WHAT kind of person is going to see a show from a professional financial dominatrix, titled “Sex Job”, in the middle of a day? That’s the question on my mind as I queue up to see Lane Kwederis, a former improv comedian and now full-time sex worker, talk about her intriguing day job.
Financial domination is a fascinating concept. Some men enjoy seeing women empty their bank account, and Lane has found a way to be that woman professionally. Kwederis’s show promises an inside-look into her career of choice, with the lowdown on the good and bad and everything in between. It’s also described as a comedy.
The crowd is a mixture of student-aged guests, middle-aged guys seeking something a bit saucy, and your typical slightly posh Fringe-obsessed older couple. Kwederis has the unenviable job of taking us into the behind-the-scenes of her daily life – in a way that’s accessible to this room of very mixed ages, genders and nationalities.
While I’m not sure who Kwederis’s target audience is, she seems even more unclear. The performer quickly moves from story to story, giving us an interesting overview of a day in her life, but we never really linger long enough to learn very much.
She dips into explanations of bizarre kinks and experiences and quickly brushes them off, while the crowd is clearly keen for more information. How did she really feel about accidentally cracking a client’s rib, for instance? This situation, which to anyone else could be seriously traumatic, is quickly left behind. The client’s response – that he was glad his rib was broken – is mentioned briefly, then we’re onto another story.
We’re left with so many questions, and the laughs are few and far between.
The best part of Kwederis’s show is her use of social media, and stories of challenges with it. She shows an audience member how to become a financial dominatrix, and guides “Helen” through a chat with one of her subs live on stage. At the end of the show, Helen actually gets to take some money home – and the other half goes to charity.
In one energetic highlight, Kwederis takes us through the internet “obstacle course” faced by sex workers. How can she avoid being banned on the platforms she relies on for income? This is one of the most informative parts of a show that’s presented as an inside look, but often descends into surface level anecdotes about gross incidents with clients.
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It’s never really clear how Kwederis feels about these experiences. Clients carrying out acts she didn’t consent to are brushed off, her lack of agency in these situations greeted with a false laugh. She tells us she’s a people pleaser more than once, and that desire to be liked is physically felt by the audience. By the time we get to a heart-wrenching tale of a horribly toxic relationship with an ex, and his response to her career, there’s a glimpse into the real person at Kwederis’s core. But throughout most of the show, there’s a feeling that we’re watching another one of her characters perform for us.
Parts of Sex Job are fascinating, and Kwederis is obviously a talented and confident artist. Her use of voice-overs and campy advertising bits are entertaining, while her singing and acrobatics are fun and unexpected. The problem is we never really get to know the real her, which is a problem when you’re fronting an hour-long solo show. The complex legalities around sex work are also relevant topic that deserve further exploration. I’m not sure any of the strange mix of characters in that small Edinburgh Uni room left feeling completely satisfied.
Sex Job is on at Underbelly Bristo Square Until August 28
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