fan mail

Dear Julie Doiron,

Every time I see you, I want to write you a letter about all the times I remember you. Once I even did, when you made some comment at a concert that fans don't write real letters anymore. But I couldn't track down an address for you and by the time your agent sent it to me, the letter I had written had been recycled.

I remember you when I lived in Montreal and I saw you for the first time at the Salla Rosa. Anna Sprague brought me- do you remember her from Sackville? Anyway it was winter and you were very pregnant with Rose, playing that giant guitar on top of your belly and wearing knee socks. I think I bought two albums that night. After that sometimes I would see you at co-op la Masion Vert. I used to go there often.

I remember you in Paris while I was there with this marionette troupe. I remember how happy I felt to pick up a colour flyer at some cafe and see your name on it. You played the day of my birthday, but that day I had been in the south, just outside of Toulouse at this artist commune called Terre Blanque.

I remember you in Moncton. I was a Katimavick project leader living with 11 teenagers on Railway ave just off Church street. In my memory it was winter that whole year. I saw you every time you came to town which felt like often. Those were also the touring days of an early Jill Barber and my high school friends in Wintersleep. My favorite memories of that year were walking down Church to the Paramount Lounge on Main. I was there that night you played with Rick. You asked me to take a picture of you and your parents just outside of the washroom. After I took the picture I asked you to play Wintermitts and you did and told stories of Villa Maria and NDG, both of which I was missing terribly.

I remember you in New York. When I came back you played Ottawa at the Rainbow room on my birthday. You had cut your hair short and I brought you some leftover birthday cake but it had some ingredient and you couldn't eat it. I had just come back from New York for the second time. The first had been a few weeks prior where I met this woman at a dyke bar in the West village, and finally realized that I was gay. I returned to visit her, but it didn't work out, so I ended up taking the first bus out of central station in the morning. Tonight is no night always reminds me of that sad and strange very early morning bus ride. I always request it but I call it this bus but you always know what I'm talking about.

I remember you in London. I dated HB long distance for over a year. and neighbours didn't understand. and the hours would never match. and when it all ended and I flew home on New Years day and I was alone in the cold house, oh these walls. I would close my eyes to each night, sending my hopes on that flight.

I remember you in Toronto last spring when I picked up the new LP somewhere on Queen street. I made a video as I was lying in bed with maybesomeday at the Gladstone hotel, looking at the shadows of the cars going by on the ceiling. I used one of those happy songs about being glad to be alive. In those days I was hoping for the best when the breaks got wet. I was a tailor, and a woodstove, and a fire keeping it warm all night.

and I didn't mind, taking my time.

but I probably should have.

Minded. The taking of my time.

I remember you in Kingston the night of my first solo exhibition. I was thinking about my huge family that seems to span the universe and you know, yer kids love you more, than you know. and they love you just the same.

I remember you in Ottawa last night and you sang Blue when I asked for it. You said it was hard on a personal level - but played it anyway. I asked because I'm taking a heart vacation. Focusing on me and heal from what feels like a life long haul of heartache. That song makes me feel strong. It makes me feel in control of my heart. Reminds me that I can decide and I am better off on my own. Reminds me that the lonely of choosing to be alone is way better then the lonely of heartache. For such a sad song, it actually makes me really happy.

and I'm not some pre-teen groupie. I feel old and I work and I get by. In the last few years I write it all out in this blog under an alias and some people say I make heartache beautiful.

and I say I learned from the best.

Sincerely,

The fan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Julie Doiron driving fast on loose gravel mix

1. Sending the Photographs- Montreal
2. Ce Charment Coeur - Paris
3. Wintermitts - Moncton/Montreal
4. Elevator show - Moncton
5. Tonight is no night - New York
6. Oh these walls - London
7. Last night- London
8. When Brakes get wet - Toronto
9. Glad to be alive - Toronto
10. Tailor- Toronto
11. Don't wannna be/ Liked by you - Mojave Desert
12. Yer Kids - Kingston
13. Blue - Ottawa
14. Bonus Track: Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard

Download entire mix here

Real work is sex work

Today, is my 30th birthday.

There are huge things changing and shifting and moving and happening in my life, and this birthday is in many ways a catalyst and a hallmark.

but that's not what I want to talk about.

I want to talk about the birthday gift I gave myself.

You see since I started getting a pretty decent salary I've been going to the Spa. I always go to the same place and I love it there. It's the one on Bank, near 3rd.

Usually I go for utilitarian lady things. Not typically "fun" or "relaxing" but self indulgent.

Over the years I've started venturing out and splurging or more enjoyable treatments too. The occasional massage, pedicure and facial.

But this year, I got the Scrub.

Let. Me. Tell. You.

It starts by this big joyful full figured woman, leading my slowly into this warm candle-lit room. I undress and crawl under the covers of a massage table.

After a short pause she comes in and touches my head softly. She invites me to breath in beautiful aromatic smells.

She starts with one a leg at a time. First she rubs it gently with her fleshy bare hand, as she warms up my cold rough skin; eases me into to all the contact and touching, which feels foreign to my skin. She drizzles warm oil and sugar up and down my leg.

Then she rubs, massaging the sugar into my skin. Not just in a "enn enn, get to work, scrub the tub", kind of way, but in a "oh yeah, get in there mmhn mmhn" kind of

way.

She continues this way over my entire body. She places a warms damp cloth over my breasts and works on my torso. She lifts it up to reach under and scrubs between them and all around the nipple. Then up the neck, down the arms.

I flip over. My back and ass. My rubs my whole body.

It was during this first phase, when the motto, "sex-work is real work" entered into my real everyday life for the first time ever. Many people I know advocate for sex worker rights, some of them are sex workers themselves. But up until that moment, I had never really thought about how all of that applied to my life. I've never been able to imagine paying for sex. I don't do that. I don't want just anyone, doing things to me - It's just not my style. no sir-y, not for me.

But lying there, totally turned on, having this woman caress my largest sexual organ, my skin, I go it. I lied there and t

hought to myself, you know if she just reached down under that folded sheet, that would be just right. She could reach down there, get me off and that would be so perfectly appropriate right now. As if it were just the next obvious step in the Aveda treatment training manual.

Obviously that did not happen. However the next phase of the process, 15 minutes of private time in the hot sweaty steam shower, no doubt intended for detoxification, was apropos.

Following this, she lathered and caressed my body in a buttery soft cream. Then she massaged my head and my face. She covered my body back up with the sheet and gently patted my body down before letting me go. I thanked her, to which she replied " I love doing what I did to you"

After resting I got dressed, and went upstairs. I paid and tipped her handsomely and I was on my way.

As I walked out, I felt pretty damn good. I realized that hiring the services of human contact, of touching and rubbing, was an essential part of Strong Single Woman Sustainability. It was this empowering reminder that I didn't need to be dependant on anyone else for this contact, and that the hiring of such services was nothing to feel shame about.

Does all of that mean I'm going to hire a sex worker? I doubt it. but I get it now. I get it on a whole other level. I understand the injustice and the hypocrisy. My real-worker gets a salary and benefits and a really great work environment. Her clients feel it is a privilege and a treat to hire her. She provides me with sensual, invigorating and arousing touch. Afterwards I get dressed and I pay her. We don't cuddle, in fact that would be totally inappropriate. She likes doing it, and I don't feel like I have used or mistreated her.

But if she had just added the step of reaching her hand down under my sheet, which frankly I think should be added to the Aveda instruction manual, everything would be different. Her work would be socially stigmatized. It would be illegal for her to work in a house or building. She might have to work outside, leaving her susceptible to violence and abuse. Even the threat of death. Her customers would be criminals for hiring her services.

Obviously the life and industry of sex-work and sex-trafficking are complex and I know so very little about them. But I do understand the spa, and in my mind, they shouldn't be so different.

This blog post has since been referenced here:

Ickaprick & IronPussy and cross-posted on rabble.ca

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