If I’m going to reach for the stars, the star I’m reaching for may as well be the sun! (Yes, I DO know the sun is behind me in this photo, so I’m reaching the wrong way. That’s mostly how I operate.)
The first words ever uttered to me in session were, “Get undressed, bitch.”
I am a fantasy, I thought. This isn’t real. I’m not me. He can’t get to me. “Yes, master,” I replied calmly. He saw what he wanted to see: a pretty little girl doing his bidding. His kink was to be powerful. To be obeyed with no hesitation.
I existed as a mirage for years, a lucid fantasy concocted in the deep psyches of men. Half-real and half-dream, floating in and out of the consciousness of my clients. I’m probably still tucked away in some corner of their minds as a blurred image, a whisper, a tug. Well – not me, I mean. Her.
When I tell people I worked in a dungeon, half of them reply, “Oh – you mean that whips and chains stuff?” I don’t. I personally never used a whip; they take a remarkable amount of practice and skill to use without incurring unintentional injury. I have used chains in session, though mostly to hook handles to the ceiling so I could pick myself up and swing my heeled boots deep into someone’s testicles.
People are really surprised when I tell them that most of my sessions in the dungeon were more like therapy. If a serious masochist came in and wanted to be tortured, we weren’t a good fit – my heart was never in hurting people, and there are a million instruments and toys I just never learned how to use. I didn’t wear a lot of black leather or bark orders at anyone; there are a LOT of women who do this exquisitely, and I am not one of them.
Likewise, while I thoroughly enjoy pain, I can only handle so much. And I have no desire to be verbally humiliated – even if I’m being paid for it. There were clients who came to see me who pushed my limits in ways I explicitly told them I didn’t want them to, and I never saw them again. She never saw them again.
The clients who came to see her again and again were ships lost at sea who were looking for a safe harbor. They were mostly people stuck in marriages with spouses who either didn’t approve of their kinks or worse, didn’t care anymore. Even though the services I provided were ostensibly kinky in nature, they never felt like a media portrayal or performance of what mainstream culture thinks of when it thinks of kink.
I wore slinky dresses, kimonos, or lingerie, made a lot of eye contact, asked questions, spoke in a soothing voice, listened. I never feigned interest in a client who was sincere. What I did felt more like somatic therapy – a gentle caress, a loving beating, an acceptance and normalization of wants and needs. This is what I excel at: empathy.
Don’t get me wrong – there were beatings and bondage and worship (oh my!), role play and anal play (I also excel at finding a prostate), but the vast majority of my sessions were with people who were looking to connect with another human on an intimate level who wasn’t going to shame them. Many of them just wanted to be seen and heard and cared for earnestly.
Sex workers are therapists and care takers. We meet clients where they’re at and walk alongside them… or inside of them. It’s hard work. Emotional labor is labor, and I was shaken badly by a couple of sessions. But mostly, my clients brought joy and relief through surrender into my life. They also taught me everything I know and made me a better kinkster. I learned on the job from my clients, and that’s why I can now teach The Engineer how to use a cane properly. Their impact (see what I did there?) on my life reaches far beyond our sessions, and I hope my impact on them does as well.
P.S. For every hour session I did, I worked another hour of prep and clean up. Tip your sex workers, people. Sex work is work. Especially those of you who write out entire dialogues and insist on going back and forth via several emails going over every single detail of the session before going into it – that takes time and effort.
This one is for you, my nest.
I come home one day to find you out back in the garden; you’d come home from a long day at work, ready to relax, only to remember that you’ve got a ton of stuff to take to the tip, and it has to go in the morning – so you’d better load up the car tonight. By the time I get home, you’ve spent an hour carrying armfuls of heavy rubbish; you’re sweaty, dirty, and sore. I float in, cool as a breeze after having been in an air conditioned office all day, to see your back muscles flex as you pick up the last load. You turn around, look me in the eye, and drop it where you stand.
I chuckle. “Long day, lo-?” I start asking, but before the words are out of my mouth, your lips are pressed against it and you’re clutching me with soil-crusted fingernails, not giving a shit if you leave streaks on my pale peach blouse.
You are ravenous.
You charge, forcing me to the trellis against the back wall of our building – the one with the overflowing plum-colored bougainvillea – and crush the flowers with my back as my purse slides down my arm and slips to the ground. “Stay,” you order me, as you rummage for something among pots, tools, and patio furniture. You find a length of twine underneath a pair of gloves and swiftly tie my wrists together like a boatswain before attaching them to the trellis above my head.
You unbutton my blouse and shove the top of my undershirt under my tits, letting them spill out so you can apply vacuum pressure to my nipples; I’m so taken with surprise that it’s a few minutes before I realize that the neighbors could see this. All of them. The thought of it makes my cunt burn. I want to get on my knees in the earth and take you in my mouth, only I can’t.
As soon as I think it, your belt is unbuckled and your cock is out, popping up from behind the confines of your jeans. Watching you stroke yourself and not being able to touch you is torture and rapture. You reach under my skirt and move my knickers to the side so you can gather up my nectar with your fingers to use as lube to stroke yourself with. I watch you take the flowing juices from my body and use them as your own, wanting to tell you that it’s not fair – if you’re going to smear them on your dick, do it by sliding into me – but I don’t. Instead, I watch wide-eyed, heart thudding, as you continue to wank with fervor.
Suddenly you stop. You press your mouth to my ear and whisper, “Do you want my cock inside of you?” I choke back saliva, and before I can answer, you’re on your knees, yanking my knickers all the way down and my skirt all the way up. “Well done, love,” you say, taking a hooked finger and drawing silky webs away from my thighs. I whimper.
You draw up a chair, tell me to spread my legs as wide as I can, and continue wanking. Deep into your reverie, you stand up and leave me alone outside for a minute, exposed for all the world to see; you come back, work a large dildo into my cunt, and tell me to clamp my legs. You sit back down and watch me intently while stroking yourself until your pleasure forces you to close your eyes halfway; I try to clench the dildo hard enough to make myself come, but I’m not quite there. Perhaps you take pity on me seeing me strain – or perhaps you just want to fuck me. In any case, you stride over, take me down from the trellis, and lead me in by the twine, assuring me that the best is yet to come.