In the outpour of heartbreak that flooded the internet after David Lynch’s passing, some of the most vocal mourners were sex workers. It makes sense. Lynch’s work revolves around complex women on the precipice of sex and violence, the two often intermingling. His films portray the terrifying potential of sexuality and how it shapes the world around us. In Lynch’s universe, sexuality breaks from societal restraints, it is invited to wreak havoc, explode into chaos, bloom into rapturous pleasure. Underground worlds of hedonism, secret lives devoted to titillation, dream and nightmare logic to guide us through. People often fumble for a meaning that his portrayals actively defy and deny. His work is felt, not explained. The complex mystery his work harbors extends to his characters, enigmas of caricatures and tropes with lives that snake around their throats and squeeze.
In the ambiguous haze of sex, violence, and morality, Lynch often relied on the portrayal of sex work. Laura Palmer in Twin Peaks, Dorothy Vallens in Blue Velvet, and Alice Wakefield in Lost Highway are all women who were drawn to or circumstantially forced into sex work. Our profession is illicit, a lot of times couched in secrecy. We place ourselves in the company of people we don’t know, we allow them to touch us, use us while performing a dream. At the mercy of others, the potential for violence lurks, and, in this space, the mix of fantasy and fear is potent. While most see those feelings as misaligned, at odds with each other, Lynch knew that they were sometimes one and could occur simultaneously. Or, as one anonymous “whore” said, “What’s frightening to many about it isn’t those two taboos or that they’re connected, what’s frightening are the lengths shown to cover up the connection. His ‘worst’ work is always his most obscuring, when he wavers between whether the worst of ourselves lives in the doing or the denial of the deeds.” It is in that transparency that so many of us live, within a space where that connection is fully displayed. Naked among sex and violence.
“I’ve never seen a violent sex scene in a Lynch project and felt it was ‘edgy’. He always seemed to understand that sex and violence are both forms of intimacy and, much like morality, it can be hard to tell which side you’re on sometimes,” says Maggie McMuffin (pro-switch whore). What seems to separate Lynch from the many men that depict sexual violence on screen is that he showed the consequences of such violence from the perspective of the women burdened by it without reducing them. He recognizes that pain and sex shapes us, but it is never all of who we are. Blue Velvet is a potent example in its portrayal of lounge singer Dorothy Vallens (Isabella Rossellini), who is forced into sexual slavery by a psychopath named Frank (Dennis Hopper). When asked what character in Lynch’s filmography one most relates to, Bug Bailey (full service sex worker and mattress actress) asked, “Will I get canceled if I say Dorothy Vallens? Her desire to escape through consensual masochism and new relationships is so very relatable. Her character also plays on gender performance as a shield in really interesting ways.” I would be lying if the danger of this job wasn’t something that enticed me from the start. There is a relinquishing of control. What could happen, and will it be bad for me? The masochism of Lynch’s characters is a driving force. Some long to destroy themselves, others are biding time before they’re destroyed by someone or something else.
Unlike Dorothy Vallens, Lost Highway‘s Alice Wakefield (Patricia Arquette) revels in her work. She finds power in her ability to bring men to their knees. She is an embodiment of sensuality. Satisfying her exhibitionist and voyeuristic nature, this work allows Alice to create a life devoted to sex. Captured in the porn/snuff films she stars in or aglow riding her lover in the desert, she is a shining example of a hedonistic force. Alice chooses sexual gratification over any sense of a “normal life,” and she recognizes the potency of that choice. She demonstrates a shocking freedom, owning something that society rarely affords: ravenous pleasure. It is not the men in her life who control her, it is she who controls them.
Laura Palmer (Sheryl Lee) of Twin Peaks and Fire Walk With Me is the most literal portrayal of sex work in Lynch’s filmography. A small-town girl from a traumatic home leading a double life, relying on drugs to get her through the days, sneaking out at night to prostitute herself. A sexual being born from abuse that uses her sexuality as an escape. At night, Laura transforms from bubbly blonde to seductive siren. “Her personal and home life was so chaotic and violent, but her sex work persona was often so streamlined,” said Bug. “It’s something a lot of sex workers can, for better or worse, feel seen by. Her manufactured mix of luxury and small-town white trash excellence really struck me, and is a big part of my work personally.”
Transformation, the delineation between selves, is something most sex workers can relate to. “The act of embodying while not being in the body is an intractable part of being a whore,” said anon. “The impression we leave behind when we act like one person but live as another is a surreal place in which to find value. Our own vs. the value we offer others when we are not exactly ourselves. Wholeness vs. well packaged parts, which is most attractive?” The clear separation of lives, balancing day and night, taking on differing personas — adapting is a large part of being a sex worker.
Navigation of two selves, this separation, is often a necessary part of surviving in the industry due to criminalization or societal pressure. “I totally love that the not at all subtle disguises — a la Clark Kent vibes — for sex working women is nearly humorous but ‘would work on the average Joe’ fake mustache type switch,” said Alexis Reynolds (professional escort and dominatrix). “I think it’s his nod to the need for privacy and aliases with a disguise or keeping things hush hush from family and friends. Many workers are not out and their biggest fear is being outed to parents, a landlord, boss or lover and while it is cheesy on film and may not fool anyone in the real world it almost raises a glass to the trials and complications that could really arise for workers in any decade and any city. Intentional or not, I applaud his desire to convey the need for privacy and discretion for workers and their comings and goings.”
“Because I shave away parts of myself for most clients, this is relatable,” said Maggie. “When I’m with a client, I am not having a bad day. I am not focused on myself. Because I am focused on curating an experience I get to ignore my own problems for an hour or two. Back when I stripped I could go on stage and imagine I was someone else, try to be the person I wanted people to see when they walked in the club. But ultimately, it was my time in a legal brothel in Nevada that summed this up. When you’re working there you don’t get to stop being a prostitute. You have to stay inside most of the time and the windows are tinted or boarded up. You can’t leave after sundown. The place I worked was in a small town so people there know everyone and they know that if a new woman pops up she’s a hooker.”
“We all lived in our house on the other side of the train tracks from the town, existing in this liminal space with furniture and decor from various decades (including a haunted mirror from the 1920s). You’d walk through a door and you’d be in the bar for the lineup, smiling and not allowed to say anything but your name. You’d walk into the final room of the tour and suddenly become a harsh negotiator. You’d walk into the kitchen and go from the relative leisure of the living room to the ‘gotta cook fast in case a guy shows up’ survival mode of the kitchen. And on top of that, there were women working there literally hiding out from things: bad boyfriends, addiction, houselessness. If Laura Palmer had had to live at One Eyed Jack’s she would have lost her mind.”
Simply and eloquently put, Bug said, “We build a life that sits in a space between reality and fantasy. I think that Lynch touches on this so often and so well.” He did. The line these portrayals walk are perhaps so comforting to see because they are so emotionally vivid, and therefore truer to the work than any straightforward, “day-in-the-life” illustration ever could be. “I personally like to think that he was possibly a client, patron of clubs or even sat in at bars and overheard discussions from local workers through the decades that bear a striking resemblance to the violence easily and often perpetrated by domestic partners and patrons even in modern times,” said Alexis.
One can only hope that David Lynch knew how impactful these depictions were for us. The emotions sex work entails are often minimized. It is a gift to see them embraced and explored by an artist — depicted with dignity and depth, curiosity and understanding.
I’ve never met a film critic I mean writer who was a Wait ur a sex worker???