If there is a misunderstood and despised figure in American cinema, it is the prostitute. If they aren’t being reduced to a crude stereotype, they are granted little agency at all, and even less dignity. We all know the story: product of a broken home, victim of abuse, homeless, broke, and desperate. Sad-eyed and easily ignored, even if they manage to avoid the bruised, battered caricature of legend, they are assumed to be a princess in waiting, which just might be even more grotesque than a grifter in hot pants.
Pretty Woman destroyed the culture in any number of ways (for one, it made a star of Julia Roberts, who is, for my money, still the most grating actress who ever emerged from central casting), but its most grievous sin is in slinging the nonsense that behind the black eyes, meth scars, and Motel 6 blowjobs lies a woman who just wants the mythical picket fence. But for the back alley anal, she’d be walking down the aisle in wedded bliss.
And then there’s Cookie. It took until 1997 to set things right, but she’s the woman of the night we never knew we lacked. If hookers, whores, tramps, and escorts are ever to get a seat at the table, they must consult Cookie for their marching orders. Play it her way, and you just might get your shot. Neither romantic figure nor cautionary tale, Cookie is instead the sort of woman you’d proudly call a friend, confidant, or co-worker. Just so happens, she sells her body to pay the rent. No apologies or explanations necessary. Some weld, others write, Cookie fucks. Not because she’s none too bright, or chasing a dream, or funding any number of habits that bring a lady to frozen, stone dead status under a bridge, but because it’s her best possible way to maximize profit. In other words, sheer, unmatched talent.
You see, Cookie isn’t even remotely damaged. She’s not fleeing a pimp, nor is she so teeming with daddy issues that she can’t see straight. Therapy, decidedly not needed. No pain, no trauma, no wounds to cauterize and heal, she is empowerment made flesh, and flesh is her trade. Service with a smile, because she long ago internalized the can-do ethic that built empires. Pity her at your peril. Not only has she secured one hell of an apartment in New York, she comes and goes as she pleases. Money to burn, and always time on her side. Clean, clear-eyed, and the envy of anyone who wishes they had a tenth of her skill set as a fellatrix. She enters a room with such confidence, such boisterous intent, it’s a wonder that customers don’t pay her just for blessing them with her presence. The sex is the cherry on top; sheer gravy for an endless line of men who at last met their match.
I know, I know: here I go romanticizing the classical victim in order to glide through my privilege with a clear conscience. What’s next, waitresses really do want my phone number? Hardly. Cookie, last time I checked, isn’t giving away a goddamn thing. She charges premium rates and always will. Time is money, and she’s making more than you’ll ever know. Who, again, is the sucker? And God forbid she insists on a smile, when so many who aren’t riding cock can’t even pretend to give a shit. If anything, Cookie is feminism personified, which is precisely why she’s so brutally dismissed, most often by her fellow females. Here’s someone who managed to transcend any real dependence on the male of our species, and while you’re entering your third abusive marriage, she’ll be sipping champagne poolside. Every man is a choice, whether for a day, a week, or a year. One disappoints, she moves on. Another is generous, and she squeezes that turnip as long as necessary. Traps are for the pearl clutchers.
I get it: she has to fuck Woody Allen, so clearly she’s hit rock bottom. Maybe so, but when was the last time your pillow talk referenced Svetlana Stalin? Or the mysteries of the universe? She gets laughs, love, and literary allusions, and a paycheck to boot. She’s also the ultimate humanitarian, seeing need and despair and doing her best to alleviate each in turn. You need a companion? She’ll be there. A traveling partner? Whatever you need, honey. A jack of all trades when so many of us can barely stomach a honeymoon. Few are ever what we want them to be, and here’s a woman who can take on any role with conviction and authority. All that and a willingness to smack you around until you orgasm. Gnashing of teeth she doesn’t need. Just hand her a Nobel Peace Prize and be done with it. Or, as Harry himself so memorably states, “They should put your lips in the Smithsonian.” A civilized country would already have filed the paperwork.
You can read Matt’s review of Deconstructing Harry here
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