Epress.am News from Armenia
According to the dictionary, a “house” is a residential or non-residential building, “one’s own place,” “a family,” “people living together and running a household.” Sometimes a house is not a home at all, but an institution serving public needs (House of Culture), or a lineage — a House of ancestors, or it’s “a place where people united by shared interests and conditions of life live” (the homeland is our home!). Dictionaries also mention income houses built for renting out, plus a whole pack of idioms like “feeling at home.”
At first, Kuka, Dila, and I were talking about housing. None of us really has a “home,” though we aren’t considered homeless. We Googled “the feeling of a home” together. Psychology sites spat out odd definitions: “a complex sense of safety,” “belonging,” “inner harmony.” I kept steering the conversation toward economics. Friends told me that trans women were renting the most expensive apartments in the city — the cheap ones are in high demand, and landlords prefer “more normative” tenants. I’d also heard that many trans people end up on the street at a young age — “the family doesn’t accept them, or they run away.” And for many, there’s this ready-made infrastructure out of poverty — sex work. Kuka and Dila laughed at my questions, my generalizations smelled like naïveté and arrogance. They told me this later. “Stories differ,” “don’t make us all into one tragedy.”
***
Kuka. — I grew up in a dorm. Eighteen square meters, first for three of us, then for four. My mom had a baby at forty, and I got a younger brother. The big problem was the shared yard, the long corridors, everyone in each other’s business — and when you’re fifteen, the boys in the hood are a real threat. The dorms housed ex-factory workers, ex-inmates, alcoholics, and folks who simply couldn’t afford better. And since I was just a regular gay boy, there was no adapting happening. During the day my mom worked, my dad slept after his night shift in the bakery, and I watched my brother. I moved out once he got older. Fourteen years ago. Eleven years ago I transitioned. I mostly lived with friends all this time.
Zara. — What did you take with you from home?
Kuka. — Clothes, my prayer book, and my diary. I used to go to the evangelical church. I don’t anymore, but still believe in God.
***
Dila. — Alright, storytime! I was born in a village, lived with my family, moved to Yerevan at sixteen, and have been renting ever since. Living with my parents wasn’t bad. There was zero freedom, which meant fewer problems. I never had this urge to fight with my family. I just wanted to move to Yerevan. When I grew up enough I left. My mom calls almost every day. Sometimes I visit: հair removed, fillers out, chest flattened — I go to see my folk. But I don’t feel a sense of home anywhere.
Zara. — And what happened with the police?
Dila. — A client came over, faked feeling sick, called his buddy. They beat me and stole my iPhone. I went to the police. After questioning me, the police came with a search warrant — to my place, not theirs. I had ten thousand dollars under my mattress — I don’t have a bank account, I keep everything cash because I’m saving for surgery. The officer goes, “Where’d you get all that?” “I earned it,” I say. “So, illegal income then!” They took the money. The landlord kicked me out, pretending he “needed to renovate.”
Zara. — Did they give the money back?
Dila. — A couple of months later, yes. They caught the guys who stole the phone — there’ll be a trial. I lived in that apartment for four years. Amazing location — right by the Russian embassy. And people don’t really clock me: neighbors, shopkeepers — no clue I’m trans. The previous landlord didn’t know either. Another trans woman lived in the building; when I was attacked, she was the first to help. But in this new building? Zero trans girls. And the building keeper spies on me constantly.
***
Kuka. — I had a client who kept mixing up doors and barged into the neighbor’s. She complained, and the landlord threw me out. More often they evict people because of dogs, though. Sometimes I lived in the same flat for five years — nothing happened.
I love my current home so much, knock on wood! It’s safe — barely any neighbors. I live with a friend. The rooms are walk-through, and since we both do sex-work, we have to coordinate schedules and negotiate constantly. Sometimes it gets tense. I’d love to live alone. But living alone is more dangerous. People can snap from guilt alone. You never know what a client will do.
***
Dila. — When I first came to Yerevan, I handed out flyers and worked as a mascot — walking around the square in a bear costume. I waited tables at an Iranian restaurant. Met a gay guy online, and we rented a place together on Nar-Dos street — where they sell coffins. Neither of us had money.
Then we moved to Tigran Mets — my favorite home ever. That’s when I started doing gigs. I’d go down the hallway in a black hoodie so neighbors wouldn’t notice makeup. Sometimes I’d do my face in the car.
A couple of years ago I decided I’m going to live alone. I don’t get lonely, as there’s always a lot to do — salons, pedicures, monthly waxing, cosmetic appointments… plus clients calling nonstop. If they have little money, they come to me; if they have more, we go to a hotel.
I transitioned pretty late. I did it because life was bad. And because I wanted to do sex work. In Armenia, men like trans women. An Armenian guy won’t go to a gay man, won’t go to a “regular worker,” but he’ll come to a trans girl. They also like Russians.
For me this way is simpler. Some people say, “We were forced into this.” I wasn’t. Let’s not lie to each other.
***
Kuka. — It’s true: trans women used to rent the most expensive apartments in the city — 350–400 thousand drams a month. Landlords knew nobody else would pay that. But the economy changed. More people do sex work now, so prices dropped. Sometimes we charge 10 thousand, sometimes 40. I used to make 100–150 thousand a day; now that’s rare.
***
Dila. — Russian girls rent place for three thousand dollars a month. They work with “offices.” They call it “escort,” but honestly it’s the same — regular sex work.
Zara. — Is escort more expensive?
Dila. — Russians are more expensive. Armenians love Russians. Big demand.
Zara. — Why do they love them?
Dila. — Because Russians keep secrets. Like, if an Armenian guy gives her head she won’t spread it around — she’ll just go have a shot of vodka. That’s called a “business secret.”
<…>
Dila. — And what do you mean when you ask about “home”? What’s that supposed to be?
Zara. — I don’t even know myself. Something connected to safety.
Dila. — I want to buy a house. When I’m old and can’t work anymore — who’s going to pay the rent?
Zara. — What kind of house do you want?
Dila. — A regular one. A one-room apartment like this. Batter with heating.
Zara. — And that huge teddy bear? You’d need at least a two-room place for him!
Dila. — A client gave it to me.
Zara. — He fell in love?
Dila. — I don’t think so. Falling in love with a client? That’s fairy-tale stuff.
Zara. — It’s hard for me to live alone.
Dila. — Not for me. And live with who? With a boyfriend? No way. We’d fight nonstop. And what, if a client comes I’ll tell him “wait in the bathroom”? Absolutely not.
***
Kuka. — After I moved out, my family stayed in the dorm. I’ve been doing sex work eleven years, saving money from the start. I didn’t want my little brother growing up there. A couple years ago we bought an apartment! My mom sold her room and I covered the rest. But I don’t live there. <…> Sometimes it feels like all I do is complain about the dorm.
Zara. — Was there anything good there?
Kuka. — I had two best friends. One’s married now, the other lives in Russia, also gay. And the married one was my first partner. But he isn’t gay. We wore skinny jeans just to annoy the neighbors!
Zara. — Do you still talk?
Kuka. — Yes. When rumors started that someone saw me on my spot, everyone kinda turned against me. My mom pretended she heard nothing. He didn’t say a bad word.
***
Dila. — By the way, the landlady here knows I’m trans. She’s a famous actress. Don’t mention her name! The realtor told her, and she said, “Not a problem for me. Let her live and do what she wants.” I’ve been here almost a year.
Dila. — I bought a new bag yesterday. Want to see?
Zara. — Show me what’s in the bag.
Dila. — Hi, Vogue! This is my wallet — got it on Wildberries. Here’s a charger I regularly lend my friend Lili. Deodorant — shower, spritz-spritz, done. And I’ve got a safety knife too!
(phone rings)
Hello… hi… I’m good, you?… Cutie, I meet for fifty thousand, one or two rounds, either at mine or a hotel… Yes, I’m trans… No, I can’t go cheaper… Sweetie, save up and call… Yes, yes… If you’re looking for something for ten thousand, try somewhere else… Bye.
Zara. — He tried to bargain?
Dila. — Of course.
Zara. — Let me see the knife? Oh wow!
Dila. — It opens with a button. Careful. You keep it on you so people don’t get bold. And this is lube.
Zara. — Local?
Dila. — No, but “New Generation” hands it out.
Zara. — I have the same lip balm! Pharmacy one. Ugly packaging.
Dila. — But the shine is amazing! I outline with pencil and then only this. And these are… well, supplements.
Zara. — Viagra?
Dila. — No, newer stuff. “Vigara.” Better.
Zara. — So much new info!
Dila. — And this is my perfume — travel size. Spray and off you go. The mirror’s from my friend — mine broke. You’re not supposed to carry a broken one, bad luck.
Zara. — And this?
Dila. — Condoms. Every worker has them.