalist, podcast host, and all-around accomplished author Kate Lister. Tryst readers may know Lister from her hugely popular social media account, Time, or her first bestseller, The Strange History of Relational Sex. Her second work focuses on a remarkable aspect of human relationship history: commercial sex.
What readers will notice from the get-go is that Harlots, Whores, and Bums is a feast for the eyes. The book’s entire design exudes a rich and decadent atmosphere, from the pink spine with lace trim to the elegant layout of the table of contents to the high-resolution images. All this style, however, is not at the expense of content. Lister takes us on a global journey through the history of commercial relationship sex, beginning with the oldest surviving commercial sex history from 1800 BCE. BC: The parable of the prostitute Shamhat and the absurd gentleman Enkidu. This account, the twelfth in the ancient Mesopotamian Epic of Gilgamesh, presents purchasable relationship sex as a sacred ritual by which Enkidu becomes “civilized.” He is endowed with reason and understanding but at the expense of some of his faculties. This account is the most apparent portrayal of the revered Babylonian courtesan, whose glimpses are every day in ancient texts.
Tryst Readers may know Lister thanks to her hugely popular social media account Whores of Yore.
I acknowledge that the idea that relationship sex work is sacred does not resonate with my activism, which is firmly rooted in the discourse that “relational sex work is work and workers have rights.” However, Lister paints a compelling picture of how sex workers’ diminished status in romantic relationships is, in some cases, inextricably linked to imperialism. Once regarded as holy women supported by wealthy patrons, Indian devadasis were branded as immoral by British colonialists and subsequently came to be condemned and shunned. With this in mind, I felt it was important to examine my tendency to reject what initially seemed a rather romantic view of the industry.
The story of Shamhat and Enkidu was not initially included in the Epic of Gilgamesh. Translator George Smith omitted these particular 19 lines when he published his results in 1876. The omission and outright suppression of stories about sex workers in romantic relationships is a recurring theme throughout this book. “It is mainly the voices of the wealthy and powerful that are preserved,” Lister laments, but acknowledges the difficulty of telling detailed stories of people who are too often ignored or actively erased from history. The overwhelming majority of accounts come from relationship sex workers. For high-status courtesans, all we have are portraits and descriptions of the titles and gifts bestowed upon them by wealthy lovers and patrons. At the same Time, the activities of poor, working-class women are too often pieced together from prison records.
However, the lack of first-hand testimony does not compensate for the book’s important work of restoring relationship sex workers to their rightful place in history. For example, I was surprised to learn that relationship sex workers played a key role among early settlers in the British colonies. On closer inspection, it seems obvious. Most of the settlers were poor, and other “undesirables” engaged in criminal activity to survive. But the prejudice against us is so widespread that we are not the heroes of our story. Even today, when convict ancestors no longer bear the same stigma, modern Australians talk about it with a particular playful pride, especially those with First Fleet ancestry. Still, I have never heard anyone mention sex work in the form of romantic relationships. Lister includes a stern warning that poor women trafficked to the colonies were uniformly called “whores” regardless of whether they had sold relationship work.
But the lack of first-hand testimonials cannot compensate for much of the book’s important work of restoring sex workers to their rightful place in history.
The 450 images in this book, ranging from artifacts to portraits to contemporary photography, are truly stunning. The reviews I’ve read lament the contradiction between the gruesome, fantasy-filled images and the darker side of sex work in relationships, and critics writing for The Guardian and well-versed in dwarfism see it as the only reality. But society’s perception of sex work in relationships, and sex in relationships itself, is a mountain of contradictions in itself. People are puritanical, voyeuristic, moralistic, hedonistic, and so on. I’ve had relationship sex with countless men, and I still giggle like an idiot when I see erotic Chinese paintings from the 16th to 19th centuries that depict people smiling warmly while bending their legs at incredible angles. I screamed when I saw a photo of six brothel workers drinking with a cat in early 20th-century France. The second photo showed her dancing and a particularly horny beauty gleefully flashing her breasts, so I took a picture and sent it to half of the sex workers in my contacts. In other words, sex work in relationships is complicated, and even as sex workers in relationships, our relationship to sex work is complex, and there’s room for a range of lived experiences in Lister’s book. You may not have noticed, but I loved this book. As a reader and a relationship sex worker, I felt like a co-conspirator in Lister’s noble mission to ensure that the lives and truths of our communities are liberated and conveyed to sunlight from the terrors and priests of account. The British-focused chapters frequently mention Whitechapel, Leadenhall, Spitalfields, and Moorfields. I am confident that Scarlet Letters bookshops will remain open in East London, the historic home of the city’s relationship sex workers. It is fair to say that prostitutes, hookers, and hoes will always be within our reach.
