The amazing Audacia Ray has started the “Red Umbrella Diaries.” Check out the piece I and a friend wrote for the first Call for Submissions on “Co-workers and Co-conspirators.”
We really gotta get that show off to Hollywood … La la la, Mismatched Whores!
It has taken me almost a week to write this post. My apologies.
I’ve sat in front of this screen and not been able to bring myself to write out just a summary of our event in ABQ, for the International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers.
But a news story ran last night, on one of ABQ’s main channels, about the West Mesa serial killer. The story profiled the mother of who police believe to be the last victim. DNA identification has not come back from the University of North Texas. So, this mother is waiting, wondering. The news story was fairly benign–empty of nasty, underhanded comments about sex work.
But the comments–out of the 17 comments I just read via the on-line story, only 2-3 did not claim that because the bodies of the women buried in the West Mesa belonged to prostitutes and/or drug addicts, they deserved to die and be thrown into a vacant lot like trash, because they were trash.
I thought about commenting. But do I want to engage with these commentors who clearly lack the ability to understand that all human life is valuable? No, I decided. I’d best put my energy right here, and tell the story of Albuquerque’s Red Umbrella Day.
Over 40 people gathered, including a handful of sex workers (in fact, I believe there were only six of us), New Mexico FetLifers, families of the women murdered and buried on the West Mesa, medical students from UNM, staff of New Mexico AIDS Services, and allies.
We gathered and lit candles for the twelve victims (eleven women, one 4-month-old fetus) of the West Mesa serial killer. We read the list of names, provided by the Sex Workers Outreach Project. Attendees lit candles for others lost this year, including Deborah Jeanne Palfrey, the DC Madam, and Terry Benally, a transgendered ABQ youth who was murdered in 2009. We cried. One of our speakers reiterated throughout the night, “It’s all of us, or none of us.” Our guest speaker reminded us that sexual outlaws have always been together–the dykes and the leatherfolk and the queers and the sex workers and the transgendered. We, sexual outlaws, know to trust each other. We can’t very well trust most of those who patronize us, write about us, construct news stories about us, or pretend to be us under the guise of “character” or “creative license.” We are far more ordinary, you see, than those who would take/possess/claim our voices want to understand.
At the end of the night, I asked everyone to keep telling our stories. Tell the stories of the eleven women murdered and buried in a vacant Albuquerque lot. Tell the story of Albuquerque’s Red Umbrella Day. Tell stories that remind those who would ignore a grieving mother because her daughter may have been a prostitute that all human life is valuable.
When I came home from Red Umbrella Day, I crept upstairs to my daughter’s room. She will be two in January. I peeked in on her sleeping body–she lay on her tummy, in Hello Kitty pajamas, her blanket crunched up beside her. I put the blanket that my great aunt knit 30 years ago for my brother over my daughter’s little body. She sighed.
Every person was somebody’s baby. Every slain sex worker was a daughter or son, sister or brother, friend, lover, mother or father. It is astounding, yet not surprising, that sex workers must remind those who would ignore us of this.
Please share and repost as you like. Need the original file? Please comment/message me.
The Albuquerque Police Department’s Web site covers this case at:
http://www.cabq.gov/police/index–118th/index–118th.htm. The killer remains
at large.
This event is sponsored by PEP, People Exchanging Power
(http://www.peplove.com) and is organized by Sera Miles
(http://seramiles.com) and Princess Frida. Please call (505) 260-1324 or
email seramiles@gmail.com for more information.
Including me! Check us out and become a fan here.
Day One + A Taste of Night One
I’ve been home for a week and a half, yet I can barely find a minute to record my notes on how fabulous DomConLA was. What a perfect trip! That four day weekend measured up to be exactly what any traveler would likely want from a vacation: fun, invigorating, and educational; full of shopping, good food, good wine, and excellent martinis; left me already anticipating next time. Sadly, though, I doubt I’ll be able to go to LA next year–DomConLA is too close to another conference I’m slating myself for. BUT! DomConAtlanta in 2010? A very likely yes!
Kara Chains and I headed for the airport at 230pm on Thursday. Our suitcases were heavy with shoes, toys, and alternate outfits. We didn’t know exactly what to expect, so we packed for every possibility we could imagine. Our flight was full but relatively headache free, and only about two hours long. Once in sunny and humid (remember: we live in the high desert) LA, we jumped on the shuttle and checked into the opulent Hilton LAX. We rested our suitcases in our third floor room, and Kara set off with $3 to buy us two diet cokes. She returned with one–each diet coke, you see, cost $3.
Nothing, though, could get us down! We split the sacred diet coke into two glasses and each lit a much-needed Camel. I feel guilty about having started to smoke again after nearly two years off the stuff, but remember: I was on vacation. The Camels were lit, the wine poured–as our next step on the agenda was me ordering up a fine bottle of pinot grigiot–and the fun started that night with the Meet & Greet.
I put on my new sweater from Cache; sometimes, the advent of fetish-y clothes in mainstream fashion annoys me, but at other times it’s so frickin’ convenient. This black sweater has barely-there shoulder sleeves, two fabric “belts” with silver buckles around the waist, and tiny round grommets plus buckles rimming the neckline. In sweater, pencil pin-striped skirt, and uber-high faux snakeskin heels, I made my way down to the reception. And then I had a vodka tonic for the first time in two years. And then another.
Kara and I took it upon ourselves to chat it up with a few men who stood alone at tall tables, nursing watery drinks. We then met the inimitable Jay Wiseman, who was sweet and bright-eyed and seemed very happy to see us–especially the lovely Kara. It is amazing, I have to say here, to think of myself at 19, 20 … all the way through 25, when I hid the kinkster closet, saw names like Wiseman’s on books I flipped through furtively at Baltimore’s Lamda Rising, imagined that he and those in the know simply had an ability to be open that I would never possess … and to think of myself now, at 32, shaking hands with Jay Wiseman, toasting with other BDSM celebrities, attending a Meet & Greet hosted by Domina and legend Irene Boss. And hey, this is my blog, so I’ll say it outright: I hope to one day be one of that crowd, a person who helped ease someone else out of the kinkster closet, who showed others that this open life is not only possible and worth living but worth living to the hilt.
Kara and I left the Meet & Greet to have a smoke upstairs in our room, and once we had our heels off, it was all over–there was no way we were going back downstairs. Are you imagining we crawled into bed with a final glass of wine and slept? You’d be partially correct. You’d be missing the part that led to me standing in the corner, panties pulled down, pink bottom on display.
A Typical Naughty Girl Before Bed
In the parlance of our times, I tend to refer to myself as a sex worker. The term allows me to introduce what I do for a living in more congenial language; it’s the term most fellow workers use; and it provides those of us in the sex industry with a sense of unity. My sex worker friends and I bandy the term “whore” around—Mistress Twilight and I are plotting our surefire hit sitcom, “Mismatched Whores;” I joke with non-sex worker friends, “Well, if you were a whore you could afford that;” and when I’m busy, I tell them, “Can’t come guys–whore stuff to do.”
Annie Sprinkle popularized and reclaimed “whore” when she referred to herself as a Sacred Whore (and she’s not the only one). I’m not going to delve into the Sprinkle history, but suffice to say she took “whore” as lesbians have taken “dyke.” Consequently, when my sex worker friends and I say, “whore,” we mean it in the sacred sense.
Still, we are not, in some senses of the word, “whores.” Annie Sprinkle reclaimed “whore” to align with her work, and her work is not synonymous with mine. “Sex worker” gives us unity, but at the end of the day, a woman who works at a peep show has a very different job from mine, as does an escort versus a vanilla porn star versus an adult web site adminstrator … and on and on.
I don’t know many sex workers who embrace the term “prostitute,” perhaps because bored policeman arrest those of us working in everything from domination with no sex to street whores under the guise of “prostitution.” When I hear the term “prostitute,” I tend to think of a woman working on the street or a full-service escort. If I use the term, I tend to follow it with a Seinfeld-esque “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” In fact, I think the only thing wrong with it is that street whores could make so much more money if they changed venue.
When angry clients want to hurt my feelings, they often leave me messages of “WHORE!” Or, “You’re nothing but a grubby, skanky whore.” This is of course ironic—how do you hurt a whore’s feelings by calling her a whore? When I play those messages, I’m reminded of Dorothy Allison’s story of having someone yell “Faggot!” as she walked down the street. She stopped, turned, and screamed back, “DYKE! Get it right. I’m a DYKE.” When the clients scream “WHORE,” I want to scream back “PERVERT,” and see if they’ll reply, “Well, yeah, Sera, duh.” (I should try that sometime …)
In the parlance of the sex industry, we tend to embrace “sex worker” and “whore.” I can’t help but believe, though, that there are a litany of terms waiting to be used. I like to call myself a “fetishist,” and if someone is genuinely interested in what I do, I explain that choice. All the sex-related work I perform grounds itself in fetish: fetish phone sex, fetish in-person sessions, and fetish videos. I am not interested in vanilla sex-related work. Our phone service does have a small list of clientele who want only to discuss vanilla sex, usually under the guise of mutual masturbation. These clients appreciate that our service shows real photos, and that they are talking to a woman at home, not a woman in an office. I speak with a few of them, but I tend to shy away from such calls; they bore me. I feel that those clients can find what they seek in so many other venues, and I want to dedicate my time to the fetishists, to the man finally crying out the secret he’s harbored for forty-plus years. Those of us in the sex biz tend to select our venues based on what we want to give back—in the classic sense of the “sacred whore.”
As we embrace “sex worker” and “whore,” those of us in the biz unite and create an opening, a discussion, that will perhaps lead us to creating and implementing a vocabulary that more clearly describes what we each do. After all, “lawyer” tells us very little. “Tax attorney” or “Corporate lawyer” tells us much more.
The more visibility we create—and demand—the more language we can mold to clearly communicate our role in contemporary American society. A lack of language leads to invisibility. And every time I or a fellow worker introduces him/herself as a “sex worker” or “whore,” every time we own the language others use to demonize us, we draw ourselves into yet another landscape. My tongue awaits the words our visibility will invite.
New Comments
I wonder these days how much sex workers in different venues really have in common. I’ve been reading more sex worker literature and sex worker blogs, to prep a conference proposal on sex workers and literature, and I feel like my experiences dramatically differ from so much of what I read. After all, I rarely went to work; I woke up and turned on the phone. I had costumes for photos, but I never wore a wig, or even dressed differently from what I liked to wear in an in-person session. That experience vastly differs from, say, a woman working a peep show.
At the same time, we are all dealing with desire: thwarted desire, repressed desire, desire that only shows its face to us, to whores. The men who call and visit and patronize our businesses desperately need release, and metaphorically, they don’t care who gets splashed with their cum. If they pay us, they have a right to that splash.
That’s not to say that they shouldn’t–isn’t that what we’re getting paid to do? To be there, present, without judging, and look their desire in the face? To look at their behavior and not laugh or complain. To accept.
I often told people that as a fetish phone sex counselor, my biggest job was to not judge. Perhaps that idea constitutes a definition of a “whore”: one who does not judge another’s sexual/erotic expression. We might think about it not-so-fondly later, but if a whore is good at what she does, she can listen to or watch or enact nearly anything (SSC, of course) that a client feels is erotic without judgment. She may not always be able to convince him that she’s excited by his kink, his desire; but, she will be able to smile, to speak softly, to reinforce that one off-the-beaten path desire does not negate one’s humanity.
Five years ago, I took the ferry from Manhattan to Staten Island, and Kelly Payne, producer of spanking fetish videos, picked me up. Kelly and I had met through someone we both knew–an acquaintance of mine who had done videos for her. Kelly had emailed me for months, encouraging me to visit. At first, I thought her propositions couldn’t be “real”–I could get paid to spank and be spanked, to basically live out what I’d secretly fetishized since I could remember? I finally acquiesced, for I wanted to satisfy my curiosity, both in terms of my own fetish and in terms of the reality of a business around it. Terribly nervous, I dressed “sexy conservative,” in a maroon wrap-around skirt that fell to my calves, with a tight black tank top that skimmed my waist. Kelly’s enthusiasm relieved my nerves. Walking into her house a few minutes later, and seeing how lovingly decorated it was, and then being served a nice glass of wine nearly dissolved my nerves.
She promised me that everyone I met that day, and the next, would be a spanking fetishist. Everyone was. An hour or so after our wine, I performed in my first video–”The Voyeur Husband.” I played a wife whose husband had peeped in at her neighbors. The neighbors come over and offer to show the wife “how to deal with such behavior.” After the neighbors spank and strap the errant husband, it’s the wife’s turn. This marked the first time I’d ever really spanked anyone. I went soft on him, but Kelly and the other actress more than made up for my softness.
The next day, I filmed my first submissive video, “A Lesson From Aunt Kelly Part 2.” Kelly, who possesses a degree in Fashion and whose closet is practically the size of a bedroom, dressed me in an ass-skimming red plaid skirt, little white blouse, and sheer panties. We filmed in a large kitchen. I played a teenage niece who has been staying with her aunt while (theoretically) attending summer school. Aunt Kelly receives a letter from the school, informing her of her niece’s poor attendance. Despite the niece’s protests of being “too old for this,” Aunt Kelly delivers a firm over the knee spanking. When the niece claims she was “sick,” Aunt Kelly verifies the girl’s health (you can imagine how, I’m sure), and turns up the heat with her hairbrush.
One of Kelly’s long-time clients watched us film, and then we adjourned to a playroom to do a live session with him. It was my turn to spank, once again. I remember being shocked at how hard Kelly spanked the man, and I went easy on him. He even joked that every time he was over my knee he got a “break.” Later, I would come to understand his–and others’, and my own as it developed–need to be taken deeply into a submissive place through the role play and the spanking. At the time, I wanted most to “get through it” and at least be charming. I suppose I was, as the gentleman saw me numerous times after that.
When it was time to go home, Kelly paid me for all my work, and I had more cash in my wallet than I knew what to do with. I journeyed off to Queens to visit a friend. I still remember the first two things I bought with my first sex biz earnings. I went to Le Chateau, a wonderful store that keeps closing in too many cities, and bought a pair of skin-tight black pants with gold studs trimming the waist and ankles, and a thin black sweater with sweeping sleeves, long enough to hit me mid-thigh (this was very in style in 2001–perhaps some of you remember the look?).
I finally went home to Baltimore, and I knew I would return to Staten Island to work with Kelly again. My first weekend had been a whirlwind, and I couldn’t find one thing to complain or feel bad about. At moments, I felt guilty to have done something “like that.” I could barely put words to it at the time. But, my guilt seemed manufactured–I felt as if I was sensing what society expected me to, rather than experiencing a genuine reaction. For I knew that I had not only found a way to indulge my fetish, but I had also entered a community of warm, generous, accepting people around whom I could freely express any fetishistic desire.
I’ve stayed in “the biz” for a multitude of reasons. Now, I often tell my clients of this first weekend, and I remind them that I had just turned twenty-five when it happened. I was fortunate, not to be taken into “the biz,” but to have that community so early. Without that weekend, and all the personal and professional doors it opened, I wonder if I would have lived several decades hiding my fantasies, trying to get rid of them. Before I met Kelly, I would masturbate to spanking fantasies; I would use them during sex if I had trouble reaching orgasm. I’d then promise myself to never fantasize about it again. I’d secretly buy BDSM novels, and I’d throw them away after reading them. Now, anyone who walks into my home could easily see my fetishistic side immediately–at this moment, several spanking/BDSM porn DVDs are on top of my TV; I’ve framed a handful of my publicity photos; and my canes and crops adorn the top of my massive ebony-framed mirror. Beside my bed, I keep a basket with sex toys for easy reach–the usual suspects: lube, condoms, harness, dildo, little paddle. The only time I hide any of these things is when my mother visits. I want anyone who enters my home to know what I do; why would I invite them if I had to hide? Moreover, though, I want anyone who enters to know that this is a safe place to speak of their fetishes, their desires, that nothing they say will garner them “a look” from me. The only look they’ll receive is one of intrigue, one of understanding.
New Comments:
This August, I’ll have been part of the sex industry for eight years–nearly a decade. Last year, after the birth of my daughter, I thought about leaving the biz. Ha, ha. A few months later I’d gotten a gig recording sexual fantasies. I don’t know what happened to my mp3 recordings, but I know I was paid handsomely for them. I also appeared in the video game Bonetown, the world’s first porno game. That job was particularly a blast–I got to go to a fancy recording booth and say the sicket stuff I could think of, and fake orgasms, and curse. God, I hope that company hires me again!
Somehow, the sex biz is my home. It’s increasingly difficult to think about leaving, in large part because I’m spoiled. I’m spoiled by not just the fast money (time to dollar ratio), but by the community. Where else can you work where you are not judged for parts of your identity that are beyond your control? Where else must everyone avoid judging others’ sexual proclivities, because it is a job requirement?
This is not to say the industry hasn’t fucked my head in some ways. I have trouble believing in what some people say, believing that marriages are sound, believing that partners are honest. Thankfully, I married a fellow pervert. But when I see non-admitted pervert marriages … well, I’ve made a great deal of money because our society tells people to shut their sexual selves down.
Much of that is another post entirely, one I’ll have to gather the emotional energy to write.
I love what I do. I love what I’ve done. We all know when we have found our professional home. That sunny, hot morning in Staten Island, I knew. Any shifting I’ve tried to do has just spun me right back into the biz. It’s home.
Below is a post I counted among the most difficult to write, and most important. More new comments from me at the end …
Clients often ask me to mail or email them pictures of me, and each time, I page through my photos and sigh–I know I look better now than I do in practically every photo, (at least, when I’m thumbing through, I think I do), and I usually go with an old stand-by. Every time I have an in-person session, which has been often this summer, I try to wear something that will hide the thigh-cellulite when I use the strap-on. Every time my boss calls for a photo session, I cringe, but put on a happy face–having “led” groups many times in my life, I try to stay positive and not let my body image issues affect my time at work. Every time I page through new photographs, I declare that I look fat in all of them. Having done this for five years, though, I know to wait a week and look at them again–and then I usually find a few that I like.
I, like so many women, have had body image issues as long as I can remember. Like so many women experience, my mother contributed to the state I find myself in now. She’d long been heavy, and when I was eleven, she declared that I had to drink diet coke. To this day, any “real” soda product tastes funny to me. I remember her limiting how many saltines I could have with a bowl of soup. Not long after that, I went through a period of anorexia, followed by seven years of bulimia. One of my “favorite” things to throw up was saltines–but I never ate more than two. Two saltines is 24 calories. I still remember that.
At 19 years old, I came out of the closet, and I stopped throwing up. By that time, too, I had a constant sore throat and a supportive network of friends. Even though I stopped sliding my fingers down my throat one to three times a day, I continued to obsess about my body. When I gained weight, I panicked and lost it, then gained it again. So, for eleven years, I’ve yo-yo’d. It feels good to be working out now, and to know that I have the time, the lifestyle and (lack of) schedule, to allow me to continue exercising. Lately, I can see slight muscles forming in my arms and calves and thighs, and for me, that’s an incredibly positive sign. In the past, I’ve slimmed down, but seeing my body transform into something new has contributed to a new way in which I perceive my body.
I think that many people assume that all sex workers have perfect bodies, or that we are ultimately confident in our bodies. Not true, obviously. Most of my sex worker friends panic before every photo shoot. Most of us barely eat all day, to avoid bloating. When I started in the biz, I was about 15 pounds away from a full “slim down” after a heavy period. I lost those 15 pounds within three months of my first job, and I was thrilled every time the people I worked with noticed it. Still, I knew my body was far from perfect. I was glad that I worked in fetish, where your actual interest in the fetish supercedes your looks. Sure, video producers want attractive people in their films, but as long as the actor/actress is “okay looking,” and truly into the fetish, the video producer tends to be pleased.
The first few times I saw clients in person, I worried about how they’d react to my body. Five months into the biz, I began apprenticing under a Mistress. She pushed me to let go of the anxiety. “They see,” she told me, “your collar, or your corset, or your breasts, or your feet … They want to see their fetish fantasy, not a model-thin woman.”
I repeated her words every time I partially undressed in front of a client. Kelly, for whom I made videos, told me to ensure that some of my pictures were not as flattering as others. “You never,” she said, “want someone to see you for a session and tell you that you looked better in your pictures.” I still repeat this admonition every time I look at new photos of myself.
Most BDSM/fetish sex workers have vastly different bodies. As I’ve talked with new women in the biz, and heard them panic before photos, I’ve told them of the admonitions I initially heard. But, that hasn’t consistently quieted the voice in my head, that insidious voice that parrots, “You’re fat; you’re fat; you’re fat.”
Fetish sex work doesn’t require large amounts of nudity if the sex worker doesn’t want to be naked. In the past few years, I’ve forced my logical mind to override my emotions and allow me to disrobe down to bra, panties, and stockings to use the strap-on. A few clients have requested nudity–politely–and I’ve obliged. I also offer switch and submissive sessions, and my dominant/switch clients expect–fairly, I think–a high degree of exposed skin.
Recently, I saw two clients in person. One had done many calls with me and seen many images of me. He declared, minutes after meeting me, “You’re even more beautiful in person.” I thought then of Kelly’s words, and realized their full import. All evening, this client repeated that he loved my body.
The other client came to me for his second-ever BDSM/fetish experience. I planned what I thought would be a great outfit–new red patent leather 1940s style heels, a leopard print cleavage baring top with a jewel-encrusted snake at the bodice, and black capri pants. Very retro. Then, an hour into the session, I realized that to do the strap-on, I either had to put the harness over my pants, which I hate doing, or I had to be in panties-only–without pantyhose to camouflage the cellulite. I forged forward, glad I was at least wearing black panties that covered my ass and pussy well. But, I ensured that I used the strap-on with him facing the mirror, me behind him. A year or so ago, I used the strap-on on a client as we were side by side with the mirror. When I glanced over and saw my stomach and thighs, I wanted to throw up (literally and figuratively). Ever since then, I’ve ensured I cannot see my bare thighs in the mirror, unless I am obsessing in front of my cheval mirror at home.
The client was thrilled with the session (the cutest thing he said was, “I love making Miss Sera happy!”), and he subsequently sent me an email. He thanked me for a great time, indicated he’d like to see me again, and he wrote, “You were smoking hot.” I was touched, of course, largely because very few clients take the time to write you a thoughtful note after a session. Then, I thought about myself in that playspace, obsessing over how to present my body, while the client, evidently, was enthralled.
Sex work brings its own host of body-obsession possibilities, but it also allows us the opportunity to unchain ourselves from those obsessive thoughts. I remind myself, when I’m in high-obsession periods, that I sell my expertise and time first, then my body, as in my holistic physical presence. A dominant client, for example, is much more concerned with whether or not I enjoy his spanking me, rather than with the amount of wrinkled flesh on my thighs.
Still, most of us want to be attractive. We draw the client toward us through photographs first.
This all begs a larger question, an elephant in the room–does pornography negatively affect women’s body images? Well, on straight/vanilla porn, I have little to say. I would hope that viewers realize that the women in vanilla porn have often had some form of surgery. They also have a career that expects them to spend time in the gym, eat well, and care for their skin. Their career–like mine–allows them the time to do all of these things, plus get haircuts and color, pedicures, and anything else we feel necessary.
The bottom line, for women in sex work, is that we make more per hour than many other professions allow. But, for us, to go to the salon or the gym is part-relaxation, part-work. My work allows me to see myself through the client’s eyes, when I can peel back the layer of hating my body and see what they see: an attractive girl, who looks like a real person, who is not only willing to indulge their fetish, but also interested in their fetish.
Sex work initially leads the worker to obsess about her body, to pinpoint every flaw. But I think that for those of us who stay with it, we get glimpses of how we are seen, versus how we have seen ourselves. And the more I look at myself through someone else’s eyes, the more I like that image in the mirror.
Addendum
In the two and a half years since I wrote that post, I’ve gained 70 pounds to have a baby and lost about 45 of it. I have struggled to accept my new body: the lines on my stomach; my nipples pointing downward; my curves covered in more layers of flesh.
I am no longer a full-time sex worker; though I do take an occasional call or session from a long-time client, I do not advertise. I have wanted to take new pictures, to show myself now for my New Mexico FetLifers promotions and for this blog, but I’ve had a hard time getting my groove up for said pictures. In part, it’s difficult to find time to primp head to toe for a photo session—with an infant crawling around. In part, I feel like I can see the new heft in my face, my neck, and I don’t want to see it on camera.
I wonder: if I went back to work full force, photos everywhere, would my clients not call because I’m 20+ pounds heavier?
I know the answer. No. Most of them would probably notice the weight gain. Most of them have wives or ex-wives or loved ones who’ve had children. So, most of them would note it and move on, with an inkling of the dramatic changes my body has undergone in the last two years. 10 months of pregnancy + 12 months of breastfeeding does not leave one charging out for a run every morning. It leaves one in desperate need of every available second of delicious sleep.
I feel I’m coming full circle in these comments, in that I am remembering that sex worker clients–at least in the parts of the business I know well–love me and adore me and respect me and want me because of what I bring to their mental anguish. Nice tits or shapely legs make for icing on the “top.”
I miss my round and succulent tits, untouched by becoming a food source. I miss the curve of my waist, the arch of my back and neck, without new rolls of flesh. But my clients? They miss me.
I’ve gotta tap into their thinking.
