I don’t remember when I first learned about the existence of sex work. Certainly, I learned about sex at some point in a middle-school classroom, probably among a group of snickering teens. Yet the idea of sex as a job did not exist in my mind until cinematic depictions introduced me to the stereotypical image of a sex worker: A woman in the night, heavily made up, dressed up in provocative clothing, standing at the corners of dark streets and getting into strangers’ cars. At the time, I didn’t see this as work. I saw what she did as a shameful, criminal act;, almost a threat to society. Because I believed that sex work was not an “admirable” profession, I did not see it as a profession at all. It was incongruent with my perception of how a job should be. It took the longer portion of my life to understand that no matter my opinions on the task itself, sex work is real work.
The moral status of sex work has long been debated, both by a sex-conservative establishment and revolutionary feminists. Is it sex? Is it work? Can it be both? These are questions that have divided feminist circles for the last century. Some feminists, whom critics accuse of participating in “carceral feminism,” advocate for increasing legal penalties. For them, sex work and sex trafficking live on the same spectrum of degradation and exploitation. Many carceral feminists, like the radical feminist Catherine MacKinnon, or the anti-prostitution advocate Julie Bindel, believe that sex work should be outlawed altogether, with the ultimate goal of abolition. Some advocate for harsher prison sentences for those selling sexual services, even if the services are their own, in an effort to completely eliminate sexual labour.
Clearly, there are problems with this framework. But on the other hand, critics of carceral feminism can sometimes veer into a romanticized version of sex work—one in which exploitation is notnever a factor. In the book //Revolting Prostitutes: The Fight for Sex Workers Rights//, activists and sex workers Juno Mac and Molly Smith argue that this philosophical binary creates two inverse images of sex workers: The “happy hooker,” an empowered, often young, white woman who participates in sex work as a form of liberation and autonomy, versus the young girl, stolen from her bed in the middle of the night and forced into sex trafficking. Ultimately, these two characters form a reductive dichotomy of sexual labour. The first image ignores the realities of migrant women, for instance, who are coerced or threatened into exploitative sexual labour because of their potentially unstable immigration status. The second image paints all sex workers as helpless victims and strips them of their autonomy. The truth of the matter is that there is no one kind of sex work. Safe and well-compensated sex workers exist, as do unsafe and worried sex workers who exist in volatile spaces with poor working conditions.
Sex work is what McGill law professor Angela Campbell calls a “morally ambiguous” profession. As she wrote in her 2013 book, //Sister Wives, Surrogates and Sex Workers: Outlaws by Choice?//, prevailing perceptions of sex work are dominated by a choice-coercion binary.
“I think we think of people as enlightened or as exploited and subject to [societal] pressures,” Campbell said. But, she added, “Any of us can be subject to forces that feel coercive.”
Whether or not something is coercive depends on who you ask. To those with the privilege of a secure, legally unambiguous job, the complex choice to enter sex work can look like a product of exploitation and restriction. But Campbell pointed out that activities deemed degrading by some, like selling services on the street, can be viewed entirely differently by those actually working.
“There are people who appear to be in circumstances that are very limiting, when in fact they exercise incredible resilience and resistance in their own communities,” Campbell said.
At least in some ways, sex work has become more normalized in recent years. Nathan*’s path into sex work began during the pandemic. He explained that returning to his home country of Malaysia with a schedule full of online classes presented him with a newfound amount of free time.
“Everything was up in the air, school became ridiculously easy and all of a sudden I had all this time,” Nathan said. “A pimp in Malaysia reached out through my Instagram […] and asked if I’d be interested in doing this and I thought ‘Why not?’ I had nothing to lose if I tried it out. If I like it, then it’s money.”
For Nathan, sex work tends to be transactional, rather than something sexually fulfilling for the service provider.
“When we have sex with our clients, it’s a service in exchange for something else,” Nathan said. “You’re offering something that you wouldn’t normally do and you’re doing it for the perks, not for the pleasure [….] When you really think about it, what’s the difference between sex work and just giving somebody a regular massage?”
But, of course, the two professions aren’t the same in the eyes of the law. “[By] taking it one step further and making it an erotic massage, suddenly it’s sex work and it’s illegal,” he added.
Despite its history of being stifled and criminalized, sex work remains one of the oldest professions in the world. In Canada, the history of sex work legislation is impressively convoluted and ambiguous. The first recorded sex work laws were introduced in Nova Scotia in 1759, but the legislation was centred on removing “vagrants”—anyone considered undesirable—from the street. The real legislative history began after the Canadian Confederation was formed in 1867, when these vagrancy laws were combined in the Canadian Criminal Code with more sweeping laws that forbade brothels and pimps from employing women. Since then, legislators have expanded the definitions of criminal conduct; by 1985, the Parliament passed a law that barred public communication for the purposes of “prostitution.” Finally, in 2014, after a Supreme Court overruling of previous sex work laws, Canada implemented Bill C-36. This bill followed the lines of the Nordic Model framework, meaning that the purchase—but not the selling—of sex is illegal.
On the surface, the Nordic model seems like the ideal compromise for both sex work critics and advocates: Punish the buyer, but not the seller; protect the woman, arrest the man. But although the Nordic model has been hailed by many as the ultimate fix to sex work legislation, it only increases financial precarity for sex workers. If one half of the transaction is outlawed, how is a sex worker supposed to find the means to live? The Nordic model criminalizes a central the entire goal of sex work—the compensation. Thus, even though the selling of sex is not illegal, sex work falls into a grey category of illegal occupations. Secrecy is incentivized in this model, since a sex worker who exposes an abusive client to arrest risks losing income. The ultimate result is that sex workers are at much higher risks of experiencing labour violations.
More recently, advocates for sex work have moved away from the word “legalization” toward the word “decriminalization.” The distinction is crucial. Legalization typically involves the regulation of certain streams of sex work. However, exactly what kind of sex work is allowed is up to legislators, who can potentially criminalize many categories of sex work. On the flip side, decriminalization implies fully removing sex work from the list of criminal offences and treating sex work just like any other type of work. This would open the doors to labour rights for sex workers, as their form of employment would fall under the Canada Labour Code.
“When sex work is viewed as criminal, sex workers’ clients and other third parties are constantly trying to evade law enforcement, and when you’re evading law enforcement, it means that you’re in isolation, you can’t access services you need,” explained Jenn Clamen. “It means you don’t tell people you’re working in the industry.”
Clamen is the National Coordinator for the Canadian Alliance for Sex Work Law Reform (CASWLR) have been working nonstop to help provide the support and resources that sex workers need. The organization formed in 2012 in the middle of a constitutional challenge called the Bedford case. The case was initiated by Terri Jean Bedford, a Canadian dominatrix, initiated the now historic 2007 lawsuit, who arguinged that Canada’s anti-prostitution laws were unconstitutional in a historic 2007 lawsuit. After a seven-day trial in 2009 and a year of judicial deliberation, Bedford and her two colleagues, Valerie Scott and Amy Lebovitch, won the suit in its entirety, and it was their work that led to the eventual Supreme Court decision to overturn previous sex work laws in 2013.
Since we continue to live in a country where sex work is criminalized, organizations like the Canadian Alliance for Sex Work Law Reform (CASWLR) have been working nonstop to help provide the support and resources that sex workers need. Despite the fact that the selling of sex is not criminalized, sex workers continue to fear the police, and rightly so—over-policing of sex workers remains a critical issue. And uUltimately













