Déborah on Sex Work and Her New Fanzine Funding Street-Based Sex Workers
- Filip
- 3 days ago
- 5 min read
Sex work is one of the few professions where everyone feels entitled to an opinion — except, somehow, the people actually doing the work. Déborah has spent years pushing back against that imbalance, not by softening her story, but by sharpening it.
Her new self-published fanzine — a multilingual compilation of essays, reportage, poetry, and intimate reflections — traces her journey through sex work, BDSM, power, autonomy, and care.
All proceeds from the publication are donated to Le Bus des Femmes, a Paris-based organisation founded by sex workers during the height of the AIDS crisis, which today provides outreach, healthcare, legal support, and psychological care to street-based sex workers, many of whom are exposed to extreme violence and institutional abandonment.
You can find the project here:
Fanzine by Déborah (print + digital): https://www.deborah-danger.com/boutique
Le Bus des Femmes: https://www.lebusdesfemmes.org
We speak to Déborah as a worker, a writer, journalist, and a woman who understands sex work not as tragedy or fantasy, but as labour — skilled, intimate, political labour.
It's a conversation about erotic work as energy exchange, stigma as a structural weapon, why regulation matters, and what dignity actually looks like when it’s lived rather than theorised.
“We don’t sell our bodies. We sell a service. That distinction matters deeply.”
You write about slipping into sex work not through a dramatic epiphany, but through survival, intuition, and a kind of quiet reinvention. When did you first understand that this work was something you could do, and what did that decision look like?
I’m starting the fanzine with an article I published in 2018, and my perspective has evolved quite a bit since then. I started clumsily; in fact, the first time I didn’t even know there could be a ‘happy ending’.
I went through a phase where I approached the experience like a meditation: focusing on being present and feeling the music, delighting more in the erotic nuances, the reflections in rooms full of mirrors, and the dance of my body on top of another’s. I saw it as very Lilith energy and I love it. But it was definitely when I began practicing Reiki that I discovered I could channel a lot of energy through my hands. When the “click” happened, I pieced together an experience that had a sexual aspect but also carried my personal signat
ure. I realized it was an extension of who I am.
The same happened later with BDSM sessions, where I clearly saw that beyond the 1% physical, I was trying to connect with the person’s energy, which for me is the 99%.
“Beyond the 1% physical, I was trying to connect with the person’s energy — that’s the 99%.”
What did becoming “Déborah” unlock for you?
Becoming Déborah allows me to fully express who I am: there’s always been a part of me that’s a femme fatale, another that’s a mischievous girl who loves to play and can be a little sadistic, and yet another, very curious part that enjoys experimenting with humans.
How did your early training shape the worker you eventually became? What stayed with you — and what did you reject?
What I rejected most was working for others. They impose their rules, take a large portion of your earnings, and limit your autonomy. Once I had enough experience, I started working for myself.
I’ve also turned down money because, unlike many girls, I don’t allow clients to touch me during massages. Some men think that paying more or coming more often gives them more rights, but my boundaries are clear.
What has stayed with me is the ability to reinvent myself over and over, whenever I need to.
“Some men think that paying more gives them more rights. My boundaries are clear.”
Many people fantasize about sex work from a distance. What’s the one thing outsiders never understand?
It’s a full-time job. You’re a businesswoman, you are the business, and you sell your services. That means staying updated, understanding marketing, editing, managing your social media…
You become your own secretary, receptionist, and cleaning staff. You also have to be disciplined, stay in good mental and physical shape, and be attentive to your phone. And what most people don’t get is that part of the fee covers the time and energy you spend answering calls and being ready. Many clients seem to think we wake up perfectly made-up, holding a whip.
Your story is full of moments where you claim your body as yours, your labour as yours, and the rules as yours. What did that reclamation feel like in real time?
Reclaiming my work and my rules is closely tied to what I explained earlier: I refuse to let someone else take a large portion of the final price and make me feel like cheap labour.
Reclaiming my body has to do with the persistent idea that sex workers “sell their bodies.” We don’t: we sell a service. That distinction matters deeply, especially in the face of abolitionist movements that speak about us in a patronising, proselytising way, as if we weren’t intelligent enough to make our own decisions simply because we are sex workers.
Rejecting that narrative, in real time, felt like stepping into my own authority.
“Abolitionist movements talk about us as if we weren’t intelligent enough to make our own decisions.”
What does ‘dignity’ mean to you in the context of sex work?
Dignity is an inherent condition of being human, regardless of the work one does. It means being recognised as a full and autonomous person, capable of making decisions, setting boundaries and defining the conditions of one's own work.
Working in a safe environment, being regulated like any other worker, having social rights and rejecting discourses that present us as victims by default. Dignity is not something that is granted. It already exists.
Why did you choose Le Bus des Femmes as the recipient of the fanzine’s profits?
I chose Le Bus des Femmes because it is an organisation run by women that supports other women, cis and trans, sex workers who are primarily victims of violence perpetrated by men, and of a French political system that approves and rejects laws in a predominantly male Senate.
These are the same men who consume our services, who often harm us, and yet refuse to recognise us as workers with rights. That contradiction matters to me.
The organisation was created by sex workers during the AIDS crisis. The women who run it are trained professionals, psychologists, and experienced support workers. When institutions fail, they step in.
“Street-based sex workers are often completely abandoned by the police.”
How would legalisation or decriminalisation actually change daily life for sex workers?
It would allow us to be recognised as valid, capable, and dignified professionals.
Legalisation or decriminalisation isn’t just about safety. It’s about social recognition, respect, and the ability to work openly without stigma. It transforms daily life by letting us operate with autonomy, protection, and the acknowledgment that what we do matters.
What do you hope readers feel when they finish the fanzine?
If they’ve read it, it’s because they’ve chosen to support a good cause, and I want to thank them from the heart.
I hope they feel touched, sense the care woven into every page, and leave with a small spark of connection and reflection.
Support the project
Buy Déborah’s fanzine (print or digital): https://www.deborah-danger.com/boutique
Learn more about Le Bus des Femmes: https://www.lebusdesfemmes.org
