Found this blog through the loverly Tits and Sass' weekly link list, inviting current and former sex workers to tell a bit of their stories.  Since I like talking about myself, I thought I'd partake:

Why did you get into the sex industry? 

Money, of course, and a relentless curiosity.  I was 20 years old and acquainted with this strange but powerful woman who did some nebulous kind of work with men, and without actually saying what she did encouraged me that I would be good at it.  Around this time my financial situation became desperate, so I naively decided to start offering straight massage for cash, which was a particularly good business in the community where I lived.  I don't know if I didn't even really consider sex at that time, or if it just seemed too much to jump into right away, but I posted an ad on Craigslist and charged an obscene amount for a nude massage that comically did not include any other kind of sexual play.  It wasn't until after a few retrospectively embarrassing encounters that a client finally put my hand on his cock, understandably expecting that service for his $150.  I was surprised, frankly, but he was super easygoing about it, and I loved it instantly.  I felt powerful, desirable, and optimistic.  I practiced sensual massage off and on for the next four years, until I branched into straight escorting last summer.

Did you freely choose this work? Were you in any way forced or coerced into it? Were you pressured into it by economic or other pressure?

I chose it, wholeheartedly.  I was discouraged, if anything, by my boyfriend at the time, but I wanted financial freedom, and this was how I imagined I'd achieve it.

Why did you go into the particular line(s) of sex work that you did? 

In the beginning I naturally gravitated toward body rubs because I really enjoyed the dynamic, and the risk vs. reward ratio, compared to other facets of sex work.  Even though I've been a dancer my entire life, I've never been seriously attracted to stripping like I sort of wish I were!  The privacy and intimacy of hands on work was always much more appealing to me, and sensual massage was a great combination of that intimacy without the pressure of full on sex.  From there, after quite a while, escorting became my next logical step.  I was growing bored with body rubs; I wanted more money and variety. 

What, if anything, did/do you like about the work? 

I love the money and potential freedom of time and creativity.  I work independently and  whenever I want.  You can conduct your business in countless ways, working many hours a day like anyone else with straight jobs or two hours a week and live accordingly.  I do generally enjoy clients, for one reason or another, and I sincerely appreciate how much I've discovered about my own sexuality that I might not otherwise have.  I also enjoy the worldwide online community, feeling like a part of something bigger, a solidarity among us who have something very specific to fight for. 

What, if anything, did/do you not like about the work?

With all the ways you can succeed in the job, you have equal potential for failure.  The shadow side of the work is ever present, even among the happy whores (*wink*).  Being your own boss only works if you're a good boss.  With no one but myself to hold me accountable, I easily slip into frustrating periods of laziness and lack of ambition.  With a constant influx of new clientele and the ease of making in an hour what most people make in a week, or more, I have little incentive to constantly recreate and improve myself.  I am also terribly irresponsible with money, so...give me $300 or $3000 and see how long it lasts.  Sheesh. 

Of course I also have emotional challenges, social stigma, unusual relationship struggles.  As an independent worker, I feel professionally and personally isolated and fear reaching out in healthy ways because trust is a constant concern.  It's been difficult finding mentorship because of "conspiracy" laws.  My friends love and support me but certainly worry and sometimes judge me.  Romantic relationships are fucking impossible thus far in my experience.  When money, time, boredom, and anxiety abound, I definitely drink too much.

 I certainly take responsibility for my own personality, behavior patterns and core work ethic which influence how I will succeed or fail in business--any business--but I think it is particularly challenging for someone who doesn't consider herself to have a criminal mind to successfully do a job that is illegal.  Stress and anxiety cause us to behave in strange and unforeseen ways, and I do credit much of my anxiety to destructive and dangerous prostitution laws in America.  If the work were legal or decriminalized, I wouldn't mind the leftover social stigma so much as the devastating fear of simply being caught or publicly outed and losing everything.  Also, advertising, screening, and completing the transactions become minefields of euphemisms and uncertainties.  This is dangerous territory for both workers and clients. 

 On the whole, did/do you like the work, dislike it, or feel neutral about it?

Though currently it seems I dislike more things than I like, I still very much appreciate, respect, and enjoy the work.  I do wish it were easier for me to accomplish it in a healthier way.

What are your feelings about your customers?

The clientele I attract is pretty suited to me.  They come, they go, we both go on.  I don't want to spend any more time with them than is contracted for, but sometimes after an appointment I feel particularly good about the time we've spent.  Some men really need it, which evokes in me feelings of accomplishment and true professional worth.  As can be expected, most are perfectly pleasant, but some are annoying, a bit rude, needy, arrogant.  Men.  You know.  In the end though, they are the ones sustaining me.  I must appreciate them for the crucial role they play!   

Have your feelings about the work changed with time? If you no longer work in the sex industry, did your feelings about the work change after you left it?

I have my ups and downs, but I suppose the major thing I've realized, at least in my world, is that it's really not as interesting as the fantasies and TV movies.  I mostly just feel like myself, doing a job, not some glamorous character.   

If you still work in the sex industry, do you feel free to leave it? If you no longer work in the sex industry, did you feel free to leave it? If not, what restraints did/do you have?

Honestly, if I wanted to quit doing sex work tomorrow I wouldn't know where to begin.  I could certainly choose to do so, but it would be difficult for a couple major reasons:

1. I've grown used to a financial standard that is unmatched by MOST other career choices.

2. I've got some glaring blank spots in my resumé.  "Self-employed, highly experienced harlot of 4.5 years"  just doesn't sound as impressive on paper as it really is.  If I could disclose all the business skills I've acquired and lessons I've learned, it would be one kickass resumé.  

Is there anything else you want people to know about your experience of sex work?
I could go on and on, but I believe the main objective with this questionnaire is to get a glimpse into the idea of choice and coercion.  The concept of feeling pressured to do a certain job doesn't necessarily have to come in the form of a pimp or some other oppressive man.  Economic pressure finds us all and requires us to make choices.  I don't feel I am any more or less pressured to make my choice than someone else who runs herself ragged working three minimum wage jobs.  Prostitution is not for everyone, but for those of us who can and want to do it, it is sometimes the best choice.  It's a dirty job, but lots of people have gotta do it.  

This Just In: Sluts and Prostitutes Make Up a Significant Percentage of All Women

Georgetown University law student and women’s rights/birth control activist Sandra Fluke is butting heads with professional butthead Rush Limbaugh, who last week reacted carelessly and crassly (shocker) to Fluke’s recent testimony before a Democratic Congressional committee.  Presided over by House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi (Fluke was denied the opportunity to speak before an all-male Republican committee--again, shocker), Fluke argued the then-under-consideration “Blunt Amendment,” an amendment to a highway bill (of all things) proposed by Sen. Roy Blunt (R-Mo), in which any employer with a moral objection to providing contraceptive coverage under Obama’s health care plan, can opt out.

The amendment was rejected by the Senate, 51 to 48, but not before Limbaugh could jump on the story.  Instead of arguing Fluke’s political and economic points, he responded to the testimony by calling her a “slut” and a “prostitute,” (after getting her name wrong) claiming she “wants to be paid to have sex.  She’s having so much sex she can’t afford the contraception.  She wants you and me and the taxpayers to pay her to have sex.”

Across the board, people are deeply offended by Limbaugh’s remarks; Sandra herself responded on MSNBC’s “The Ed Show”: “Initially, you're stunned, but then very quickly, you're outraged, because this is historically the kind of language that is used to silence women, especially when women stand up and say that these are their reproductive health care needs...”  It’s true, these words have been used for millennia to degrade women to the worst possible things: dirty, immoral, and unlovable.  It’s a graceless art that’s been perfected by men--mostly--to cut us to our core, so it’s easy to understand why Fluke was hurt.  But in the end she’s come out looking all the better for it, because whether or not Limbaugh had any intellectual rebuttal to her argument is irrelevant after resorting to schoolyard insults in a scholarly forum.  Now I could comment on the debate itself, whether or not birth control should be included in health insurance programs, or I could get in line as one more woman to shake my finger and say “how dare he!”  But I want to address an underlying problem here: the weight of these words as ammunition, who really gets caught in the crossfire, and why it benefits all women to take the negative charge out of them.

If Limbaugh’s intention was to discredit Fluke by likening her to a girl who never puts on her underwear and just wants sex welfare, then this time it backfired, but he did successfully hurt her feelings nonetheless (hence the immediate and hearty uproar).  I understand that even juvenile, baseless affronts suck, especially when they become national news, but Limbaugh is the one that made a fool of himself, not her.  I can only assume that the bedlam of this situation is mostly attributed to the grotesqueness of being grouped in with the likes of sex enthusiasts and professionals, who certainly must be too busy gettin’ busy to concern themselves with intellectual matters.  Once again, sluts and sex workers are implicitly excluded from the discussion because they wouldn’t possibly exercise reasonable judgment on the issue.  In this regard, the salacious remarks--and subsequent reactions to them--are far more degrading to actual self-identified sluts and prostitutes than anyone else.

Through my profession (one who does get paid to have sex--thank you, taxpayers!), I have learned to accept and identify with words like “prostitute” and “whore.”  There are certain terms I just do not resonate with--I can’t be everything to everyone, after all--but for the most part I have become desensitized, perhaps even fond of them, thus rendering them less powerful to anyone who tries to use them against me or anyone else.  Of course not every woman deals with sex politics on a daily basis and has had to embrace these terms by default, but I believe the vast majority of women have been on the receiving end of a little slut-shaming at some point, regardless of their actual sexual preferences and practices.  

The reality, though, is that lots of women do enjoy lots of sex.  Some might call them sluts.  Some women (and men) happily identify as sluts.  Many women who sell both sex itself and the idea of it are often considered by others to be sluts and prostitutes, though they may not consider themselves as such.  You may find a slut in a classroom, and likewise a prude in a strip club.  In the big, messy spectrum of sexual experience and aggressiveness, extrapolation of worth based on such a thing is an absurd notion.  This is why the malevolent power of these kinds of words still transcends the hazy slut/non-slut barrier, which makes this a wider-reaching women’s issue and by effect should be addressed in any women’s rights activism.  

I beseech Sandra Fluke and all women’s activists who are under attack not to exhibit the angered reactions foul-mouths like Limbaugh seek, and as a result repudiate their fellow women who are more obvious targets for crude comments like these: the real sluts and prostitutes whose lifestyles are used as fodder for the witch-hunting masses. Even if Fluke and/or other activists are not pro or recreational sluts, there are plenty of us who are and by default rely on their voices to represent us in corners where we can’t represent ourselves (and that’s just efficiency: imagine separate Congressional hearings on birth control for women based on how much sex they have!).  Gather the sluts and the prostitutes in your strength, and we will all be stronger for it.


What do you consider a “slut” to be?  Do you consider yourself one?  

"Welcome to the Rileys" Review

Starring: James Gandolfini, Kristen Stewart, Melissa Leo (2010)

Running time: 110 min

Kristen Stewart has been an indie princess since long before “Twilight” rocketed her into the A-list cosmos, and it’s nice to see she hasn’t forsaken her earthy roots.  In one year alone she hugged two independent passion projects around the third “Twilight” installation (does this girl ever take a break?), one being “Welcome to the Rileys,” the story of a grieving middle-aged couple who find comfort when they take a troubled teen stripper under their wing.

Doug and Lois Riley (James Gandolfini and Melissa Leo) are an Indiana couple who have for eight years been stuck in the vise-grip of grief over the death of their 15-year-old daughter.  Shattered by a purposeless existence, the two drift uneasily into estrangement.  When Doug is smacked with yet another dose of loss and gets a hard look at his own mortality, his upcoming business trip to New Orleans can’t come soon enough.

Once in the Crescent City, Doug discovers his pain isn’t ameliorated by the droning facets of the wholesale plumbing supply business.  Ditching his convention, he wanders into the streets of the French Quarter, a place where everything looks familiar yet anyone can melt into anonymity.  He drifts into a hole-in-the-wall strip joint (Dixie Divas, anyone?), seemingly intent on spending the evening staring into his beer.  

Clearly not one to be typecast or worry about her explosive new image, we find Stewart as the young stripper, Mallory, a persistent hustler.  Despite his resistance to a dance (he’s just there for the ambiance?) she quickly gets him into the VIP room (with a little help from the sudden influx of rowdy convention-goers), a dark, depraved little upstairs room where she wastes no time in offering more lucrative “extras” (hey, I would too if I were getting less than 25% of what the customer actually pays).  When he rebuffs her advances and insists he just wants to have casual conversation, she finds his strange behavior suspicious, and they part on bad terms.

When fate brings them together again, this time under brighter lights, the two land on amiable ground.  As they begin to forge an unexpected kind of connection, Doug is quickly inspired by a renewed sense of purpose.  He begins by moving in to Mallory’s dump of a shotgun which still bears fresh Katrina wounds, and in the subsequent days (and/or weeks--the time frame is unclear), during which their unusual relationship takes shape, we see the missing pieces each of them hold for the other.  A childless father, Doug needs to take care of the capricious Mallory, who is in desperate need of some sort of guidance, even if she is capable of all that is necessary to strip her way across the southern US.   

It is interesting though that Doug never tries to stop or even plainly discourage her from dancing or turning cheap tricks; he’s smart enough to know that would be a mistake.  In truth he’s more concerned with her lewd vocabulary and housekeeping habits than the shifty-eyed weirdos who knock on her door at all hours of the night, though he does let her know how fiscally irresponsible she is and that her punky whore shit doesn’t intimidate him.  Like any decent father would.

As time goes on we see that Mallory (Allison/Bridget/Roxy/Jennifer...) is more than just a wild child in need of parental supervision.  She doesn’t do hard drugs or even drink, which not only do I find particularly impressive for anyone living in New Orleans, but I’ve got to thank the filmmakers for sidestepping that pile of steaming obviousness.  Okay sure, she’s got perpetually unwashed hair, a crusty smear of weeks-old eyeliner, and the wardrobe of a teenage boy from 1994, but her rough ‘n toughness is matched with a sober and resourceful attitude.  She’s taken care of herself for a while, and as such is conflicted with Doug’s thoroughly paternal nature.  She alternates between fiercely independent and endearingly vulnerable, and if she’s not earning her money, she doesn’t understand how she’s making it.  Toeing the line somewhere between child and adult, she is an ironically stable center on which the otherwise orderly Doug’s blighting sorrow finds focus.  Not wanting to be in his debt, however, the deeper his apparent altruism goes, the higher the tension rises between them.   

Back in Indiana, Lois Riley deals with her husband’s hazy announcement that he will be staying in New Orleans for an indeterminate length of time.  No questions asked, she sets in a seemingly colossal plan of action to go after him, even though the severe case of agoraphobia she’s developed since their daughter’s death has rendered her incapable of even leaving the house.  I find the immediate conquering of herself far too easy to be believable, but the profound sadness in her, which for nearly a decade has been left as stale and untouched as their daughter’s old bedroom, makes up for the contrivance.  At first reviling the odd development of Mallory/Allison, it’s not long before she grasps Doug’s angle and agrees to see the situation through.  

As Lois and Allison warm to each other and naturally fall into their own mother/daughter routine, the invisible walls built around them all begin to give way. But when Lois eventually tries to execute an eerily evocative kind of parental control over Allison, the resistance is paramount, and they all must ask themselves what the point of getting a second chance is.
  
Now it sounds like a story which involves yet another young woman in need of rescuing from the oppressive world of stripping and prostitution isn’t exactly going to win on originality, but “Welcome to the Rileys” delivers some pleasant surprises all around.  The crumbling but hopeful city of New Orleans is a fitting backdrop for the similarly broken but hopeful character dynamics, and the superb acting of all three leads paints a moving and realistic picture of loss, hope, and the unexpected forms redemption can take.  At the very least, it’s worth the sight of vampire sweetheart Bella Swan in fishnets and 7-inch ho heels.

A Change is Gonna Come

I've been giving so much energy to getting healthy again after an obscene holiday season that I haven't been working much over the past couple weeks, which is kind of stupid since I'm not exactly rolling in the dough right now.  Of course I've seen David several times since the new year, but only a handful of other clients.

One of whom is kind of a funny story.  The day after I posted my first ever website (yay!) and officially initiated the effort to forsake my old work identity and create a new one, Jake* called my old number.  I hadn't gotten much response for my new one (probably because I post my outrageous rates), so I took the call and set up an appointment for the next day.  When he arrived he appeared to be an unremarkable, slightly nervous 30-something, but conversation flowed easily--a little too easily--and after 20 minutes I abruptly suggested we move on to the next phase.  That's when we really started to fumble and bumble!  Kissing was a contrived mess, I think because he was the most perfectly awkward amount shorter than me, and things didn't get much better in bed.  He was a ball of nerves and didn't express whatever it was he was wanting, and I just didn't care enough to pry it out of him.  We started fucking with me on top, which I usually do, and after his three near-coming experiences, I thought how gloriously easy this was going to be.

When he got on top, however, he suddenly developed an awful sense of self-control, which gave him time to start sweating.  A lot.  Like, a lot a lot.  Giving up on missionary and flipping over into doggy, I felt big drops of wetness begin to plunk onto my back, and I thought in his primal fervor he may have been drooling on me.  Oh my god!  Pretty soon those occasional drops became a trickle, which I realized must be sweat, a twisted sort of relief.  He got up to get a couple towels for us before resuming the work, but after 20 or 25 minutes of switching positions, pulling out all my vocal and verbal tricks ("oh yeah, your hard, thick cock feels so good!") I was getting almost too grossed out and considered stopping him.  The gods mercifully heard my plea, and he finished shortly thereafter.

After he'd showered and was preparing to leave, the sweat fiasco hung heavily in the silence, and conversation was not as facile as it had been at first.  I almost never find conversation awkward with clients, especially after the fact, so this was comical to me.  I don't think he'll be returning.

This is a good reason why I am in the midst of renovating my business model.  Instead of seeing four to six clients a week--many one-timers--I want to pare down my client volume even more, forge longer-term connections and make more money doing it.  I also want to open up opportunities to travel and attend social events.  After months of intermittent planning and lazing about, I'm excited to finally have my website up, which is an excellent medium through which I can explain what I offer and what I want (I love having a "wish list" available year-round).  Unfortunately, the response has been dismal over the last week, and I'm in that awkward transitional phase, unsure what I need to do to make it work.  The shift into the relative unknown is quite scary because I don't even know for sure that there is a market for this higher dollar whore next door in my city.  So many questions: is posting my non-negotiable rates a psychological mistake?  Should I find a new advertising forum?  Should I just suck it up and take more calls?

xo That Silly Lilly  

Big Spenders and Cheap Bastards

Busy weekend.  Saturday, I saw David; I began our time a little differently, forgoing the usual chit-chat and pulling him into the bedroom straightaway (after making a pit stop at the donation box of course).  I didn't even make him shower, for two reasons really: I knew he was fresh, and I knew I didn't need to check the donation box.  I know in my first post I mentioned that I always check the box--even for regulars--but I really don't need to with David.  He's my most regular, has never left me less than 15% on top of my normal fee, and he never would.  We had passionate, quickie sex (clients love that because it's raunchy and they're convinced that I'm loving it as much as they are, which I sort of am because it's fun, fast, and effectively endears them to me).  As we lay chatting afterwards, he mentioned the change in routine, wondering if it's a privilege he's "earned."  I feel a little conflicted now about this, as on the one hand I don't necessarily want him thinking I'm slackening my professional boundaries, but I also believe our relationship has the potential to be even more beneficial to us both, and I want to do things that indicate he's not just one of a hundred.  He's flat out said that while he doesn't need to be my "only," he does want to be my favorite (his generosity does, after all, single-handedly pay my rent, which is a lot).

Yesterday I had two appointments--one incall at noon, another outcall in the evening.  That's my ideal day, by the way, as I like to host and have everything set up the way I want it, but I also like to break the monotony with a new location.  My first appointment was someone new, and it went off fairly unremarkably.  Nice guy, will probably hear from him again.  My evening outcall, Jim*, I'd seen once before, about a month ago.  He's a spirited, kinda dorky, married self-proclaimed "hobbyist."  For those who are not in the escorting jargon loop, that means seeing sex workers is, indeed, a hobby.  Some get pretty serious about it, contributing to and even getting reviewed themselves on sites such as The Erotic Review (ugh, I know TER can be a good tool in the right hands, but I find much of it in poor taste.  Suffice it to say I would not want to find myself on there).  Now, Jim is perfectly nice but is the sort of fella who laughs incredibly loud at lots of things that aren't funny and then tries to smolder you with his eyes, which just makes him come off as super creepy.  In bed he gave me a nice, light touch massage, intermittently breaking into my bliss with a smoky-voiced "having fun yet?"  Oh lord.  But that was euphoria compared to once he got to where he was going down there.  I must have blocked it out from last time, as I somehow didn't remember that he eats pussy as if he's breastfeeding.  He latched on and just sucked, not really doing much with his tongue besides the ceaseless sucking motion.  At first I advised him to do it lighter, much lighter, but that proved impossible for him.  I could have just made him stop, but I went with the sensation and just zoned out.  I did eventually come, with some help from a pretty intense Robert Pattinson fantasy. :P  (I'm thinking more and more that I should really start instituting dental dams, as it only makes sense if I have a strict condom policy.  I did try one time with some Saran wrap, but I couldn't feel a thing.  It was ridiculous, and I don't dig faking it like that, so I just had him stop.)

Thank the goddess the sex was quick, but it ended with him literally shuddering on top of me for, like, a minute.  He's the type that likes to keep going for a while after he's come, which I happen to find incredibly gross.  I just picture that reservoir-tip full of semen continuing to spear me--ugh!  Actually, this whole eventuality of feeling physically uncomfortable on a date brings up the point: how far is one willing to go for money?  At what point am I going to draw the line of comfort?  Well, that certainly depends.  Some things are non-negotiable: condoms, due payment, respect of my body, time, and any other boundaries I specifically express.  Just about everything else I gauge individually, using my judgment to determine what's worth it and what isn't.  After all, if a respectful and kind, albeit dorky and unattractive, man wants to pay me a hefty sum of money to let him believe he's the best lay ever, then I'm not going to issue a complaint if he happens to be one of the worst.  We must remember that this is a business, I provide a service, and I'm going to experience a certain amount of stuff that I wouldn't necessarily choose to experience in my personal life.  I can either alienate my clients or play into the fantasy, while of course keeping a firm hand on my safety and overall health.

This afternoon I had a date scheduled with someone I first spoke to a couple days ago when I was unavailable to see him.  He said he was going out of town but would call when he returned, which he did.  But after all that, he turned out to be a no-show!  Grrr, that really annoys me, and I have zero tolerance for it.  It doesn't happen often, but if someone's not going to show up there's usually an indicator in his voice.  For Mitch* it was when I told him my rate.  His tone dropped considerably, even though he maintained our alleged appointment time.  Because I sensed his apprehension I didn't give him directions at that time and instead told him to call me as he was about to leave, which he never did (his phone was turned off when I called him 10 and then 30 minutes after our scheduled time).  The longer I can hold off giving directions the better; I don't need every cheap bastard out there knowing my address!  In conclusion, I will not be answering Mitch's call again.  So rude!                      

Blood Sugar Sex Magick

I saw David again today.  We had our weekly appointment set for Thursday, but he texted me this morning wondering if we could change it since he couldn't work due to the nasty weather anyway.  I agreed that YES, that would be perfect, since frankly, I was two days and $200 behind on my rent.  The only hang-up was that I'm on the rag, which he's been very understanding about, but he asked if he should instead come in a few days.  Normally I would have done that, since it's such a drag trying to sell sex without the sex, but like I said, I actually needed the money today.  I politely asked if he wouldn't mind a "revised" visit today and was honest about the holiday expenses tripping me up.  He sweetly agreed to that and even suggested he return as soon as "the curse has lifted!"

I could have had sex without too much fanfare (we did it once before), as my flow was pretty light, and I even utilized the ol' cotton ball trick for the second time ever (that really only works on light days--do NOT expect success with that when your cooter reminds you of the hallway in "The Shining"), but I thought it might be fun to try some different things and make him want it just a little bit more for next time.  Cheeky.  We ended up having a sweet time--he even gave me an incredible back massage, which after doing Tae Bo yesterday for the first time in weeks was pretty sore (I love my job, by the way).  The one downer was I had another one of those coughing fits which conveniently presented itself when my mouth was stuffed with his cock!  I swear, that damn condom tickled my throat once and it was all over.  My eyes watered, my chest heaved--it is impossible to appear smooth and sexy when you sound like some wheezing goose or grandpa.  He was perfectly sweet about it though and suggested I just use my hand instead, which I was going to do anyway.  Now, since transitioning almost full-time into escorting and largely leaving behind the "body rub" thing, I haven't been doing as much with my hands, but I love it--it's one of my favorite things--so I was pleased to have the opportunity to show him my stuff.  Which was exceptional, of course.  It was clear he agreed.

Afterward we always cuddle for a few minutes until I get up to use the restroom (yes, I cuddle when it's appropriate), which is a very polite way of saying our time is up.  But we always seem to wind up talking explicitly about the nature of my work: my advertising medium, other providers, how many friends and family members know I'm a professional whore--ya know, the general ins and outs of being a sex worker.  At first I appreciated this for the chance to talk about it with someone who's genuinely interested, as many clients never want to fracture the fantasy, but I must say now it's getting a little old.  Why must we always lift the veil?  He's very hung up on my knowing how much he respects and doesn't judge me, but I'm beginning to wonder if that's exactly what he's doing.  Eh, it's more likely that he's still trying to reconcile the fact that a whore can come in the form of a nice, intelligent girl.  Of course I censor what I say when we talk about such things, because no matter how much they say otherwise, clients do not really want nor should they know it all.

As he got himself ready to go, he checked if I wouldn't mind if he still came round again in a few days.  Of course, I said.  Arms wrapped around one another, he once again declared his respect and sheer adoration for me and our time together, which has become something "very special" in his life.  He even mused that our arrangement is really more of a "girlfriend experience" than an "escort experience," which I assume implies a more intimate and meaningful encounter than what all those other chippies can offer.  He felt self-conscious using the word girlfriend, and while I know he kind of meant it in a way which warrants the self-consciousness, I don't mind.  I sense his growing attachment, but I also know that he is not interested in crossing my boundaries.  It's possible that this could turn into a sort of ideal sugardaddy/baby relationship, which I've actually been wanting for quite a long time.  He did say he would bring me some wood for my fireplace--it's a far cry from a London shopping spree, but hey, I'll take it!

Love ya,
xo Lilly Muse    

p.s. I hope I don't get in trouble for that title? :P

 

A Whole New Year, and Unpaid Dates Are Still Awkward

Well a very happy new year to you all!  Don't we always have high, romantic hopes that a new year will somehow be exponentially more exciting, productive, and adventurous than the last one which was so unfortunately rife with shit?  It's a funny time, the beginning of January, but I'm thankful for this time to reflect, recharge, and hopefully stop eating so many goddamn Christmas cookies.

I am just glad the holidays are about officially over.  It's been an exhausting season!  I'm bloated, sleep-deprived, and drinking like a fish.  No better way to honor the Light of the World, eh?  I never make resolutions, necessarily, but I certainly make a list of intentions and see where that leads me.  I look back at a list I made last spring, which I really put a lot of energy into, and I've actually accomplished, in one way or another, most of the things on it.  Mostly by becoming a fairly high-priced whore.

I'm eager to get back to work, as except for one appointment I had with my dependable David* on Thursday (you remember David), I haven't worked since before I left town for Christmas.  I would feel like a sort of virgin if I hadn't gone and fucked another person later that night.  Like, not professionally.  And as it turns out, no matter how many men have paid me for my companionship over the last six months, it's still kind of awkward doing it the way most other people do it.  Being a "pro" doesn't automatically turn that switch off.

I met Caleb* at a bar that night, and we hit it off right away (don't we always?).  He was cute, mid-thirties, easy to talk to (of course it only gets easier after three Ketel One martinis).  So after the usual "how do you/what do you do" (I'm a "writer"--well, I am!--sometimes), and some pretty nerdy but stimulating discussion of the most cutting edge vegetable-cooking techniques, we headed down the street to a wonderful Greek restaurant.  We had to wait about a half hour for a table, so in the meantime we stopped into this great little wine bar nearby.  Bold from the martinis, I touched Caleb's arm, mid-sentence, and leaned in to kiss him.  He reciprocated, and I must say it was a pretty swell romcom moment. 

After a delicious dinner, he stole me away to his place, on the pretense that he had to feed his dog.  I don't remember the dog ever getting fed, as we ended up in Caleb's bedroom shortly thereafter.  I was attracted to him and wanted to have sex, though I realized I had no condoms with me, which is a sin for any woman.  Luckily he did.  I always use non-lubricated condoms when I work, as they're the only kind that go in my mouth of course, but Caleb only had lubricated, so I passed on blowing him.  He was certainly shocked that I wouldn't do it sans condom, but I can't blame him for his bewilderment--I mean, I didn't realize how many people really have such unsafe sex until my livelihood started depending on it, and of those average civilians who regularly use condoms with strangers, how many use them for oral sex?  What does that say about safe sex practices of whores vs. "normal" girls??  Anyway, I figured fucking him would distract from that crazy ass boundary I set, but I fumbled like a damn fool trying to get the condom on him!  What??  I've put on countless condoms over the last six months since I started primarily escorting, and I fudge this one?  So awkward.  Though in retrospect it probably made me look all innocent and virginal.  Hahaha.

To make matters worse, I soon realized I had horrible cottonmouth...of the vagina.  I was dry as a fucking desert!  I've always been so easy to wet--I kind of prided myself on it for a while--so this was obviously hugely embarrassing.  If I didn't have condoms on me I certainly didn't have lube, and the chances of a straight young male with no obvious sexual deviations having a lube stash proved to be very slim.  We both noticed it, but I encouraged him to keep going because though I was horny, I mostly just wanted the whole thing to be over.  He came quickly, thank the gods.  I've come up with three possible reasons as to this unfortunate occurrence: 1) because I regularly use lube as a preventative measure when I work, my juice box doesn't naturally produce as much on demand anymore? 2) I'd been drinking mostly vodka since 4:00 that afternoon.  That much alcohol would dry out an octopus. 3) Quickie, drunk sex with strange young men almost never involves any considerable amount of foreplay.  When men are paying you to be in your bed, they'll savor all the time they have.

I left shortly after we were through, which disappointed him (I love reversing that role).  Even though my fuzzy memory told me we kind of liked each other I had pretty much written it off as a one night stand, so I was surprised when he called me this afternoon to ask me out for dinner!  I obliged and met him downtown, which was nearly a ghost town, it being a worldwide holiday and all.  We had sushi this time, but at one point I inhaled a spice or something and went on to awkwardly cough through about 30% of the meal (I've had a cough/cold that's been lingering for about two weeks since I've been too stupid to relax and take care of myself, and of course it flares up at the most inconvenient times).  Afterward we went to his place again, and I'd barely gotten in the door when he started kissing me.  We made out on the couch for a few minutes, him clearly assuming I'd be ready and willing again, but I knew it wasn't going very far since my great Aunt Flo decided to drop in for a visit last night.  Coughing, bloated, and bleeding?  Not very sexy.

What I found interesting as we were sitting there making out is that I felt like my 17 or 18-year-old self again, kind of tensed up with this strange boy, not entirely in my power and unsure what moves to make.  So weird, considering my sexual empowerment is one of my great strengths now.  I found myself wishing I were working and that this were a paid date.  The dynamics in a personal vs. paid date are so different, and I guess I'm just not used to the personal ones anymore.  It feels to me that on a "real" date the boundaries are so open, and you naturally scrutinize each other, what you assume to be the other person's real self.  That can be quite intimidating!  When someone is paying me for my intimacy and attention, the boundaries are clear, or can quite comfortably be made clear, and both of us know essentially what we can expect.  It is mutually understood that we need only talk about the things in our "real lives" that we feel comfortable sharing.  That usually means his job, our mutual love for travel, the weather.  On the other hand, I generally avoid asking any strangers what they do for a living anymore, for fear that they'll ask me the same.  If I guard myself with a man who is not paying me and doesn't have a clue what my business really is, I fear he may see me as hiding something (which I am) and come up with all sorts of scenarios as to why I'm so damaged (which only get worse if I do tell him what I do).  I am certainly not opposed to eventually outing myself to people I feel comfortable with, but it's not a first or second date subject.  In some ways I think I can be more myself when I'm with clients, if only because there is no need for us to scrutinize each other in such an excruciating way: they already know my deep, dark secret.

May this year bring more excitement, productivity, and adventure than the last!

Love ya,
xo Lilly Muse  

*Names have been changed.