Dear Tits and Sass: Breaking Up With a Regular Client Edition

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March 13, 2013

Dear Tits and Sass,

I need help breaking up with a long time client. He is a very sweet guy and if I were to describe our dates (lots of time out in public: dinners, shows, etc.) it would sound like a pretty cushy gig. The problem is that I find being physical with him deeply, deeply repulsive. Not like I’m so hot for my other clients, but it’s a real challenge with this guy. I regularly find myself closing my eyes and trying to breathe without letting *any* expression cross my face—forget about me faking pleasure, I’m merely hoping to not betray my urge to run. Let me stress that he is not abusive or demanding, and he doesn’t hurt me.

I feel like he’s usually aware that I’m hating every second we’re naked together, but he’s so taken with me he lets it slide. The last time we did an overnight together, I dreamed about screaming at him that he was horrible and I never wanted to see him again. He’s not horrible, but I can’t talk my body out of feeling completely miserable during sex with him. We’ve known each other for over a year now, seen each other for long dates at least 15 times, and I have no idea how to break it off. I can’t pretend I’m retiring, and I don’t want to take down the overnight option from my website. (Seeing him for a short period of time won’t really help anyway; I’ve tried, and it still sucks.) But I’ve got to do something because in the days in advance of seeing him, I start feeling really sad and panicked. I don’t think it’s healthy for me to see him anymore, no matter how much money is at stake. Please help!

Sincerely,
SMS (Save My Sanity)

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The Annual Sausage Fest

By

suzyhooker

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February 27, 2013

Hahaha... Quit it. Image via Enriquesantos.com — Hahaha… Quit it.
Image via Enriquesantos.com

Last night, a friend and a few of the girls from work and I headed to a strip club for the annual sausage fest. One night a year, this club shuts down, kicks the female strippers out, and brings out the male strippers. Pudgy Midwestern housewives and sassy eighteen-year-olds alike pour into this place, begging to see men with beefy bodies and thong-draped dicks. So much so, that after the release of Magic Mike this past year, the very large multi-level club had to start taking advance reservations just to get in the door.

My group had such a reservation, and on stripper-time we were early. (By early, I mean, a half-hour late.) Parking was spilling out into the road. Approaching the door, several people told us to turn around and go home; they were only letting reservations in. Ahead, we heard chants of “LET US IN, LET US IN,” from over two hundred angry, horny, determined women. I’d seen male strippers before, and I knew women were generally poorly behaved in strip clubs…but this? There wasn’t even a sausage in sight, yet.

We made it through the crowd of hornballs, and were escorted to the cashier. It was twelve bucks to get in, and we were told there was no available seating remaining. Excellent. The first dancer started, a completely decked-out Fireman, and coworker AI and I knew what we were in for. We’d seen this guy before. He tried to jackhammer AI to death [?] at the last small male revue.

I guess male strippers are in short supply in the Midwest.

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Dear Tits & Sass: Overly Attached Client Edition

By

suzyhooker

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October 16, 2012

Dear Tits and Sass,

Last February, I met Phil off a sugar dating site. He was extremely effusive in quasi-personal affection towards me during our first meeting, to the point that I realized he was an attachment risk and considered not seeing him again. (He’d had a recent and extremely nasty divorce.) But I agreed to a monthly arrangement of x dollars/month for indefinite weekly meetings and saw him three times total. In addition to sex, he wanted an intellectual relationship.

Between our meetings, Phil frequently wrote me vaguely romantic emails, with very familiar addresses and conclusions (things like “dear love,” etc.). I am married and he knew that. Eventually he was sending me such intense emails that I concluded he actually thought he had fallen for me. The last piece of evidence for me that things had gone too far was when I went over to his house and found a picture of myself on his mantel: He had learned my real name from a careless mistake I made, found my Facebook, and got the picture from there.

I didn’t return his calls or emails for awhile. He sent me several distraught emails and I finally emailed him, apologized for being uncommunicative, and told him that I couldn’t see him anymore because I was concerned he was getting too attached. I was pretty blunt, but toed the line between being a person breaking up with a lover (as was appropriate to the stupid sugar game we were playing) and an escort cutting off a client (I, for example, referred to myself explicitly as an escort/sex worker in the email). I told him my role in his life should be therapeutic and motivational, not romantic, and that I did not think that was possible, basically.

He sent me a recent email proposing we keep seeing each other, just less frequently, and I did tell him I’d respond to it (oops—maybe shoulda held my cards), and I am hoping there is something I can do to let him go. I also am nervous because I (a) don’t want to acquire a stalker or something, and (b) he has my real name, which means that he could conceivable out me if he felt sufficiently jilted. Don’t know if he’d do that or not. (My husband knows about all of this.) What should I do?

Sincerely,

Unhappily Loved One

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You Probably Think This Post Is About You: A Guide to Unwanted Emails

Clients

By

suzyhooker

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April 4, 2012

Having a blog about working in the sex industry often results in all kinds of emails. There are precious nuggets from wonderful like-minded people with whom you otherwise wouldn’t have had the chance to connect, people whose comments and emails make you feel less alone in the world. There are the cool fans who anonymously buy out-of-print books and ice cream makers from your Amazon wish list. Next come well-meaning grad students, photojournalists and documentarians, and other bloggers looking for free content and traffic. There is also no shortage of helpless wannabe sex workers and men who aspire to see sex workers seeking advice because they have nowhere else to turn (can’t/won’t use Google).

And then there is a special breed of men who write fan mail to sex worker bloggers. Receiving one of these emails is like getting a compliment wrapped in an insult stuffed inside a cry for help and sprinkled with emoticons. Though their authors may think themselves unique grains of sand, the emails have such striking similarities that they can be broken into (not mutually exclusive) archetypes that any sex worker with a blog knows all too well. Men of the Internet, do you see yourself in here? If so, think before you hit send; self-deprecation and double-entendres do not a witty email make. You’re not just shouting into the darkness. You’re writing to a human being who has feelings, problems of her own, and limited free time. She also has the capability to make her blog private, so just express yourself with an ice cream maker or consider LiveJournal. (Fun game: where do you think Richard Connelly belongs?)

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Blood Money

By

W.H. Lee

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April 2, 2012

Oh yeah—we're going there. (Image of menstrual blood by Petra Paul)

I lean in to Dana and whisper, “I’m scared.” She is affectionately studying the Walgreens display of sex stuff. I pick out a sex sponge with innocuous packaging. Its white printing across a pale blue background and scientific language reaches its target population: overly educated hookers. I toss some tampons, makeup applicators, and condoms into my plastic basket.

“I really don’t understand,” Dana whispers back, cradling assorted vaginal cargo. “With all that shit up your, uh, pussy, how are you going to put a dick in there?”

Like many best friends, mine are easily prevailed on to indulge my wiliest adventures. Take Dana, for example. We’ve been known to enable one another; everything from breaking and entering, drug use, marriage, and other terrible ideas.

We stand side by side as the grisly Walgreens checkout clerk waves my incriminating purchases across the barcode scanner. Ignoring the multifarious ways in which we, together, develop bad, bad ideas, Dana and I determine that that the most steadfast way to mask my period while providing my weekend long Girlfriend Experience, or GFE, is to stick as many things up my vagina as possible.

I am preparing to fly across the country to see Greg, my John. I made the mistake of greedily accepting his lucrative business proposal before considering the time of the month. This is my first time selling sex while on my period. Although a somewhat devoted feminist, a few thousand dollars is enough to persuade me, although begrudgingly, to shave my legs and use feminine hygiene products.

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