Goddess of the Night is a story about the mortal sins of the unforgiven, those women society has chosen to abandon on the side of Nevada’s loneliest highway. We pretend such acts never happen, such people do not exist. This book, based on interviews and conversations with buyers and sellers in Las Vegas’ seediest black market, is my proof that they do.
The plot and characters within Goddess of the Night represent a year of painstaking research getting to know and understand some of the most rejected, yet simultaneously worshiped women in the world. Some of them have the self-awareness to know why they chose the profession. Some of them have the self-esteem to truly make it a career. Others are clueless.
Many of these women hide behind their beauty, their charm, their veil of control. They make their own schedules. They finance their own lives, their own careers. They work on their terms.
Yet, in talking to them, patterns emerged, some stereotypical, some not—many downright depressing. What drove many of these women was the very thing most of us hate to acknowledge, to uncover, to discuss. Somewhere at some point in their life, some man or woman violated their bodies and stole their souls.
Many of these women are strong, but still they live their lives, hoping for change or a chance at redemption, as though Christ himself will enter their club, offering salvation as he stuffs singles into a G-string.
We can talk about FBI statistics on sexual assault. We can talk about rape culture. We can talk about abusive families and homes. We can talk about whether radical feminists, who suggest all men are biologically potential rapists, have a point. We can even talk about whether male rights activists, who say they can’t even enter a bar without being seen as predators, have a point. But none of that matters.
Because when you look into these women’s eyes, peering into their minds and their souls, the damage has already been done. There is no taking back the night(s).
Yes, these women continue to live their lives (though many live in denial), hoping for a chance at redemption or change, as though Christ himself will enter their club, offering salvation as he stuffs singles into a G-string. Many are strong—some even stronger—than those who never lived through such pain.
No, not all strippers and hookers are rape victims. No, not all suffer from the issues described above. And yes, millions of rape victims never become sex workers (more than a dozen of my own friends have admitted directly or indirectly to being among them).
Why does any of this happen? It’s as much an existential question as a theological one, an ethical conundrum as a biological one. What turns men into such animals that violating their own niece or cousin or daughter even crosses their mind? What motivates women to date and love men they thought were good, only for their boyfriends to turn into monsters?
We’d like to think we can change society, that somehow, with enough punishments and enough laws and enough awareness, such abominations will never happen. But if you look throughout history, sexual assault persists—in myths dating to ancient Mesopotamia, ancient Egypt, even among God’s chosen people; in literature equally as old; in history never recorded, in history well documented; in poetry, in law, in art.
What, then, are we supposed to do? Can we do anything?
I don’t know. But I am sick of talking to women born in Africa, America, Colombia, Cuba, Louisiana, Los Angeles, Ohio, and Orange County who have lived through abusive homes, abusive relationships, even abusive selves. And yet, they exist.