Okay, listen up. I’ve got an invitation.
I’m running a Mutual Aid Art Raffle, and you’re gonna want in. Online, in person, however you want to play. Here’s the deal: for $10 or $20, you get to step into a flirty little game of chance (Pocket change if you’ve ever tipped a dancer the way you should).
On September 11th, 2025, at Monad Gallery in Brooklyn, my two framed 18x24 photographs will hang in the group show Timeless Tones. The gallery will glow like a glitchy mood ring, and I’ll be stinking of white wine and nervous ambition. My photographs? They’ll appear on the walls like bruises you can’t stop touching.
They’re both multi-exposure 35mm spells: orchids climbing through crumpled bills, umbrellas bent like drunk gentlemen at dawn. Restless, layered, shimmering with contradictions, horny to escape. They don’t want to just hang there — they want to sweat, to earn, to make rent like the rest of us.
Beautiful, yes, but also unnerving. That’s why I like them. They’ve got a pulse. They twitch, they shift, they want to be touched — like me after a mezcal and some Bad Bunny. They’re vibrating with purpose, looking for a wall that isn’t afraid of a little weirdness.
The raffle closes the night of the show. Two names will be pulled and the winners will walk away with pieces rare enough to unsettle the air, buzzing with their strange cargo of blossoms, umbrellas, and cash.
And the money? It shapeshifts into rent, baby food, and medicine for two BSWWS writers who did the rarest thing in this economy — they asked for help. No middlemen. No gallery cuts. Just mutual aid, fast and dirty. Every ticket is both a chance at art and a way to keep folks’ heads above water.
Beneath it all is the pulse of something else: the reminder that sex worker voices are not decoration, but necessity—jagged, luminous, and unshakable. Urgent and 100% worth investing in. This is an economy of care built not from stale systems, but from heat, desire, and the body’s insistence on survival.
This raffle is about about reminding ourselves why the work of BSWWS matters.
It’s about asking readers not just to consume our words, but to treat them as vital contributions to collective radical imagination. Sex workers’ voices are not just background music; they’re the bassline that you can’t get out of your head, that everyone else dances to even if they don’t admit it.
Beyond raising immediate funds, this project is about visibility and connection. It’s about building an economy of care—stitched from pleather, confetti, and sheer stubbornness. One that disrupts the myth that survival is something we have to carry alone. Supporting BSWWS means lifting sex worker writing as central to our culture, our movements, and our shared future. That’s real power — not the flashy, billionaire kind, but the quiet, sturdy kind that lives in group chats, over dining tables, and, apparently, at art raffles.
Your support helps BSWWS build glittering solidarity across New Jersey bodegas, Southern porches, Caribbean kitchens, Pacific coffeehouses — wherever we gather to say: we are still here, and we take care of each other. Sometimes resilience doesn’t look like strength. Sometimes it looks like petals in strange skies, umbrellas opening for no reason, and a gamble that pays off whether you win or not.
So grab a ticket for ten, twenty dollars. Buy one for yourself, buy one for a friend. Keep the money hot and the current moving. Let beauty become lifeline. And maybe — if the goddesses of chaos are smiling — you’ll stumble home with a piece of art that still reeks of sweat, orchids, and dollar bills.
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Thank you for even considering this wild little speed-raffle. Your attention, your care, your presence — it all matters more than you know.
You’re part of the circle that keeps us going.
Stay close,
Huck Reyes
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