I’m a sex worker and a mother — Bonnie Blue’s videos feel icky

When I discovered I was pregnant I was working as a strippergram.

Men love pregnant women: I could probably have gone on until I was nine months gone without a murmur of protest.

But when the punters’ first question changed from ‘How much for a shag?’ to ‘When are you due?’, I decided it was time to change career.

The controversy around Bonnie Blue becoming a mother has brought back so many of these memories. Her announcement has prompted the familiar question: can someone who makes a living from sex also be a good mother?

And underneath that is an even uglier assumption, that a woman who uses her body sexually must somehow be less capable of protecting a child. It’s one I fundamentally disagree with.

At five months gone, I got a job on a sex chatline instead, moaning my way through perhaps fifty fake orgasms a day, discussing the very weirdest of kinks. It was boring, exhausting work, and I worried constantly that my baby’s first words might be something explicit.

At almost nine months pregnant my phone broke halfway through a shift and I was fined for missing more than five calls in one day, which seemed particularly unreasonable given that the ringer had broken from overuse.

Still, I didn’t protest very hard. My throat hurt from all the fake screaming: I never wanted to hear another male voice again.

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Instead, I spent the last week of my pregnancy sitting my university finals and not telling anyone anything. I resolved never to get on the phone again if I could possibly help it, a resolution I’ve largely kept.

My son James arrived furious, fists clenched, a mass of blonde curls and long limbs. My mum held my hand as I screamed him free. Everyone said he would break a few hearts.

Two weeks later, like a desperate, greedy idiot, I rang my old strippergram boss and asked if she had any work for me. I claimed that my body had snapped back into shape like magic, which was completely untrue: my belly sagged, I still had stitches, and one breast was at least three sizes bigger than the other.

But, I was a single mother, my little stash of cash wouldn’t last forever, and there aren’t many jobs that you can do with a newborn. Twenty minutes later she rang back.

Could I do a job that afternoon?

Oh joy. I improvised an outfit to cover my still-swollen flesh and went off to do my turn at an 18th birthday party. One of the young men, overexcited and unaccustomed to drink, attempted to probe my gaping, newly stitched gash after I took my knickers off.

I brought my fist down very sharply on the top of his head, collected my money and exited in dignified silence.

People always tell you that your life changes forever when you have a baby, but I can honestly say mine didn’t, not a bit. James was an easy, amenable child, clever and obliging and patient as a cat. He would go to sleep as soon as we got in the car, most of the time, and usually my mum came with us and sat beside him while I worked.

Back home, I would wash the shaving foam off my breasts and feed him, on demand, until my body gradually looked like mine once more.

There’s an enormous amount of nonsense talked about the bodies of sex workers, and the supposed contradiction between being sexually available for work and being a safe place for a baby.

My breasts could be part of my job in the afternoon and feed my son in the evening. My body could be something that men paid to look at, touch or fantasise about, while simultaneously be the place my baby felt safest.

There’s one comment I remember vividly from a party I worked. ‘I’m glad that ain’t my mum’, one woman said: an improbable circumstance, given she was decades older than me.

But, why wouldn’t you want a sex worker for a mum? You got something against being warm, well-fed, well-dressed, going on holidays and theatre trips? He’d never have passed age 11 if we were poor. Poverty is debilitating and deadly.

Sex workers with children have existed for as long as sex work has existed. It’s a terrific job for a single mother, short hours, plentiful cash; the flexibility to fit around childcare.

It’s not necessarily the glamorous choice people imagine, but neither is cleaning offices at five in the morning, and we don’t routinely ask cleaners whether they are fit to be parents.

What sex-working mothers do have, which other mothers perhaps don’t, is the additional fear of social services. I’ve known women who are terrified that if somebody at their child’s school discovers what they do, that information will somehow be translated into evidence that the child is in danger.

But, there is a fairly obvious distinction between exposing a child to sexual activity and having a job involving sex while your child is safely elsewhere.

With Bonnie’s latest clips featuring a baby or lifelike baby doll, I’ll admit that makes me feel icky. I wouldn’t feel comfortable involving someone incapable of consent in a sexual picture. I think that’s morally unacceptable.

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But for most in my industry, the greatest danger to children is often not their mother’s work but the shame and stigma attached to it.

James was seven when I told him I worked as a dominatrix. He was pretty uninterested. ‘Oh’, he said, ‘I thought you made a lot of money for a teacher’.

This had been the line I’d previously spun him, and given I spent most of my working days in cap and gown making old men in school uniforms write lines, not too far from the truth.

He decided to tell his school friends I was a writer, which was also true, although obviously that was never going to afford us the lifestyle we enjoyed.

It never occurred to me to worry what people thought of us, and I hope I passed on this total indifference to my son. Nowadays, he tells potential girlfriends his mother is an international porn star: they lap up his stories.

‘Oh my God, your mum’s so cool’, they purr. He whole-heartedly agrees. Indifference to other’s opinions is insanely cool. But, Bonnie, there are still lines that shouldn’t be crossed.

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