TROY (2022)
How far would you go to avoid treating a sex worker like a human being?
”It’s amazing that we’re in the twenty-first century and people still feel such a strong desire to peek through the keyhole without getting splashed; that we’re in the twenty-first century and prostitution, so present in every household (since it’s usually the so-called family men who hire us), still seems so exotic and enigmatic to people, maybe even more than “noncommercial” sex. Even more astounding is the fact that, nowadays, so many things about sexual morality have not evolved, but rather regressed. That must be why they still say that talking about sex, writing about sex, sells so well. People always want to know what others are doing privately on all fours.” - Monique Prada, Putafeminista
This film is 16 minutes and some change long, and not a single second is wasted by the director, Mike Donahue. Let’s get into it.
TROY is a 2022 short film set in Manhattan. This is important, because unless you live in Harlem, parts of LES, or certain buildings of the UES, in Manhattan you probably don’t ever speak to your neighbors. I recall staying with a relative in her apartment by Columbus Circle and pointedly avoiding speaking a single word or even making eye contact with any of her neighbors during the long, long elevator rides to and from the lobby.
Troy, the main character who never speaks on-screen, is a sex worker working out of his flat in the same building and next door to the two other main characters, whose names we never learn. Rather than this serving to humanize Troy, it only serves as a reminder of the lack of privacy afforded to sex workers by civilians, particularly once his neighbors look up his ad and find out his civilian name through a mail mix-up.
The civilian couple who live next door are justifiably irritated by the constant sounds of sex that come through the very thin walls. Their dull life as a cishet hipster1 couple drinking wine, cleaning the fridge, entertaining relatives, and watching television has a near-constant background track of moaning from next door.
One of Troy’s clients accidentially comes to their door in a hilarious scene in which so much is said through awkward facial expressions and mumbling alone. One fateful day, they overhear an argument between Troy and his boyfriend. Their passive-aggressive notes and plans of confrontation evaporate once they hear Troy’s boyfriend screaming at him that sex is not a real job.
-“I thought you were doing marketing!”
- “I was, but this pays better…it’s basically massage.”
Troy’s boyfriend breaks up with him. They hear Troy’s sobbing…and immediately run to look up combinations of “gay massage” in their zip code.
Pause. This is the point where you ask yourself…if I heard my neighbor get brutally broken up with, would I go over to ask if they were okay? Maybe not. But I also wouldn’t instead spend my evening trying to cyberstalk them, and then show my friends their sex worker ad as a joke.
- “Troy? That’s a big dick name.”
This film is reminiscent of a psychological horror film for the way in which we overhear Troy’s descent into despair and depression from the safety of the couple’s apartment, and for how the viewer watches their obsession with Troy deepen. They profess to be concerned about him, surveilling him constantly, all without ever simply walking over to Troy’s door, knocking, and asking, “Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?”
Hugging the wall is apparently an easier option.
Their most unhinged behavior escalates to paying a stranger to be one of Troy’s clients so that the client can ask Troy how he’s doing. Either that, or indulging one of their friend’s requests to see Troy by taping a mirror onto a broom and sticking it out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Troy through the window. Or, messaging Troy on Grindr? You pick.
This film ends with Troy’s disappearance, and the couple simply replacing what he meant to them by playing porn audio from a laptop while they eat dinner.
This is why I believe this film is actually an analogy for the way the government, SWERFS, and civilians treat sex workers. They don’t want to speak to us. They don’t want to get to know us. We are an exotic nuisance, an ephemera they’d like to see only through the keyhole without getting splashed as Prada put it.
For the couple to actually go next door and engage with Troy, have a conversation with Troy, hear about Troy’s heartbreak directly from him, would break their fantasy. Troy remains interesting, elusive, and entertaining as long as his pain never becomes composite for them. He can’t be dinnertime amusement, inspiration for their own sex life, or a topic of gossipy conversation if he is real. The wall separating their apartments is the distance of delusion. Even when one member of the couple has the chance to introduce herself to Troy by way of having received his mail, she chooses instead to simply slip the letter under the door and walk away, delighted by knowing his civilian name.
It is always a hunger for information, and never for intimacy.
Frankly, this film reminded me of some civilians in Berlin I used to fancy myself “friends” with. They always wanted to show me a picture or a video of the one other sex worker they knew, or tell me about that person’s work history. They did not want to hear about the unglamorous aspects of my human life. They wanted the fantasy. They wanted titillating details they could share with their boring friends. They did not want me to be real.
This couple would go to extremes to avoid ever having to get to know Troy, while simultaneously devouring as much information about him as they can and making pronouncements on Troy’s health, state of mind, and possible next steps in life. Yes, it’s a funny and suspenseful film about how far New Yorkers will go to avoid meeting their neighbors, but there is a deeper reflection here about the way sex workers are treated.
Amusements. Pests. Distractions. Objects for scrutiny, speculation and observation.
Are you Troy, or the neighbors?
© Empress Mirage, thepasteldomina. 2026.