Lori Adorabl—uh, Mistress Meghan Julie Rhoda Murphy Bindel Grant, Esq.
I’ve opened every Tits and Sass article I’ve written by talking about how disgruntled I am. Let’s not stop now. To reiterate, I got into this industry largely out of desperation, found the niche I hate the least (pro-switching) and currently spend half my time building my business and the other half trying not to tear it down. Needless to say, I was pretty sure that I didn’t have any goals to accomplish before retiring. Then I saw Johanna’s plan to get a pug, and it hit me hard, in the face, like a flogger thrown by a jackass client: I must go out on an epic troll spree. Here’s my equivalent of scamming a dog out of a rich dude and running:
1. Change my working name to Mistress Meghan Julie Rhoda Murphy Bindel Grant
…Esquire. If a client fails to address me by my full name, I will revoke all of his human rights. You know, for his own good.
2. Figure out a way to sell just about anything as a fetish item.
Should I throw this old sweatshirt in the Goodwill pile? No, I’ll just rub it with onions and period panties and sell it as Mistress’s hot, smelly workout clothes. (LOL. Me. Work out.) Is it time to toss this old toothbrush? No, it’s time to go on Ebanned, and post about Madame’s filthy little butt tickler. Should I take out the cat litter? Don’t be silly; that poop is for the pathetic slaves who aren’t good enough for the Queen’s own chocolate. Put it in some Tupperware and ship it! [READ MORE]
Essence Revealed: courtesan, queen of the pro dommes, and tough stripper adventurer—in her dreams
When I started stripping, dancing in Vegas was the only thing on my sex work bucket list. Thanks to the internet, I was able to research, find out everything I needed, and make it happen. Off I went with printouts that contained information on how to get the paperwork needed for a business license, a list of clubs I’d like to audition for, how to obtain long-term, low-cost housing, etc. I was part traveling stripper, part lone tourist. I even have pictures of me in the wax museum with wax Oprah, wax Prince and the pair of dude buds who ended up walking through the museum behind me to prove it. Years later, I became one of those travels-to-Vegas-every-weekend strippers. Our weekend contingent nicknamed the one-hour flight from LA to Vegas “Stripper Express.” Whenever I saw a woman at the airport in sweats carrying not much more than a purse, I had a sneaking suspicion she was heading to work with me for the weekend.
So having crossed that item off my bucket list and conquered it, here’s the rest:
1) A Strip Tour. I’ve often read about women jumping in a car for a working road trip. I think it’d be quite the adventure to find a stripper Thelma to my Louise and hit the road, Jack! And don’tcha come back without stack, without stack, without stacks of stacks, stories of strippers being stuck on these trips with no money and no club that will hire them be damned. In my bucket list strip trip fantasy Thelma and I hit the road with our route perfectly planned. The only bumps in the road evolve into welcomed adventures. These adventures will be worthy of being tucked into my “this is one to tell the grandnieces and nephews” file. (I have no intentions of having children, so it’s up to my sister’s children to provide me with youngsters to tell these tales to. It’ll be as close to the granny experience I will ever get.) Managers will miraculously hire my buddy and I in the bat of a fake eyelash. Move over Thelma and Louise, the explorations of Essence and Spice are now what road trip chick flicks are made of!
Marilyn in a publicity still for “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes” (1953). This is my actual money counting face.
Before I became a hooker I was broke and kind of miserable, and while I’ve been both of those things since then as well, sex work has become a central and fulfilling part of my life. As a certified crazy person, whoring is a viable option for me where other more structured employment isn’t, and the connections it offers me with other sex workers are incredibly enriching. Even when I hate turning tricks it’s hard to imagine what a life without it would look like. All the same, one day I’m bound to move on. These are the things I’d like to squeeze in (hurr hurr) before then.
1) Be really expensive.
I’m not snobby. I’ve done different kinds of sex work, and provided different styles of service for different amounts of money, and I feel fine about all of those. But in New Zealand, where I cut my teeth, even doing “high class” GFE-style escorting meant earning the same amount that I can earn in Australia for a basic no extras session in your average brothel. Before I quit, I’d like to be a bona-fide high-end call girl (in a country where men actually want to spend real money). I want the satisfaction of building my brand, I want the (perceived) glamour, and I want the bragging rights. I’m aware this is more than a little problematic, but I’m okay with that. Also, I really like money.
Maintain a genuinely lucrative sugar baby/daddy relationship Convince a man on a sugar dating site to buy me a pug.
I don’t know why I’m obsessed with (the idea of) sugar dating. I have plenty of evidence that escorting works well for me, and plenty of evidence that sugar dating is an infuriating waste of my time, but for some reason it’s the dream that just won’t die. [READ MORE]
I’m at least as badass as she is, right? Right? (Still from “China Blue” (1984))
In one sense, I’m an old pro of a ho, as I’ve been escorting for a decade. But in another, I’m actually an innocent, because besides a few shoots for various feminist porn venues in my early twenties, escorting’s the only kind of sex work I’ve ever done. So, now, at the ripe old age of 31—which is an eternity in whore years—I’ve accumulated quite the sex work bucket list. Here are some of the highlights.
1) Hire another sex worker as a client.
I’ve always been curious about what this work looks like from the other side. And I envy my clients even as I pamper them: What would it be like to be the sole focus of sexual attention in a coupling, to be the ultimate pillow queen and not have to feel guilty for it because you’ve paid for the right? I bet I’d be the worst client ever, though—unable to maintain the illusion necessary to enjoy myself because I’m too aware of the emotional labor necessary to create it, no doubt trying to be too chummy with my escort on the basis of our shared experience when all he/she wants is to finish the hour and be done with me. Or, based on that understanding, I’d be so overly, nervously apologetic that my escort would pray to God for me to shut up. Still, even knowing all the ways I could royally fuck up the experience doesn’t detract from the potency of the fantasy. I’d love the ability to say, “Let’s do something else, I’m bored of this now” in the middle of a sex act and have that be my natural right.
This will be me someday! Or not.
(Image from Prowess Pole Fitness)
For the right type of woman, sex work is contagious. Maybe she can’t resist stripping after finding out a friend is doing it, or maybe, if she’s like me, all it takes is one article about an upscale escort to render it a personal life goal. I think of myself as relatively well-rounded in the sex industry because I’ve worked on webcam, in a sensual massage incall, done fetish sessions, and (obviously) prostituted. But there are still some things I haven’t done and want to try. I asked around a little and apparently I’m not the only one with a burning curiosity to explore more aspects of the field. Welcome to our new Tits and Sass column, My Sex Work Bucket List.
1) Work in a ritzy Australian brothel. This one’s all on you, Satisfaction. I guess it’s true that those glamorous TV shows make innocent girls want to become escorts. (Innocent, already-escorting-but-not-in-Australia girls.)
2) Strip. It’s insane to me that I’ve never done this. I almost feel like escorting without having stripped first is like smoking crack before even eating a pot brownie. (I say that as someone who has actually smoked crack, and yes, the experience is exactly like escorting! Just kidding; crack is more fun. I’ve also never eaten a pot brownie but I’m open to the idea.) [READ MORE]