Straight · From · The · Whore's · Mouth
Snippets from a (Retired) Down Under Sex Worker
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I just had to comment on this Australian series, set in the fictitious "232" brothel somewhere in Melbourne.
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bouncy | |||||
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A most wonderful thing about the human species is the diversity of that which we find sexually attractive. All of us have our own preferences as to what turns us on - and some of us have journeyed further down that road - to what is commonly called a 'fetish'. The oxford online dictionary defines 'fetish' thus: "a form of sexual desire in which gratification is focused abnormally on an object, part of the body, or activity". So when does something/someone stop being a preference and start being a fetish? When you can't get it up unless your partner is one/wearing one/using one? My experience is that there are degrees of fetishism. Moreover, some things that are commonly thought of as desirable often get left out of the fetish tag. We don't often see the word used to describe someone who has a distinct preference for slim, blonde, young women. Much of my professional life has been devoted to those whose sexual desires are more eclectic. My career as a young, slim blonde was all too fleeting :) Those clients who sought me out were more often attracted to huge tits, purple streaks and tattoos - along with a creative, but sometimes nasty, streak. I often think I was born to be a dominatrix. "Too big for my boots" was a phrase often used to describe me during my early to mid teens. Inevitably, my regulars were a mix of big boob boys and those with a penchant for submission. Towards the end of my career, I specialised in those seeking extreme pain (rather than submission per se) and those who craved mind control via hypnosis. The "slim" tag when applied to me was very brief. Sometime between 17 and 20. I always carried extra weight - around my bust, waist and hips. But I always had a stream of clients who sought out buxom women to play with. Men may say they want slim, gym toned women, (just peruse the review boards devoted to the Australian sex industry) But I was picked over those same gym-bunnies often enough to know that the male desire is oft directed at those of us who may view ourselves as 'too fat'. I would look at the face of the man whose sweaty hand I had led up the corridor and releived of its cash as he sunk blissfully into my bounteous breasts and caressed the soft skin of my stomach. "I wish my wife would put on a bit of weight" they would murmur into my thighs. All this was very good for my ego. Being anything over a size 12-14 in Australia is viewed dimly in many sections of society. A greedy, lazy, dirty whore. Well...at least the whore part is right. I guess all those young women who are angsting themselves to an early grave over the size of their rear end could do with a stint in the sex industry. A wonderful tonic for low self esteem - despite what the sex-neg feminists and the bible bashers tell us. So: to all you women who worry about whether your lover will dump you for having stretchmarks on your tits or an extra few inches around your waist...cease and desist. mix up another creamy cocktail, kick back and put on your sexxay lingerie. You may suprise yourself.
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amused | |||||
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'Tas been such a long time since last I blogged. My whore-inspiration was experiencing memorectile dysfunction - and the only words that came from my fingers were cliches and repetitions. But - I have been inspired by a lovely comment from an anonymous reader to pick up the pen, so to speak, and delve further into remembered experiences. I was re-reading my previous entry, relating to Paul, the man with the natural blonde streak who was the recipient of much of my hard earned cash during the 1980s. I remembered him as a gentle, logical and family oriented person - albeit caught up in problematic drug use. I haven't seen or spoken to Paul in more than 15 years. And yet whilst shopping at my local supermarket a few weeks ago - I saw him propped up against the front of a shop. Time has not been kind to him. His blonde streaked locks have been replaced by grey, greasy, receding hairline. He was drinking from an open bottle in a brown paper bag. His grog-soaked brain didn't allow him to recognise me when I walked past. I didn't know whether to say hello or not. Should I acknowledge him and risk a boozy request for money. Half of me wanted to say "Hi...remember me? Remember the times we waited together for hours, shivering and sweating, for that bloody heroin dealer to turn up? Remember the shared, anaesthetised, bliss as we injected the drug, pulled out the needle and lay curled up in each others arms? The other half of me was scared that he would slobber all over me and assume an intimacy that was long past its useby date. Or even worse - that he would not remember me at all. That our relationship meant so little to him...or his brain had succumbed to some awful alcohol poisoning. Either outcome would leave me feeling miserable. In the end, I took the cowards way out and walked past firmly with my eyes straight ahead. I almost didn't hear his cracked voice whispering... "Scuse me, Miss". Almost, but not quite. I didn't respond. ... This is what happens to those of us who age. Who over indulge in the seductive mood altering calls from the bottle, the needle, the bong. You pays your money and you makes your choices. And you lives with the consequences. I was always convinced that I would die before I was 40. I simply could not imagine myself shackled to one lover/spouse, dependent children, stuck in the 'burbs. If I am totally honest - I believed I would die at my own hand. Either by accident or design. Overdose or overdose....And yet...here I am. Fair, fat and 43. Grandmother of a healthy, happy 6 year old. Happily ensconced in a professional job with reasonable prospects (if a little paltry on the salary side of things!) living in suburban sydney. I have managed to avoid falling into the marriage trap - so some things don't change. I am happy with life. My boring-to-some life. My priorities and goals have changed. Where previously I sought excitement above all else - now I crave stability. My gawdy, lawdy, me...what an old biddy I have become. What has led ME down the path to a professional career and a lifestyle that I enjoy - but yet drove Paul to a life of begging on the street with a shaking hand? If sportingbet.com had takenout odds on us at age 23 - I have no doubt Paul would have been the favourite. Close family, gentle manner, logical mind - vs estranged from family, somewhat manic and quick to anger. I know who *I* would bet on. Paul - on the remote chance that you are reading this:- it really is up to you, my friend. You are the master of your own destiny. You are the only one who can change your life. I sincerely wish you all the best. Sera xxx
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pensive | |||||
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The street worker is the most visible of all sex workers. She (and for the purposes of this entry, I am confining my discussion to female street workers, even though there is a flourishing trade in boys and tranys in most large cities) must make herself obvious to passing trade. She must be easily identifiable as one who will exchange sex for money. To pretend otherwise would be a waste of her valuable time. This also makes her a target for gangs of yobbos and the sneers of her feminist sisters. So: she dresses up and plays the whore stereotype to the max. Micro mini skirts or short-shorts, fishnets or stayups, bare midriff with bellybutton ring and a pushup bra. Her clothing is more important than her makeup, which is not visible from a passing car. She may have a handbag, although she has learned that it is sometimes necessary to make a quick getaway, and a large handbag is more of an encumberance. If she does have a bag, it will contain condoms, lubricant, keys, ciggies, perhaps some breath mints or chewing gum. Perhaps even, a few crumbs of cannabis floating around the bottom. If she uses powdered drugs (and she probably does), then she may have a new or used syringe, its orange cap marking it as such to anyone in the know. Her customers arrive on foot or by ‘kerb crawling’. She may call out – “Wanna Girl?” or something more lascivious. Or she may stand proud with her head held high, outstaring anyone who dares to take her on. The majority of street based sex workers use illicit drugs. However that majority is not as large as you might think. There are other women for whom the street is the most attractive option. Those of us who object to handing over up to 60% of our hard earned cash to a brothel owner, but who can’t or don’t want to invest the time and money into working privately from our homes or a rented apartment. Those of us who resent the rules and ridiculous directives from brothel owners, from the number of towels one may use in a booking, to the ‘coffee levy’ imposed on those who don’t even drink the stuff. Those of us who can’t, or have never learned, to get along harmoniously with a bunch of competitive women in an enclosed space. Those of us who are unable to find steady employment in a brothel due to mental illness or chronic lateness and those of us who are just too free spirited to be happy working inside. All of us are welcomed, democratically, in the street. I have never, in my 25 years associated with the sex industry, met a pimp. I’ve met a few scungy boyfriends who are happy to live on the proceeds of their partner’s sex work. But not a man who has a ‘stable’ (to use the American term) of women that he keeps under control via a mixture of drugs, violence and intimacy. The blokes I met couldn’t even keep themselves under control! I had one of those boyfriends. Paul’s contribution to our inflated daily income requirements was the depositing of his dole check once a fortnight. The rest of the time, I worked the streets to support our heroin addiction. Paul was a gentle, ineffectual, lanky boy with a natural blonde streak that most women would pay hundreds at their hairdresser to achieve. He never forced me to work. I was the one who wanted to give him something he needed. While ever I was providing the money to score, he would come and pick me up in the mornings and spend the day running around getting drugs. I was released from that daily chore of ringing the dealer, driving out to some obscure location and waiting – sometimes for hours – for him to show up. Instead I lay around the place I was staying, shivering and smoking until Paul returned. In return, he would watch over me while I worked. Making sure that the client didn’t drive away with me into suburbia, never to be seen again. He would park his dilapidated old falcon at one end of the carpark behind the Hurlstone Park RSL club, and I would direct my clients to the other end. After completing the job, I would run across the bitumen in bare feet, my panties in my bag and my bare arse peeking out from the hem of my mini, my hands and bag bulging with semen filled tissues and a used condom. I met some quirky, loveable and extremely strange women out there. Candice, who was a smackhead like me. She looked about 14 years old, with a honey blonde bob and baby blue eyes. The punters panted after her. If Candice was anywhere within cooee when I was trying to get a job, I could forget it until after she’d left. The strange thing, though, was that she never had any regulars. One of my clients who’d seen her the previous week told me that she bit his penis and spat his sperm on the backseat. I don’t know if that was true. I never asked her. Juliana was well past her prime. Nearing 50, she wasn’t a drug user. She was, however, quite mad. She was the exception to the rule with regards to dress. She deliberately affected the look of a dowdy housewife. It didn’t seem to affect her income. She would proposition lads of 18 or 20 who came out of the club, using the most filthy, explicit language I’ve ever heard. She would grab at her pussy and say “SUCK ON THIS!” as she gyrated her hips. The startled youths would either run quickly in the other direction, or develop a look in their eyes that said they couldn’t believe their luck. Trisha was a single mum of about 22. Her partner had died from a heroin overdose the year before, but this hadn’t stopped Trisha from developing her own massive habit. Whilst she worked only to use, she was the most professional of us all. She had clear starting and finishing times, and would never give in to the temptation of providing unprotected sex for extra money. She made sure that her sex work did not interfere with her duties as a Mum, and her children were well adjusted, amiable cherubs whose merit awards papered the fridge. We often spent our down time hanging around the seven-11 on Canterbury Road, gossiping about who owed what money to which dealer, which girl was in detox and which one had moved into the brothels. All of us were suspicious of brothels. None of us believed that those who owned/operated them had our best interests at heart. We had all heard or experienced horror stories about being ripped off, forced to provide services we didn’t want to or been unfairly sacked. We knew the streets were dangerous, but we felt we had more control over our lives than those who took the soft option of brothels. I don’t know where any of these women are now. I heard that Candice overdosed and went into rehab, but then I lost track. When I read the latest drivel on the front page of the tabloid press, blaming street workers for anything and everything – I ponder on my days on the street and remember the camaraderie we shared. The sort of bonding that only happens at times of danger, stress or challenge. I remember the fridge in Trisha’s kitchen, plastered with merit awards and the smiles of her children. I remember the look of delight on Juliana’s face as she collapsed into giggles when a shocked young man held up his carkeys as if to ward off an evil spirit. I regret not knowing the fate of my colleagues, but hopefully, they came through the street experience, as I did. Stronger, smarter, wiser. Perhaps they are even reading this now. Sera
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I'm reading a book at the moment called "All The Girls" by English author, Martin O'Brien. He takes it upon himself to travel the world, documenting his experiences with hookers all over the globe. It is certainly an interesting read, on a number of levels. Not least of all because he is a good writer, capturing the atmosphere well in all the places he winds up in. His stated motivation for seeking out the services of hookers in every facet of the industry is simple: He is a middle aged man who is thrilled with the idea that only cash seperates him from touching and fucking the bodies of young women around the age of 17 or 18. This doesn't stop him from engaging the services of older women when there are no young ones around, however. Basically he's a randy bastard who will try anything once. I was half way through the book, and admiring him (albeit with ambivalence) for his honesty and single minded pursuit of paid sex, when I came across a description of one of his experiences in Munich. He was describing a sex scene with a woman who had picked him up in a cafe. He says: "Dorte liked to take control. It was difficult to think I was paying her for something she obviously enjoyed so much." I winced to myself - but went on to read the subsequent chapter in which he recounts his experience with a private worker in Frankfurt: "Almost grudgingly, she parted her legs and pulled me into her, squirming some more to accommodate the extra weight. Indeed, throughout the whole performance, the only voluntary movements she contributed came as a result of her trying to get more comfortable" For this, he pays her the princely sum of 25 deutschemarks. I started to reread portions of the book with a more critical eye. I went back to a previous chapter where he tells of his time with a poverty stricken worker in Budapest: "Considering the money I had paid, I decided she should be the one to put up with the discomfort, so I stopped her rocking and indicated I wanted to change around." He accuses this same worker of having the babysitter pinch the worker's baby to wake it up - forcing him to leave the apartment - after he'd already been fucking her for some time. How he claims to know this is not clear. He also recounts his distaste for the "nativeness, differentness" for a Thai worker who spends a week with him. "The hot smell of garlic and spices on her breath, for instance, that had onced seemed to me exotic, animallike, so distant from the clinical, toothpaste-fresh anonymity I was used to, now seemed to grow ranker day by day until at last I began turning my head aside whenever she came too close. In bed it was worse - the deeper, the faster her breath, the richer, the ranker the fumes. 'Equally objectionable was her habit of hawking and snorting into the washbasin... 'Another thing too - small, but telling....she would reach for my fingers and and pull at the joints like a waiter drawing a cork until they clicked to her satisfaction." And finally, his physical description of a Japanese worker he had paid: "Her skin looked bloated, podgy and damp like a body that's spent too long in water, her breasts almost indistinguishable from the rolls of fat that hung from her in rings. Her legs were short and stumpy, heavy round the ankles and the hair between thick and black and tangled like an unruly birds nest." As I reflected back on these descriptions, I began to understand that Martin doesn't actually like women very much. Whilst he claims to be seeking out sex services around the globe as a way of capturing his lost youth - he is actually using his money to try and prop up his shaky self esteem by putting down the women he has paid to have sex with. He reminds me of certain review forum clients who use derogatory language to describe the sessions they indulge in. They are writing for an audience: other men who think like they do. Men who understand that seeing a sex worker is about trying to attain the unattainable, and cutting the women down to size when they don't shape up to expectations. Luckily, both these review forum clients and my real life clients like this were few and far between. When I compare them to punters like my old regular, "Yugoslavian Stiv", who would grab my thigh in both hands as he knelt before me, look up and exclaim loudly "You are MISS AUSTRALIA!", then kissing his thumb and forefinger and flinging the kiss up towards my face - I realise that these two types of men are as different as night and day. And I am grateful that I met far more Steves than Martins in my line of work. Sera x
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hopeful | |||||
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As I type this, I can hear the sounds of two cats having sex underneath my office window. They are in the early stages at the moment - that strange yowl that can't be mistaken for anything else. When they really get close to the grand finale - the yowling will increase in tempo and volume until it sounds like they ripping each others hearts out and stomping them into the dirt rather than approaching cat-orgasm. In my earliest days of whoredom, I was not very vocal. I was so determined NOT to have a good time that I suppressed every sound that germinated in my throat. I didn't want the other workers to think I enjoyed this ... this ... client! I especially didn't want the client to think that he was getting me off. After I had the $ in my hand, I became little miss prim. Don't touch my nipples, don't stick your fingers in my cunt, keep your slobbery whiskas to yourself, mate. In my defence - I was very young and naive. At age 19, I was heavily influenced by peer pressure, and the atmosphere in the brothel where I worked was one of barely concealed disdain for all the men who were brave or desperate enough to enter. It wasn't until much later that I realised that my attitudes and behaviour towards these clients was far more damaging to me than it ever was to them. The sort of client who will pay to fuck a woman who shows clear dislike for him is not going to be losing any sleep over it. If the punters were rude, arrogant or rough during sex - I accepted that it was just part of what I had to put up with. I was finding myself more and more confused. I started to find all sex distasteful - but it didn't stop me from going out on the booze on my nights off, getting paralytic drunk and then going home with a one night stand whose name or face would be a blur the next morning. I had no respect for the clients - no respect for my casual sex partners - and was rapidly losing my self respect. I changed brothels a few times and eventually ran into a different class of sex worker. These women were a bit older and a LOT wiser. They had a professional attitude to the clients, the work and their role at the brothel. When I started venting about how disgusting the punters were, I was asked: "So why are you working? If you hate them that much - why are you doing this?" At the time I muttered something about not wanting to exist on a social security pension, but when I went to bed after that shift, I started to rethink my position. I took a year off and spent that time almost celibate. I examined my personal attitudes to men, sex, the sex industry and my role in it. I asked myself some tough questions around things like my ability to seperate sex and work and the role of sex work on my self esteem. By the time I went back to work, I fitted in with those professional women much better than I had done previously. For the first time, I started to take pride in work as a prostitute. I began looking at men as multifaceted creatures instead of as a life support system for a penis. Ultimately I decided that if I was going to continue to work in the sex industry, that I would be the best damned hooker I could be. And if I couldn't hack it - then fine. I would throw it in and get an office job. This change of attitude heralded a change of clientele. The blokes I was seeing now were repeat customers; men who took an interest in me and my life. They paid me large sums of money and then begged me to tell them what turned me on the most. I could afford to pick and choose who I would see, and would refuse to see clients who were rude or rough. I started to place a higher value on myself and believe I was a worthwhile person. And that continued right up until the time I had the misfortune to be sent out on an escort to Lindsay George Hartnett, rapist and alcoholic loser. The story of what happened with Hartnett has been told before in this blog, so I won't go into it again. Suffice to say that it sent me spiralling back into a deep pit of depression, hatred for men and rock bottom self esteem. But you know - these things happen in cycles. And as anyone knows - you can't keep a good whore down. Well - not for long, anyway :) The earsplitting cacophany outside the window tells me that the pussies are writhing in the throes of orgasmic lust. I think its time to go home and make some of my own noise. Ciao! Sera
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relaxed | |||||
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When trolling through the depths of my brain cache for memorable clients, I realised that unless they were particularly good, or particularly bad - or had some unusual physical attribute - they all run in to each other. Their names, their faces, their dicks - all morph into one. The megaclient who is pleasant enough, if a little demanding at times. Who receives the standard massage/fellatio/intercourse service and leaves with a smile. Perhaps this says something about my advanced age. How many clients *have* I seen in my working career? Thousands? Certainly. Tens of thousands? - Probably not. Lets do the maths. I started working at 19. I stopped at 38. 19 years - however there was lots of on-and-off times. Even if I halve those years and say - worked for 9.5 years, for 8 months of the year, 4 nights a week (a conservative guesstimate) - and on those nights saw an average of 3 clients - that makes 3648 men that I got paid to have intimate relations with :) I'm guessing its probably closer to 5000. 5000 men. 5000 different dicks, different faces. Not different names though. For some reason - when looking for a pseudonym, most men are appallingly lacking in creativity. I'm sure most of them never appreciated the irony of calling themselves 'John' - although it did contribute to us giving them added appellations or nicknames in order to distinguish one John from the other. "John with the glasses" was the guy who wanted to watch a girl have a shit in a bucket of dettol, wearing a netball skirt and bonds cotton knickers. "Hairy John" was a gentle giant of a man whose prolific body hair meant that he resembled a gorilla, whilst "Banana John" had a penis with a distict curve to the left. "John Thomas" was a difficult, demanding client who was petulant and prone to tanties. The only reason anyone saw him more than once was because he would inevitably book for 4+hours and only want sex once in that time. The rest of the booking would be spent making cups of tea, cooking toast, changing the TV channel, lighting his cigarettes, running the spa etc. At times I suspected what he really wanted was a housemaid who would suck his dick. There were hundreds of other Johns, whose very ordinariness consigned them to obscurity in my memory. It made me start thinking...if I lived in another country, what would be the pseudonym of choice for clients there? What is the German version of John, or the Vietnamese? Ciao! Sera
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mischievous | |||||
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A colleague of mine who is currently working privately in NSW said to me recently that whilst she loved being a hooker - she really believed that she was incapable of a love-relationship whilst she was actively working. I think a lot of women feel like that. They believe that if their love interest truly roolly loved them, they would not tolerate being 'cheated' upon with multiple partners. And that's not even considering the money aspect. It would be a brave person indeed who proclaimed with pride at a dinner party - "My wife/girlfriend/significant other is a sex worker!" One can only imagine the raised eyebrows at such a statement. My own beliefs are that sex is so obviously not the most intimate act that two people can share - so why would one person feel gutted and betrayed if their lover were to have sex with someone else. Sex work has given me oodles of experience in this area. The men who come and pay me for sex do not 'love' me. They don't even like me! They don't even *know* me. They are coming to purchase a service in order to achieve a desired outcome (orgasm). Like visiting the hairdresser or the chiropractor. And while they may come to like me if they see me a few times - it is the sort of feeling reserved for a favoured restaraunt owner or that nice nurse who looked after you in hospital. Caring but professional. That feeling we call "Love" is not in the room when I see my clients - not even those I saw for more than fifteen years. Before you think me a cold hearted bitch - let me explain. If a man comes to see me once, then I will give him the best professional service I am able to give. If he tells me he wants a 'GFE' - girlfriend experience - then I will play up the affection and giggles. If he confides that he is really looking for a 'PSE' - porn star experience - then I will use dirty talk, act provocatively and expose my body. I will tell him that I want his big thick man cock in my aching wet pussy. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Either way, I'm putting on a performance. Neither the giggly 'girlfriend' who kisses and caresses him or the slutty tramp with the hot box are who I really am. They are roles I have built up for work. Once I've seen a guy a few times, I often start to develop a fondness for them. Especially if they are gentle and courteous, or try hard to please me, or insist on showering me with money :) They take on the status of 'favoured customer', and I will throw in a little extra. That might take the form of learning their favourite drink and keeping a stock in the fridge, or researching an erotic activity that I think will please them. What it won't involve is confiding that my child is failing maths or that my Mum has developed cancer. Neither of these things fit in with the Sex Worker Role - that of a sexy, always willing, always ready, woman. They are intimate details that I share with friends, lovers, family. And if a client persists in trying to fish for details about my personal life, he is liable to get the sharp edge of my tongue. A friend of mine describes her relationship perfectly: "If the love of my life were to go and fuck some blond girly he met at a party, I wouldn't lose a minute's sleep over it. I would expect to be told about it - not dwelling on gory details, just that it happened, and that a condom was used. BUT - if this blond woman starts doing the really intimate things - like caring for him when he is sick or cutting his toenails - that's when you'd see the fur fly! I'd be jealous and demand to know exactly what his intentions were!" Eggzackly. So...if its OK to boff someone in a casual sex type scenario - then sex with a client would mean even less, right? With a casual fuck there is always the pretense of feeling, the super-quick courtship (3 hours..?)in a bar and the awkward leaving after the dirty deed is done. But with a hooker - there's none of that. NO need to pretend a relationship that doesn't exist. Just pays your money and takes your chances. No intimacy - no pseudo intimacy - especially with first time clients. What on earth is there to get jealous about? And yet the thought of "their" woman having paid sex with another man is enough to make most men fly into a murderous rage. Go figger eh? And the women themselves don't want a man who will 'let' them work. As if any man would 'let' me work! Hah! This world is a funny old place. Sx
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For me, and for many of my colleagues, the majority of clients fall into the not-good-not-bad category. Their heads are interchangeable. I'm more likely to remember an unsually shaped penis or a portwine birthmark on his buttocks than his name (often fake) or his face. Their sexual skills are as mediochre as their appearance. Perhaps that's a little unfair - after all, they are paying good money to satisfy themselves, not me. However, the majority of them like to think that I am enjoying myself as much as they are - which is unlikely under the circumstances. Which is not to say that I don't enjoy myself...I don't find the sexual activity abhorrent or unpleasant. Its just ... 'pleasantly boring' is the most accurate phrase I can come up with. Like any repetitive activity, massage/oral/sex becomes familiar - even with unfamiliar bodies. The shape of the dick might change, along with the groans or silence of its owner - but my part in the transaction remains the same. It takes an especially good, bad or unusual one for me to slot a sticky note on their file in the old brain cache. Of course, most clients like to think of themselves as good lovers - or at the very least, memorable. It is rather poor etiquette when a client rings up saying "Hi, its John here - can I come and see you?" - to answer "John? Which one? Do you realise how many bloody "Johns" I see every week, mate? Why *is* it that you blokes always choose "John" as a fake name, anyway? What about a bit of imagination, a bit of creativity?? Why don't you call yourself Lemony Snicketts? Or Frederick Finkelstein? I'd remember you for sure then." Instead one responds with guarded enthusiasm until you remember which one he is. Some of us keep index cards in a box with names, phone numbers, dates and how much they paid. If he was particularly rough, etc another notation might be placed on the card. Many workers don't keep any records though - fearing that it will come back to bite them on the arse if police or ex husbands were to find the records. I had no fear of either of those scenarios. And I kept a box with well thumbed index cards. It had all the details mentioned above - but no addresses (I was doing incall privately and didn't need their addresses) and no credit card details, as I only took cash. I wanted to know sooner rather than later if the guy was an unrepentant condom breaker. When I left the industry, I kept that box for some years as a memento. I would occasionally dig it out of the back of the cupboard and browse through it, some of the cards bringing back memories both fond or foul. However, a few years ago, I decided that keeping such information was not ethical. I no longer needed it for my own safety or professional reasons. And if a burglar, fireman or nosy neighbour feeding the cat while I was away happened to come across it, the anonymity of my clients might be at risk. So off to the shredder we went. As I fed each card individually through the machine, I felt like a 6 x 4 inch slice of my herstory was being erased... How silly! After all, it wasn't my memories that were being erased, simply the physical evidence of activity that would give my former clients a heart attack if they knew of its existence. And yet, I know that time distorts memories. Time makes one forget. And I want to hang onto those memories - fond and foul - to remind me of the men who are already half forgotten memories of an exciting and sometimes painful time of my life. I guess that's why I keep this blog. Although don't panic guys. No names, no phone numbers. Unless you really piss me off. :) Sx
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On one of the other forums I am heavily involved with - http://www.sinaustralia.com - , a client made a post this week that reignited a sense of nostalgia and genuine fondness towards some of my old clients. I haven't been working for a few years now, and the bulk of my working life was prior to the advent of forums where punter and worker could engage in real discussions online. And whilst I had many regulars with whom I became familiar, many of them fondly so - I rarely saw the side of their personality that is revealed when they post their anonymous thoughts. Most of them are only seeking information: exactly *where* can they find a big breasted blonde who will (cheaply) engage them in sins of the flesh that leave them drained and sated - at least until next month. Some of them expose a nastier side to their personalities. A contempt for women that is demonstrated with poisonous epithets and descriptions of bullying and boorish behaviour toward the sex worker unlucky enough to be chosen by them. These type insist that it is their god given right to demand unprotected intercourse from a hooker. If the worker contracts an infection - then tough titties: those are the occupational hazards attached to working in a brothel. They may try to offer extra money, but more often they just try and take what they want. Deliberately breaking or removing condoms, trying to conceal what they are doing, being deliberately rough in order to distract the attention of the girl from their true purpose. And if all else fails - just force her. Its true that most of them will not admit to using out and out force. However they freely trade back-slapping descriptions of how they tricked or deceived a girl into 'bareback' sex. Diametrically opposite to those pond scum are clients such as the one whom I have quoted below. Those who think about the sex worker as a human being - as a fully facetted person who is more than just her job. These men don't empty their brains along with their testicles...they understand that both parties to the client/worker relationship contribute what they see as fair and honorable. They understand that a mutual genuine fondness and friendship can be cultivated within the boundaries of the relationship - and that this should be honored for the special relationship that it is. I'll leave you with the words of Mr N - the sort of client that makes working in the sex industry a pleasant and fulfilling vocation. "I know from my perspective, I wouldn’t exactly excite a working lady with desire when I seek an appointment that first time asking would they consider exploring a particular fetish I have. And then when confronted by a bloke now in his fifties…… Naah not likely…. But, I do believe that there have developed friendships with some ladies I see regularly. It is not just that they are not only willing put up with me and my “fetish” and have done so for several years, but they seem to me to gain a little pleasure from our times together themselves. There's a certain element of the body language that gives such a hint. I find, and this matters to me, they have become and continue to be, particularly charming, very sweet and very interesting to be with. I have found that there is much to learn from these ladies; that there is much more to them than one may have naively first thought. Friendship includes a willingness to listen to what we have to discuss about all sorts of things, maybe to the point of caring about some of them. A high sense of mutual respect and trust flows from this. I feel such experiences with the ladies I regularly visit and I leave their company with a deep sense of satisfaction, including at the most erotic level, knowing that I would be welcome back – soon. To me this suggests friendship is at play. I don’t think us punters can ask for more than that from their working ladies." Indeed. Sera x
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