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During COVID-19, people working from home or quarantining in place have more time to contemplate mortality, and masturbation. I cater to both, as before COVID-19 my days consisted of singing in retirement homes, while my evenings were spent accompanying unsatisfied gentlemen for various activities. Pandemic pandemonium meant that long-term care facilities were closed to the public, while making headlines for astronomical death counts. Meanwhile, view counts grew on websites like OnlyFans.
I’ve been forced by circumstance to transition both facets of my work to online platforms, like FaceTime and Zoom. I set a rigid schedule, so that isolation can be a recipe for my income. Sex work, companionship, and singing: a mirepoix and a ménage à trois.
I will do whatever it takes to sustain my ability to comfort the elderly. I am conscious to not conflate my identities, clinging to costume and compartmentalization. I judge the juxtaposition of my jobs more than those around me do. I live to serenade dying bodies to salvation, and I want to stop suicidal stockbrokers from feeling alone. I can’t always reconcile what I do, nor do I recommend it. Rather, I ground myself through music.
When my Bubbie played me the song “She Works Hard for the Money” in 2001, I was six years old. We danced in her kitchen while we sautéed mushrooms, roasted onions, kneaded dough, and formed parve pierogi. The act of eating the pierogi was lackluster. It was in the preparation, the musical escalation, where my Bubbie’s joy lived. We changed the lyrics, singing: “She works hard for her money.”
In my adolescence, I began singing in retirement homes as both a volunteer and paid performer. People said I was altruistic, but I benefited by surrounding myself with aging people who needed reasons to wake up. My relationships with elderly people were evidence that life doesn’t have to end in a plate of pierogi eaten alone.
She works hard for her money, and “she” became me. “She” had eventually developed significant financial anxiety, grief for her dead father, and an urgency to be wholly self-supporting.
I worked for my money despite the privileges life afforded me. I sang for my money, I wrote for my money, I taught for my money. Exploring my sexuality while I worked hard for my money, I decided to let men get hard for my money.
DURING THE PANDEMIC, a typical day of duality begins at 9 a.m., when I get ready for the elderly. I brush my teeth. I shower. I dry my hair, put on earrings—but no makeup yet. It’s not until later that my layer of foundation cakes on, the icing atop a cake of companionship I eat daily. I sing in the shower, warming up my voice. I sing, “Non, je ne regrette rien”—No Regrets—by Edith Piaf.
At 10 a.m., I call Dorothy, age 81, on FaceTime. She misses my call, calling me back and apologizing. I start to sing to her; she specially requested Doris Day tunes. Dorothy says she’s a Doris Day fan, always was.
Next, I call Linda, age 77, on Skype. Linda doesn’t like Apple products and prefers her Microsoft laptop. She answers the call, and we begin.
I have a 15-minute break before my next take. I shovel a fresh batch of granola down the hatch, drink water, and call Shirley, age 83. She never got married, and I never asked why. Shirley always exclaims she got lucky, always having kids around her without bearing labor pains. There’s pain in her eyes.
Afterward, I refill my water and jump around, granting my legs some blood flow. I text my Mom to say hello.
On deck is Norelle, age 78. She has a grandson, but he’s “busy with school.” Norelle looks forward to her grandson’s graduation from high school next year. I fear she won’t make it.
I say goodbye to Norelle, and apply a bit of makeup in my phone’s reflection. I run upstairs and put on a necklace with the sign of the cross.
Now christened and in costume, I sing to Oscar, age 70, who was once married to a “good Catholic girl.” He asks me to wear a necklace with the same symbol she did, and only calls me “Mary.” On the contrary, I went to Jewish day school for 12 years, but I oblige. Mary died years before, but it’s clear she did the housekeeping. His study is in tatters, it’s abysmal. He hunches over, looking small.
No words and no song can encapsulate the disregard for those whose work revolves around the geriatric, or genitalia.
AT 6:30 P.M., I respond to emails and change. I remove my knitted sweater, and put on a bustier to call Gary, age 46. Gary uses FaceTime to contact me, through an account that is obviously fake and designated for our time. I don’t sing—I strip.
At 9 p.m., I call Alex, age 69, and he wears a tie like he always did in person for our “dates.” Through the poor angle of his camera, I see that, despite the suited torso, he’s in worn-out briefs. I’ll be brief: I strip.
Tim, mid-fifties, calls me. His full name is Timothy, so I picture Timothée Chalamet during our time together. Tim’s employer is still having him work remotely. I spy a treadmill in the corner of his room, but a computer and printer are on his desk. It’s a multipurpose office where he checks his stocks, walks, talks, and whips it out.
It’s 11 p.m. I eat, drink some water, and ring up my grand finale: Delilah and Richie from New Jersey. Delilah is younger, in her forties, and he’s 63. It was Richie’s idea for his wife to “visit” with us. We used to meet over dinner, but now that he’s home, she too drinks from the cup that runneth over. She sips her aged wine as we chat. Richie looks at Delilah, at me, and then down at his hands in his crotch. I check my watch, happy to see that our time together is nearing its completion, when I hear their seven-year-old come to the door. “Mommy, who are you and daddy talking to? Is Grandma lonely again?”
I sign off early.
I check my schedule for my first session tomorrow. Will I sing or strip?
I brush my teeth. I shower. I sing in the shower, once again “No Regrets” by Edith Piaf. Regrets? Surely, those I have.
THE SPECTRUM OF MY WORK highlights the universal need for companionship. No words and no song can encapsulate the disregard for those whose work revolves around the geriatric, or genitalia. Sex work has been criminalized and devalued practically forever, and the tragic neglect of the aged has been highlighted in the unending march of death in elder care facilities during COVID-19. Plus, ageism misrepresents the elderly as celibate, though this is far from true. Some of my clients are grandparents who still have a thirst for being courted, and want to relive their youth.
The entire body is involved in the act of singing, and sometimes in the act of listening. Elderly people physically react to a sung phrase, the timbre in my voice waking demons that have been in slumber for years, shaking muscles resting in atrophy. It is a source of life, outlasting time.
The work I enjoy most invokes empathy. I spend my life around people who are hurt, people whose eyes can flood with tears. I’m honored that I can hold their eyes as my audience, and that my listeners are their ears. I delude myself into thinking that when my voice runs out, when my sex drive eventually dwindles and my own body is ravaged by time, that someone will offer me an encore of engagement—or erotica.
Postcoital and pre-COVID, I take pride in my diligent devotion to our aging populations. Ultimately, I feel privileged to be doing what I’m doing.
The next day moves quickly, as the monotony of COVID-19 has robbed me of nuance. I take a late lunch break, and throw some frozen pierogi in my microwave. My first client is a woman named Donna, age 81. Her full name is Madonna, but now I’m in “the inner circle” of Donna. I hum the Donna Summer standard: She works hard for the money. Just before calling Donna, I try to forget that in five hours, when I call Jim, he’ll get hard for my money.
There is a cheeky saying between bedfellows: “Did you finish?”
In ascending into orgasm and death, I want to help people finish.
