"If someone at school calls you a son of a bitch, tell them: 'Yes, and your father is the best customer.'
According to Karina Correa, 48, there comes a time when you have to tell your children what you do.
She is tall, slim, her straight black hair reaches her waist.
She began to prostitute herself at the age of 26, when she separated from the father of her children, who had no money “not even for stockings”.
She raised them alone.
On her first night on the job, she put on a red dress bought for her daughter's birthday and boarded a bus to the outskirts of Montevideo.
The journey seemed endless.
She arrived at Dado Rojo, a whiskery –as they call nightclubs in Uruguay– where she worked for a few months.
Since then he has toured dozens of
bowling alleys
, has been married twice, has had four children and now lives in San José (population 30,000), two hours by car from the capital.
His face lights up when he talks about his passion, the theater.
She darkens at him when, instead, she refers to his work and his sorrows.
At the end of 2021, she performed in a theatrical show, fulfilling the promise made to Mauricio, her son, who died five years ago.
Since then, in her house “nothing lasts, everything breaks.
Doors and windows are rickety, paint is peeling.”
Today she lives with her two children, nine and eleven years old.
"A hell of a lot," she laughs.
Her eldest daughter lives alone: "Unfortunately, she does the same as me."
A few months ago she joined the Organization of Sex Workers (OTRAS), which has presented proposals to reform Law 17,515 that regulates sex work.
Hands of one of the attendees at the third Congress of the Organization of Sex Workers of Uruguay (OTRAS.) in Montevideo.
Prostitution divides feminism: there are those who think that it is abominable and should be abolished: "It is not debated, it is fought".
Others, on the other hand, believe that it is inevitable, they want to regulate it and guarantee rights to the workers. Mauricio Zina
A worker at the Pasiones whiskery, in the city of Trinidad, in Uruguay.
According to the law, approved unanimously in 2002, prostitution is an occupation to be exercised autonomously, never for a third party.
The reality, however, is made up of informal employment and veiled pimping, with imposed rates, hours and services to be fulfilled. Mauricio Zina
Karina Nuñez, during the manifestation of the Organization of Sex Workers of Uruguay (OTRAS) in the Legislative Palace in Montevideo.
This organization has presented proposals to reform Law 17,515, which regulates sex work. Mauricio Zina
Amézaga brothel in the Reus neighborhood of Montevideo, a few blocks from the National Parliament.
Carolina works here -a name she uses only in the workplace-, 38 years old.
She receives about ten clients a day, between ten in the morning and nine at night.Mauricio Zina
Alfredo, during his preparation prior to going to work, Aguada neighborhood in Montevideo.
Alfredo struggled between his homosexuality and the religious upbringing he received in his home, a Mormon family.
Gradually, he carved out his sexual freedom and drifted away from the church.
At some point he began to cross-dress.
He came to the Prado park for fun and also because he found out that he could earn money with prostitution. Mauricio Zina
Alfredo's bathroom during his preparation before leaving for work.
Alfredo takes hours to become Natalia.
She locks herself in this tiny bathroom, in front of the mirror, with depilatory cream, hydrogen peroxide, makeup base, mascara, blush, powder, eye cream, perfume, lipstick, ash blonde wig and bra.Mauricio Zina
Alfredo (Natalia) during his preparation prior to going out to work, at home.
He works informally on a sidewalk in Parque del Prado, west of the capital, on weekends.
"The oral costs five euros, the complete one, 15. But if I like a guy, I don't charge him," he says. Mauricio Zina
Alfredo (Natalia) during his preparation before going to work, in the Aguada neighborhood, in Montevideo.
Those who work six days a week earn, on average, seven Uruguayan minimum wages –2,100 euros– according to estimates by Pablo Guerra, a sociologist at the University of the Republic.
Which clarifies: "the income is very variable: there are those who are below the poverty line and those who exceed 6,600 euros per month." Mauricio Zina
Natalia working in the Prado park in Montevideo.
In winter, the wind here is frigid.
“The worst time is between two and four in the morning.
They can steal everything from you,” he assures. Mauricio Zina
Karina Correa, during the performance of the play 'The application of the method' of the group of the first year of scenic art of the house of culture of San José, at the Maccio theater. Mauricio Zina
Prophylaxis clinic attended by sex workers from the Maciel Hospital in Montevideo.
Workers also have the right-duty to semi-annual health checks that "are designed to protect clients, not workers who feel they are objects of a policy rather than subjects of law," says Lilian Abracinskas, from Women and Health in Uruguay .Mauricio Zina
Whiskeria Pasiones in the city of Trinidad.
"According to our surveys, few perceive what they do as a job," explains Sandra Ortiz, a nun and activist with Casabierta, a Catholic support group for sex workers. Mauricio Zina
A bed from the Pasiones whiskery, in the city of Trinidad, which is also a brothel.
The owner, Clementina, a former prostitute, explains: “This was a motel.
We put in walls, the jukebox, and the stripper pole.
There are the rooms for the clients.
The girls live in the other half of the house.”Mauricio Zina
Workers at the Pasiones whiskery in the city of Trinidad.
A corridor with rotten paint connects the two wings of the house.
Clementina opens the padlocked door and calls out to the women.
They just woke up, sleep well into the afternoon, then work from nine at night to four in the morning.
maurice zina
Gianina, one of the sex workers at Pasiones whiskey.
When work time approaches, the lights are dimmed and the women put on makeup.
They drink white Martini with a straw, they dance looking at themselves in the mirrors.
A guard watches the scene.
Everything is ready to start the night.
There is no sign and the place is not found on the internet.
maurice zina
The legislation has not canceled the weight of the stigma.
To carry out a task that everyone knows but hardly anyone recognizes, many choose to do it in secret.
Carolina, as she calls herself when she works, 38 years old, did not start prostitution out of necessity, but because she wanted more: “More money, a house, get there faster”.
She receives about ten clients a day, between ten in the morning and nine at night, at the Amézaga brothel, a few blocks from the National Parliament.
She likes rock: she got a Prism Tattoo with the Pink Floyd rainbow.
It took her years to accept what she does as a job.
She had to admit it when a former partner broke the most important secret she had with her son.
One night, the boy woke her up, showing her a picture of him on a dating site: "Mom, either you tell me what this is or I'm leaving home."
"According to our surveys, few perceive what they do as a job," explains Sandra Ortiz, a nun and activist with Casabierta, a Catholic support group for sex workers.
So is it work or not?
According to the law, approved unanimously in 2002, prostitution is an occupation to be exercised autonomously, never for a third party.
The reality, however, is made up of informal employment and veiled pimping, with imposed rates, hours and services to be fulfilled.
"The borders between legal and illegal are porous," explains Andrea Tuana, from the NGO El Paso.
According to data from the United Nations program against AIDS, there are 13,100 prostitutes in the country, one of the smallest in South America, with 3.5 million inhabitants;
barely half of the Autonomous Community of Madrid.
To practice it is necessary to register at a police station.
“Why the police?
Not that we were criminals”, asks Karina Núñez, president of OTRAS, a “class-conscious prostitute”, as she defines herself.
There are 13,100 prostitutes Uruguay, one of the smallest in South America, with 3.5 million inhabitants
Workers also have the right-duty to semi-annual health checks that "are designed to protect clients, not workers who feel they are the objects of a health policy rather than subjects of rights," says Lilian Abracinskas, from Mujer y Health in Uruguay.
“When we say that sex work is work, what we mean is that we need labor rights.
We are not saying that it is good or fundamentally important,” write British prostitutes and activists Juno Mac and Molly Smith in their book
Insolent Whores.
Along the same lines is OTRAS, which at its third congress, held in November 2021, officially joined the Central Única de Trabajadores (PIT-CNT).
About fifty people attended the event, encouraged by Núñez, sitting in the audience, with her long colorful skirt, gigantic, Fellini style.
They all mention her.
"I met Karina Núñez 30 years ago in a cabaret, she distributed female condoms," says Verónica Cassandra, 60, a trans sex worker from the interior of the country and the first in her city to receive a pension.
Social security is one of the weak points of the law: only one worker in ten is affiliated.
OTRAS calls for the pension contribution system to be adapted by age group, since, unlike most jobs,
in this area income is reduced according to age.
“They say that the job of a flower is hard when its petals fade in the sun”, sings Silvio Rodríguez.
Prostitution divides feminism: there are those who think that it is abominable and should be abolished: "It is not debated, it is fought".
Others, on the other hand, believe that it is inevitable, they want to regulate it and guarantee rights to women workers.
To abolish prostitution, poverty must be abolished, argue the two activists Mac and Smith.
“Let's take the money out of the conversation and the sex workers will seem weird or broken.
Through the lens of economic necessity, the reasons to exercise reappear as a rational survival strategy in a world that is often shit.
Those who work six days a week earn, on average, seven Uruguayan minimum wages –2,100 euros– according to estimates by Pablo Guerra, a sociologist at the University of the Republic.
That clarifies: "The income is very variable: there are those who are below the poverty line and those who exceed 6,600 euros per month."
The reasons for buying sex are the most diverse.
"If I have to spend money to get out and in the end it doesn't end, I prefer to play it safe," explains Matías, a
software
developer in his thirties.
The typical client does not exist, many workers agree.
20% of Uruguayans buy sex regularly or sporadically, there are people of all ages, educated, violent, ignorant, alone and in groups.
Among the veterans, “some just need company,” says Carolina, sitting on the rented bed in the Amézaga brothel.
The profession is usually a legacy.
"I do the work that my mother did, the same as my grandmother," says Núñez.
Natalia working in the Prado park in Montevideo. Mauricio Zina
Those who opt for the street do not share the profits with anyone.
But there are more risks.
In winter, the wind from the Río de La Plata is icy.
“Here the worst time is between two and four in the morning.
They can steal everything from you,” says Natalia, 47.
She works informally on a sidewalk in Parque del Prado, west of the capital, on weekends.
"The oral costs five euros, the complete one, 15. But if I like a guy, I don't charge him."
Natalia is called Alfredo from Monday to Friday, he is a thin and bald mechanical worker, somewhat shy.
Alfredo struggled between his homosexuality and the religious upbringing he received in his home, a Mormon family.
Gradually, he carved out his sexual freedom and drifted away from the church.
At some point he began to cross-dress.
He came to the Prado park for fun;
“Also because I found out that I could get some money”,
He lives on a ground floor in the popular neighborhood of Aguada, with three Siamese cats and a poodle.
From the single window, light barely filters on the chipped walls.
The smell of pet food mixes with the cigarette smoke of her partner, a robust man with blue eyes.
Alfredo takes hours to become Natalia.
She locks herself in a tiny bathroom, in front of the mirror with depilatory cream, hydrogen peroxide, makeup base, mascara,
blush
, powder, eye contour, perfume, lipstick, ash blonde wig and bra.
Natalia is ready, she raises her hood so the neighbors don't recognize her and heads towards the park.
With the pandemic, online dating ads have increased, which makes it easier for freelancers
Trinidad, 20,000 inhabitants, capital of the smallest and most conservative department in the country, historically governed by the National Party.
On the northwestern edge of town is a one-story white house, surrounded by a large piece of land with few trees.
The owner of the whiskey, Clementina, a former prostitute with tattooed hands and a frown, arranges the glasses behind the bar and explains: “This was a motel.
We put in walls, the jukebox, and the
stripper pole
.
There are the rooms for the clients.
The girls live in the other half of the house.”
A corridor with rotten paint connects the two wings of the house.
Clementina opens the padlocked door and calls out to the women.
They just woke up, sleep well into the afternoon, then work from nine at night to four in the morning.
"But I don't set schedules for them," she clarifies.
They are three and share two rooms and the kitchen.
On the floor, Coca-Cola bottles, shampoo bottles and slippers.
Workers of the Pasiones whiskery in the city of Trinidad, Flores. Mauricio Zina
Work time approaches, the lights are dimmed and the women put on makeup.
They drink white Martini with a straw, they dance looking at themselves in the mirrors.
A guard watches the scene.
Everything is ready to start the night.
There is no sign and the place is not found on the internet.
“But people come here anyway.
I'm not into technology.
I don't know what this app thing is.
It's different here: you meet one and they shit on lies”, says Clementina.
With the pandemic, dating ads on the web increased.
Some women have a pimp, "even if they seem independent," agree Tuana and Guerra.
The truth is that the web makes work easier for self-employed workers, such as Minerva Clarke: "For me, the Internet is a fundamental tool for managing my time and having more security."
Since 2018, it has been difficult for him to post sexual content online due to two acts issued by the Trump administration (FOSTA and SESTA) to combat trafficking.
The rules are vague enough to put everything in the same bag.
Minerva also uses the internet to carry out her fight against the FOSTA-SESTA laws and denounce the discrimination she experienced.
With other means, Karina Correa also fights for the same cause: “we have to make public the things they don't want to hear: behind the miniskirts, the painted lips and the stockings with garters, there are human beings.
We are not the OTHERS, we are the OTHERS, the postponed, the marginalized. Enough is enough!”
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