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Are You Sluttier Than A Prostitute?: Sluts, sex workers, and why we’re all whores

DISCLAIMER:

This post will use conservative-moralist terms and rhetoric to better express the ideas contained within it. No part of this post should be construed as an endorsement of sex-negativity, misogyny or slutshaming, or any part of the radical feminist or conservative-moralist agendas.

Sex workers are stigmatised because of slut shaming, and society views sex wotkers as the ultimate sluts (because they fail to distinguish between sex for pleasure and sex for work). Though, with me, the two are combined because I’m doing this for a thrill and to fulfil a fantasy.

However, even if slut shaming or the idea of the “slut” was, like, actually real or logical or anything like that, I’m still not sure that sexworkers really would succeed in coming out on top as the Sluttiest of Them All.

Take my favourite Asian gay guy’s latest TV exploits. Gok Wan’s Gok’s Style Secrets involves picking a potential husband out of any reasonably good-looking guys in a bar. Quite apart from the fact that life partners shouldn’t be chosen on looks (or a lottery of who happens to be in the bar when you walk in), why is choosing a husband in this way any “better” (to use the conservative-moralist terminology) than paying a man for sex?

Go into any bar or club and you’ll find a man who will let you take him home and have sex with him for free. At least sexworkers will only do it for money. The word “easy”, literally referring to how easy it is to have sex with a woman, os bandied about a lot. But lots of women and men have one night stands, friends with benefits and sex with strangers. Some even advertise for casual sex, most commonly on Craigslist and sites like BeNaughty.com. Many go out in killer outfits to snag some guy or girl to take home, walking the streets at night in search of sex with a stranger.

And this is better than prostitution? Why? Because they’ll do it without being paid? Because instead of phoning and making an appointment, or going through an email vetting process, or contacting an agency, they bought a girl a drink or slow-danced with a man? Seems like a lot of sexworkers are actually less easy than people who aren’t sexworkers. Some sexworkers won’t see you if you’ve missed one appointment or your email or text message contains text-speech or grammatical/spelling errors. Some will look up your name on websites set up by sexworkers which name and shame clients who don’t pay (which I would call rapists) or who are violent. With a lot of sex workers, you have to wait a couple of hours or days to see them and there are things they won’t do.

But people who aren’t sex workers will sleep with strangers immediately and without caring how their spelling is or knowing if they could turn violent.

My own experiences fit this model too. With Roland, I trialled him by going to a nude photoshoot to see if he seemed potentially dangerous and to test whether he would pay. We also sent messages a couple of times, then finalised the arrangement face to face. So, with sex work I seem to vet the client and it takes days before I’ll sell sexual services.

However with Donny, we just started spanking and touching each other suddenly, and he says “You could spend the night” and I’m like, “Yeah, great, I’ll just phone my mum and tell her I’m staying over at Kathy’s.” So I actually am more ‘easy’ when it’s not sex work, and the performing of sex is immediate.

I think this pretty much proves that the problem people have with sex work is the money – the fact that people want payment for something that is seen as too enjoyable to be work. Or perhaps because sex workers want payment for something everyone else ‘gives up’ for free.

 
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Posted by on February 1, 2013 in Sex work

 

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How to not feel sick when prostituting yourself: 15 tips

Someone suggested I write this post. Note: I only had to use these techniques the first time. After that I enjoyed it a lot more and was right there in the moment. So, this knowledge comes from just 45 mins/an hour of experience of doing stuff I didn’t want to do in my buyer’s company office. (When he spanked me, I totally loved it, of course.)

1. The obvious one – imagine it’s someone else. I imagined a friend’s friend, a guy in my class, then a friend.

2. Pretend it isn’t happening. Try not to look and instead focus your attention on something you enjoy, such as a kinky scene or BDSM story (or whatever makes you happy).

3. Talk – make sexy conversation or tell a story to distract yourself. This can totally work – I told Roland a sex story that I was making up as I went along, and he liked it and thought it was really good, plus it also took my mind off what I was doing/calmed me down. It can totally work if you hold your buyer’s gaze and speak in a sexy way while telling the story as if it were true, widening your eyes and doing expressions where appropriate. Tell it as if it amazes you and also saddens you.

4. Keep thinking of the money and reciting the amount in your head. Say, “I’m doing this for £x” in your mind over and over. (This also works for doing a crappy low-paid job; I got through part-time work by saying this mantra over and over in my head.)

5. Try to enjoy it and learn something from it like how to please a man or take the chance to really hone your knowledge of comparative anatomy.

6. Try to distract him by pretending you hear a noise. Note: this doesn’t work if he owns the flipping place.

7. Close your eyes and focus on the sensations – this will please you sexually as you’re biologically programmed to like this. It will also help with imagining your buyer looks more gorgeous/less old or with imagining a surrogate person.

8. Have a drink first.

9. If you have a kink, get him to perform it first so you get turned on and are at least partially ready to perform. I got Roland to smack my bottom which turned me on (it’s like a big, squashy sex drive button!). The female sex drive is an on/off switch and is easily aroused.

10. Pretend you’re somewhere else.

11. Pretend it’s not real, or a dream/fantasy/illusion

12.  Detach yourself completely from what’s happening and let your body take over. Your body, or the minimal amount of your conciousness left in your body, will know what to do through instinct. You might actually perform better without nervousness, embarassment or being self-conscious. As you get acclimatised, you can gradually allow yourself back into your body. (This sounds very hard, but it’s not like astral projection, it is all psychological. I learned this in like 1 second and I don’t have a psychology degree, so it’s not difficult. I suspect it’s some sort of primal defence mechanism.)

13. Focus on how you look to him – the position of your body, your facial expressions. This will help you provide a better service and also take your mind off what you’re doing.

14. Put yourself in a state where you don’t feel anything (emotionally numb). I’m not sure if this ability is unique to me, though – maybe not everyone can do it. I wouldn’t know.

15. And, most important of all: Relax. It might be boring, uncomfortable or just plain nauseating at first, but at some point your sex drive will take over and make it a LOT of fun. And even if your sex drive doesn’t kick in, remember that no matter how horrible it was, once it’s over you’ll be really pleased and proud of yourself and it will become a fond and amusing memory.

 

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Roland thinks I love him and I don’t know why and didn’t make this happen so why is it happening?

This is my first non-ecstatic post. Roland thinks (or thought, maybe he believes me now) that I am (or think I am, or soon will be) in love with him. I don’t know why this is happening, and things that happen outwith my instigation or control really irritate me. I wish he’d grow more hair so that his accusation would be less ludicrous. I think it also reminds me that Roland is a real person, not just my buyer, client or sex toy, with real independent thoughts that I cannot control.

I like Roland, which is of course very unusual in the sex industry, but I have heard that it is not all that unusual with regular clients. Anyway: I like him but how could I love him? He’s not bad looking, but he’s way older than me and has the hair thing going on. And even if I did fall in love with him, he’s in a polyamorous marriage and I’m polyamorous and a commitmentphobe so what would be the difference? I’d just let him have me for free, which he’d like of course. The only difference would be that I’d miss him when it ended, but I’d get over it just like everybody else.

Just because I text him more than twice a month doesn’t mean I think I love him. And there was a point to that particular text, and the ones before it: That Belle de Jour knows about us; answers to his questions about how I met Dr Magnanti; and a text saying I forgot to say I discovered I like being ‘forced’ to give blowjobs, which is true.

I don’t feel any more of a connection with him than I do with Glasgowsexworker, who has a blog on here and is a friend’s friend (wasn’t going to give out this information, but it is already in the comments on a previous post so people are going to know) i.e. a connection of ideas, interests, etc. Yes, I like him. He’s funny and very knowledgeable. But I don’t think I love him, and I won’t in future either. At a time like this, I would think “Hmmm…what would Belle de Jour do?” but I just met her 2 days ago so her persona has lost its magic; I know she’s a scientist and former call girl who had the same experience as thousands of other call girls and was talented enough to write a great blog and get an award, then lucky enough to get her book published. I look up to her but when you meet someone in real life, you realise that however intelligent they are, they are just a regular person. (Actually, hearing her talk and reading her book made me realise she is even smarter than what I thought before and I like her even more now, but I also realised she is just a regular person.)

Our texts while Lochlan and I were in Browns [he uploaded a pic of me to Facebook, updated his status and ‘liked’ my status, as well as texting; I updated my status, ‘liked’ the pic, and texted – what is the world coming to? We are so reliant on social media and texting instead of being social in real life!]:

Me (trying to appear like I’d drank more than I had – I’d had 5 or 6 drinks- so he wouldn’t think me texting him was annoying]: I met Brooke Magnanti/Belle de Jour and I told her!! Not using my real name or identifying you obv. Isnt that amazing?!!! Its so good being me, it must suck to be anyone else! Yeah! Go Kalika! Go Kalika! Yeah biitchezz!! [I think I surpassed the brief here!]

Roland: Wow! Where did you meet her?

Me:At a talk my friend Lochlan, whos into sex activism as he has sex worker friends, took me to in glasgow. I told her i got the idea to blog about the adventure from her, that she is my inspiration, and i got a copy of her latest book The Sex Myth.

Roland:Btw you were discovered by a hair, a sequin, a toe or fingernail, and a neighbour while we were in Leigh 🙂

Me: Oh. Really sorry about that. Did u manage to lie your way out of it? Hope America was fun. Lochlan bumped into a sex worker friend at the talk who has a blog too that I’ve commented on, shes seen my blog and told him that I’m unusually sexually self-assured for a virgin. Miss your cock, Queen Tut xxxx

and: Sorry. Is Leigh the part of Newcastle we wer in? I think your wife lives up to her name [a Scots pun on her nickname]

Me, the next day: Sorry for loads of txts, just forgot to mention the last time I saw u that i found out i rly like giving blowjobs and u completely humiliated me and dominated me and made me your bitch, and i like being debased and my mouth used as a cock-hole because it’s so embarrassing and dehumanizing like I’m nothing. I like a warm dick thrust into my mouth until I gag. Also, I guess the sequin was from the knife, I won’t bring it again anyway.

Roland: Well my dear, humiliation and domination are two sides of the same sexy coin. I enjoy, primarily, giving you what you want and finding out what you need. The chaste whore in you is obviously in need of something…

and, separately:

Btw please remember what I said. Women want to seem to be the way they think the men they think they love want them to be…

Me: I’ll remember that if I ever fall in love. Not that I will, because that would be cheating on my reflection, with whom I have a monogamous relationship.

Roland: This applies whether the man is their daddy, their lover, their teacher, or a total and complete pervert 🙂

Me:I knew what u meant the first time. I’ve never thought I was in love, except with myself of course. And if I was in love – not that I’m capable of commitment-love – I would say so. I don’t play games like other women. I just want my Ferrari and private jet, not some hubby to poke in the missionary position.

And, later: Why would that even be a possibility? [I will keep the rest to myself – not for anonymity, just because I’m not sure if that text was the right one…I am confused.] I don’t want to annoy my most precious source of income, but what if I have? Confusion is alien to me. I am always utterly sure of myself. How can Roland confuse me, when no-one else can? He’s so unique and unpredictable. I hope he tells me to wait somewhere for him, then beats me and ties me up, stuffs me in his car boot and drives me into the woods, spanks me until I cry and rapes me. He’s probably quirky enough to do it. Perhaps I should suggest this to him after the consummation, but I don’t know if that’s his kink. I’d ask him for a nude pic, but it’d probably just convince him more that I’m in love with him. Why does he think this? He has no evidence to support his conclusion. I’m not entirely sure of the next text I sent, either. This was the last I sent:  I appreciate your concern tho, its nice that you care about me beyond sex. You’re like Brooke’s clients. Well u are a call girl level client, so I suppose it makes sense. I bet streetwalkers’ punters are totally different.

He hasn’t replied, does that mean he’s just bored of texting me, or is he annoyed by what I said, or doesn’t believe me, or he believes me and has dropped it? Why can’t I build a spanking machine like Kane did and put him in it? Actually, I’ll build it in a few weeks. Heh. Also, why do men have a thinking/talking function when you just need their cock?

It would be easier if we’d been talking face to face. Roland has said similar things before – that this blog is potentially obsessive because it’s about him – (it’s not, it’s about me and my adventure), that I might make myself believe he loves me, etc. I think he has a Moulin Rouge fantasy where the hooker falls in love with the guy. It’s one of my favourite films as I love the soundtrack and the theme of prostitution. Did that happen in Pretty Woman too? I don’t like feeling confused. I shall eat chocolate to make this all go away. Why is getting paid 1000’s to fuck so complicated? If I was Queen Tut I’d kill somebody right now.

 

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“Probably not.”

He parks and we talk about stuff and I say, “Have you ever had sex in the backseat?” There doesn’t appear to be enough space, and  I point this out to him. He laughs. I swear, he laughs all the time, just like me. I wonder if the entire world is just all a big game to him, like it is to me. Maybe he thinks video games can’t offer the thrills and heightened emotions that real life can. That adrenalin is a toy. That’s what life is to me. Only kink and the Case could ever summon the adrenalin.

He says, “No, but I’ve done it in the front…because the front seats can do this…” there is a slight hum and the seat basically becomes a slightly raised bed.

“Cooool,” I say as the seat returns to normal.

“We should do it after you take my virginity. Drive somewhere remote and do it.”

This makes him laugh again for some reason. The fact that he has clothes on irritates me. I want to see him naked. He looks good lying down, though. Vulnerable. I think off ripping his clothes off but I think the windscreen isn’t tinted enough for that. And he might not like that. I know that as a hooker you should go with what the punter wants.

(I really want to bite Roland’s cock right now as I am typing this. Crunch. Just bit my thumb instead. Ow. It hurt. Maybe that’s how he felt when I did that? And why I couldn’t bite as hard as I wanted because I knew it would hurt him. Actually, I suppose it would feel worse to him cos of sensitivity.)

Roland’s Blackberry rings and he talks about business stuff into it while the person on the other end is completely unaware that he’s sitting in a car with a prostitute, about to feed her so she’ll have enough energy to be debased later on. Naughty. Roland then moves the car forward while using a handheld phone, which is illegal. Doubly naughty. Roland does illegal things all the time (by which I mean extremely trivial traffic ‘offences’) which is really hot for some reason. (Although when other people do it, it isn’t hot, because they’re students and not professionals like Roland who are supposed to obey the law.)

We get out of the car and walk over a bridge and he tells me his company is being sued over a patent and it’ll take over a million to bring the case to court and all this stuff. Intellectual property law is not my forte. He needs Leanne for this. So this conversation is going waaaaaayyyy over my head. Also, we didn’t learn how much it takes for a company to bring a case to court. I can sort of tell Roland doesn’t like lawyers.

Anyway he keeps talking and it makes me feel sad that he/Luxor will lose a million. We walk on for a bit and eventually I go, “Do you, like, actually have a million?”

He pauses, thinks, then says, “…Probably not.”

 

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Rolanding

I came down the steps to Buccleuch Place and Roland’s black BMW convertible was right there. A man who appeared to be him was pacing around next to it and then I did recognise him, though he looked less ugly from this distance. His face (but not hands or neck) was reddish but then it will go back to normal and I don’t know what the scientific explanation is for this. Maybe only Roland can do that, or perhaps it is a rare condition? Or is he doing it deliberately? I’ve noticed he tends to do that when he’s excited which would suggest it is involuntary. Anyway, I came down the steps. I was wearing a cream and navy short dress with a tie under the bust and black tights with black and gold dolly shoes. I had on a gold-coloured choker, a blue and gold bangle and was carrying a small brown and tan handbag and a large leopard-face print bag.

He said he was sorry to have kept me waiting and I said that I’d used the time constructively to buy whipped cream and update my blog. He looked less tall this time but also less fat.He had on a black t-shirt which I like; I like men to wear tight black shirts that show off their muscles. I shoved my bags in the back and got into the car, and he got in and his face was normal colour now which is just really weird, but it doesn’t bother me now, and actually I’ve been told that when I’m unhappy I’m darker and when I’m happy I’m pale, so maybe I can colour-change too. Roland said that anytime he tried to see me lots of things would come up with his company Luxor, but he didn’t want to cancel this time because of my sexual frustration and cos he’d cancelled at the last minute last time. He was grinning at me and I was telling him about the strawberry and cream sauce I got from Ann Summers and he drove out of Buccleuch Place and on into Clerk Street and then forward, heading for Leith.

I said “I think it’s really hot that you fired someone.” And that he’d lost weight (I said it in a positive way) and he said he’d also stopped smoking. (So that explains the yellow teeth, then. I’d thought it was excessive coffee drinking or deficient genes. Though he didn’t need to stop smoking, just get cosmetic dentistry.)

His teeth didn’t bother this time, even though they’re crowded and uneven; maybe I was getting used to them. Roland pointed to a road on the right going slightly uphill. “There’s a brothel there,” he said (he’d mentioned doing a ‘virgin in the whorehouse’ shoot there before we made the deal, and had thought about doing the film/consummation there after we did. It’s a massage parlour).

He said he thought we should consummate it there. Sounded good to me.

We ended up talking about Baudelaire, and Roland recited nearly all of ‘Allegory’ which is quite cool cos I haven’t met anyone else who can accidentally memorise poems except me.

Roland seemed surprised at the way I think about my father (purely in financial terms) and my expression of noninterest in contacting him as no financial gain could be derived from it. His surprise confused me, as I had explained to him what my father is like, and anyone with a father like mine would not think highly of their father. Although, as I told Roland, it pleases me to know he was a political revolutionary who helped overthrow his government like the Arab Spring people and I get my writing skills from him (he’s a professor of English literature). It’s great that I have the DNA of a political revolutionary.

“Did you actually say to him, ‘send me £5,000?” he asked.

“No. I just said I didn’t have enough money to live in accomodation this year so I had to live with my mum. Because at the time, I didn’t know I could get student overdrafts, I just thought an overdraft meant an unplanned overdraft. So I stayed at home instead of getting a flat in Edinburgh [and therefore access to all the hot intelligent boys I could fuck].”

Anyway it wasn’t all about lack of financial incentives, it was about lack of wanting to contact him. I do not waste my time on pointless activities or contact those I despise. It all seemed to surprise Roland for some reason. Maybe Roland knows that under English law my father can disinherit me and he thinks I was nearsighted and stupid for annoying him and thus potentially depriving myself of inheritance when he dies? But I don’t think that was the reason. I don’t understand Ro sometimes. He understands me more than I understand him. But he is a little wary of me, I think. He believes I am capable of anything. That is, of course, entirely true.

Roland has crinkly blue eyes. They are droopy because he’s old, but he’s not old enough to be called a coffin-dodger yet. Still old enough to be practically mummified, though. Actually, that gives me an idea: Should I put him in the next Kemet story as a character who is a friend of Queen Tut? His hair really bothers me, though he has more hair than Prince William. I can’t look at his forehead without wanting to puke, but one day I will touch his hair close to the bit where it is moulting off. I’m not touching the no-hair bit where the pink skin is there instead of hair. Yuck. But maybe he’s okay with it, because he hasn’t had a hair transplant like I was hoping for so it’d be easier for me if he didn’t look so gross. The weird thing is, his hair didn’t bother me that much last time as it does today. I like his voice, though, and the way he looks at me. And, in general, he looked more attractive this time than last time. I felt really happy and relaxed.

Roland stopped suddenly as some people crossed the road and I said “imagine if you ran them over, that would be pretty hot.”

“You have a different sense of humour,” Roland observed. “You joke about suicide, you think me firing employees is hot…”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t find it funny if it really happened,” I clarified (it’s true. It’s why I can’t watch the news, I can only read it.) “Like, if you really did run them over I wouldn’t find it hot. I’m not into necrophilia. We wouldn’t end up fucking in their bloodied intestines.” I paused to let that image sink in. I like the look on Ro’s face when I say certain things. I liked the pause over the phone a few weeks ago when I said, “imagine if I told someone [about our deal] and a journalist got hold of [our story] that would be bad for you.” Deee-lish. But Google “mental torture” and all that comes up is emotional abuse. Come on, guys, this has to be at least as hot as being stamped on by a pair of sweaty feet?? Or eating shit?

 

 

 

 

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