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Sex work apps are about more than advertising – they can keep workers safe

Ugly Mugs, a new safety app aimed at sex workers, shows how technology can step in where law enforcement fails.

Matt Haworth was paying a visit to a sex worker charity in Manchester when a brightly coloured bulletin board in the corner caught his eye. It was covered with descriptions of bad punters – those who were abusive with sex workers, or didn’t pay up. “One that really stuck with me was a man who drove around in a Vauxhall, throwing hardboiled eggs at sex workers,” Haworth tells me over the phone, several years after the event. “It preyed on my mind for years. Why did he hardboil them?” 

There are around 80,000 sex workers in the UK, and they’re statistically more likely to be attacked or raped at work than most other groups. Because of their unsure footing in a country where sex work isn’t criminalised, but many related activities like streetwalking or running a brothel are, sex workers are also unlikely to trust the police – and police can be reluctant to help, or keen to clamp down on the profession rather than protect its workers.

The board Haworth saw in Manchester was an analogue version of National Ugly Mugs (NUM), a service run by the UK Network of Sex Work Projects. Now, it protects sex workers from rogue customers via a network of text and email alerts that are tailored to specific regions. The service gave Haworth, who owns a technology company, an idea: what if the sex workers could get these alerts directly to an app, and also use it the app to report back on their own safety?

With his team, Haworth developed the NUM app based on the charity's body of knowledge and feedback from sex workers themeslves. Spreading alerts as quickly as possible is a vital part of the app's offering. As Haworth tells me, the need for it is aptly demonstrated by the case of Thomas Hall, who attacked four sex workers in the course of a single evening in Manchester in 2013. This feature was also inspired by location-based dating apps like Tinder and Grindr. “We wanted to use the same location technology for a very different end,” Haworth tells me.

The app checks incoming numbers with its database of rogue punters, and also features a kind of panic button, which workers can press if they feel unsafe. Again, detail is key: the button feature uses a black background, so the phone doesn’t light up sex workers' faces and attract attention. The button can be used to report bad clients, call the police, or log that the worker felt unsafe so NUM can check in with them later to offer services and support. The app has been tested in Manchester to a positive response, and is currently undergoing a bigger pilot in London. Haworth tells me that the police themselves are supportive of the scheme. 

This would all be moot, of course, if smartphones weren't already part of sex workers' lives  but Haworth found out in focus groups that “many said that the internet and technology were paramount in their work”. Reason Digital, Haworth's company, carried out what he believes is the first dedicated research into sex workers’ smartphone use, and found that somewhere between 30 and 40 per cent of sex workers in Manchester use a smartphone. Anecdotally, Haworth found that escorts and “indoor workers” who don’t walk the streets are more likely to use them, partly because “they get bored – there’s lots of waiting around”.

In fact, over the past few years, there has been a rise in technology services marketed specifically to sex workers. German site Peppr was billed earlier this year as the “Tinder for sex work”: workers can advertise their services, and punters can contact them through the app.

Unlike Ugly Mugs, it’s purely for advertising, and isn’t particularly concerned with workers' safety. I asked a customer service representative if the app acts on reports of violence, and was told that the company reserves the right to block any user, but has only done once for a no-show. “It’s amazing how effective linking people to their address and payment card is,” the representative told me.

Image: Peppr

The rise of apps aimed at sex workers isn’t surprising when you consider that sex workers have used online advertising for about as long as the internet has existed. Margaret Corvid, a New Statesman blogger who works as a dominatrix in Plymouth, tells me that she does all her advertising online on sites like Adult Work (she also receives NUM email alerts and reads them “religiously”).

In the early days of the internet, sex workers used directories like Alta Vista to list their services. Some of these have even survived the rise of Google and are still used by some workers, Corvid tells me, “especially in kink”. Many sex workers advertise, or have advertised, on sites like Craigslist or even Facebook, but these companies have become stricter in shutting down sex work advertising.

Craigslist originally ran an "Adult" listings section, but closed it in 2010 under pressure from the public, yet Corvid argues that the ability to advertise and receive payments online actually makes sex work much safer. Clients email her, then she “insists on a phone call with every client” and takes a security deposit via online payment.

In the US, where sex work is still criminalised, major credit card companies are pulling their services from sex work sites, and in doing so, putting sex workers at risk. This is partly because the ability to advertise online means workers can act alone. “You don’t need a manager or a pimp, and you can set your own prices and choose your own clients,” Corvid says.

Apps like Peppr, which automate the transaction, could arguably make this process less safe, however. Their click-and-go business model doesn’t encourage the kind of screening processes Corvid uses, and the app doesn’t pre-screen clients either.

Online booking and advertising also results in a digital paper trail, which, depending on your jurisdiction, can be a good or a bad thing. In the US, where the law is harsher on sex work, a digital footprint can also be a risk for workers and punters alike. In the UK, it may actually make the work safer. “Right now it's a good thing there's a paper trail, because even though it's almost impossible to get the cops to deal with issues of assault and violence against sex workers, there would be at least some records of the punter through the app system which could be obtainable by authorities,” Corvid says. 

Apps and websites, whether they are for safety or advertising, also offer other, less obvious, benefits for sex workers. “Sex work is a historically isolating occupation,” Corvid tells me, “and technology has really changed that.” Technology allows workers to organise politically when needed, or just swap tips – “like ‘Where do I get this specific type of stocking my client asked for?’”

This was one aspect of sex workers' use of technology that surprised Haworth and his team while they were developing the NUM app. At one meeting, Haworth tells me, a male sex worker in his teens asked quietly: “Are you only going to send out bad news? What about good news?” As a result, the team are including news of new support groups and successful convictions of rogue punters in their updates.

Overall, both old-school listings sites and apps aimed specifically at sex workers are empowering a group traditionally maligned by society, the police, and even, on occasion, its own clients. As Haworth tells me, the NUM app is radical because it’s “decentralised – it lets sex workers look out for each other”. Until our more traditional instiutions get their act together in their dealings with sex workers, this will remain incredibly important.

Barbara Speed is comment editor at the i, and was technology and digital culture writer at the New Statesman, and a staff writer at CityMetric.

Flickr: M.o.B 68 / New Statesman
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“I begged him to come home”: Breaking the taboo around texting the dead

Many people text dead loved ones to cope with their grief – but trouble arises when they get an unexpected reply. 

A month after Haley Silvestri’s dad died from a heart attack, she texted him begging him to come home. In the middle of the night Silvestri’s 14-year-old sister had found their father, with his lips and mouth blue, lying on the kitchen floor. “There was nothing there anymore, just a dead body,” Silvestri says. “My father had his first heart attack months before and seemed to be doing OK. Then, this happened.”

In the very first episode of CSI Miami’s seventh season, the protagonist – Horatio Caine – fakes his death. For the first 15 minutes of the episode, the viewer believes the character is truly dead, as the camera lingers on Horatio’s body face down on the tarmac.

Silvestri and her father used to enjoy watching the show together. After he had passed and she realised she would never see her “best friend” again, she picked up her phone. “I texted my dad begging him to come home,” she says. “I begged my dad to please be ‘pulling a Horatio’.”

"My heart was broken and I was bawling as I texted her over and over" 

In texting her father after he had died, Silvestri is by no means unusual. No official figures exist for the number of people who use technology to message their deceased loved ones, but Sara Lindsay, a professional counsellor, clinical supervisor, and trainer, says it is “more common than we think”.

“I see it as a modern and contemporary part of the grieving process,” she says. “I think in a way it's very similar to visiting a graveside, in that the bereaved are reaching out, particularly in the early days, because it takes a long time for people to process the reality that this person has now gone.”

Karlie Jensen, 18, texted her friend immediately after she found out she had died in a car accident. “I texted her as soon as I woke up to the news from my mom that she had passed. My heart was broken and I was bawling as I texted her over and over waiting for a text saying it wasn't her, that my mom didn't know all the facts, and maybe she was just hurt.” Jensen also called her friend and begged her to respond. “I did it because I couldn't let go and couldn't accept she was gone from my life forever,” she says. Karlie continued to text her friend while also calling her voicemail in order to hear the sound of her speaking again. 

Karlie (right) and her friend

After her first text to her deceased father, Silversti also began texting him once a week. She fell into depression, and on her worst days messaged the number. “I think it helped initially because it felt like I was personally writing a note to him, that I knew he only was gonna see,” she says. “I did it because it was my attempt at pretending he was still here and could text me back.”

Lindsay, who has over a decade’s experience of bereavement counselling, emphasises that this behaviour is in no way unhealthy. “I think on the whole it's a very healthy part of grieving, particularly in the first year where the bereaved faces agonising days without their loved ones,” she says. “There is just so much loss and change in their life that’s out of their control, I see this aspect of texting as a small way of being able to reach out and alleviate that pain. That person is suddenly now not there but how they feel about that person hasn't changed.”

"I was going through my phone and I saw his number – I wanted to delete it, but I hesitated I thought maybe I could send a text"

Despite being normal, however, using technology to talk to the dead is a behaviour we rarely – if ever – hear anything about. If the words “texting the dead” make it into the media, they are usually followed by a far more sensationalist “and then they text back!!!!”. Yet although messaging the deceased is popularly seen as the stuff of horror movies and trashy headlines, in reality it is simply a new, modern way to grieve.

Via Mirror.co.uk

“The first time I texted him I was on my bus on the way to school,” says now-20-year-old Dylan Campbell about his cousin Josh, who passed away from leukaemia. “I didn't have many friends so I had no one to talk to. I was going through my phone and I saw his number – I wanted to delete it, but I hesitated I thought maybe I could send a text and someone would reply or I would get something out of it.”

Campbell continued to send his cousin texts for a few weeks, “kind of like a diary”. He says he did so because he regretted not seeing Josh more up until his death, and “had a lot of things to say” that he’d never had the chance to. Linsday says texting in this way is a very healthy way of completing unfinished business. “There might have been something they've never said to their loved one that they want to be able to say and texting is a very normal place to do that.”

"Begging for a dead person to reply to you hurts since you won't ever get what you want in return"

Nonetheless, Lindsay notes that texting the dead can become unhealthy if grief becomes “stuck”, and the texting replaces normal communication or becomes a long term compulsion. Unlike Silvestri and Campbell, Jensen continued to text her friend in the hopes she would text back. She admits now that she was in denial about her death. “Begging for a dead person to reply to you hurts since you won't ever get what you want in return” she says. “I don't know if it helped trying to contact her or hurt worse because I knew I'd never get a reply. I wanted a reply.”

Quite frequently, however, this reply does come. After a few months – but sometimes in as little as 30 days – phone companies will reallocate a deceased person’s phone number. If someone is texting this number to “talk” to their dead loved one, this can be difficult for everyone involved.

“This story doesn't have a happy ending,” says Campbell. “After a few months someone from that number called me and yelled at me to stop bothering them – it was really heart breaking.” When Silvestri texted her father to wish him a happy birthday (“Saying I hoped he was having a great party up in heaven”) someone replied telling her to never text the number again. “I was pissed off,” she says. “Just block my number if it was that serious. This was a form of therapy I needed and it got taken away because someone couldn’t understand my hurt.”

Indeed, behind the sensationalist tabloid headlines of "texting back" is a more mundane - and cruel - reality of pranksters pretending to be the dead relatives come back to life.

"Visiting a grave is a clear recognition that the person visited does not exist in the normal day-to-day state of life, whereas texting allows for a suspension of that reality"

Silvestri, Jensen, and Campbell have never spoken to anyone else about the fact they texted their dead loved ones. Lindsay says that a fear of seeming “mad” combined with cultural phenomena – like the British stiff upper lip – might make people reluctant to speak about it. There is also a stigma around the way much of our modern technology is used in daily life, let alone in death.

This stigma often arises because of the newness of technology, but Christopher Moreman, a philosophy professor and expert on death and dying, emphasises that texting the dead is simply a modern iteration of many historical grieving practices – such as writing letters to the dead or talking to them at their graves. “I don't think the process of grieving is much changed, even if new modes of grieving come about due to new technologies,” he says. In fact, if anything, the differences between old and new ways of grieving can be positive.

“One important difference is in the sense of proximity,” explains Moreman. “I can text a loved one from anywhere in the world, but I can only visit their grave in one specific location. In another way, texting has the same structure whether I am texting someone who is alive or dead, so a sense of proximity also exists in the experience itself.

“Visiting a grave is a clear recognition that the person visited does not exist in the normal day-to-day state of life, whereas texting allows for a suspension of that reality. Some people may complain that new technologies allow us to ignore the reality of death, but there isn't any evidence that one way of grieving is more or less healthy than another.”

Amelia Tait is a technology and digital culture writer at the New Statesman.

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