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. My theory is that the sugar daddy represents both The Ultimate Hustle and also fairy-tale-level, lottery winning-like good luck. It’s a perfect fantasy. I imagine an extremely generous benefactor who understands boundaries, demands no more or possibly less work and time than a normal client, and showers me with money. I imagine diamonds (just little ones), and maybe a car (I can’t drive, but that’s not the point).
I know literally no one for whom any version of this has come to fruition, yet I still secretly imagine that it might happen for me. Which it won’t. Which is why my revised version of this goal is to convince an aspiring sugar daddy to buy me a pug dog. I am prepared to spend up to two weeks emailing, and go on maybe two short dates in order to achieve this. I would possibly stretch to a blow job, maybe. Yes, I could just see normal clients and use my own damn money to buy an overpriced dog who needs someone to clean its face folds for it, but this isn’t about that. It’s about skills – specifically, the time honored hooker skill of manipulating an adult man into giving you what you want and feeling great about it while they do it. Maybe, if I unlock this achievement, I can finally quit my unhealthy sugar dating infatuation for good. Also, pug!
3) Successfully save a reasonably large amount of money.
In my time as a sex worker I’ve earned well and I’ve earned poorly, and when I’ve made enough to have money left over after rent and basic necessities (read: alcohol), I’ve sometimes saved a bit, but never really enough to do more than cover unexpected illness or the occasional bit of travel. I’m never going to be one of those responsible hookers who saves more than they spend, but before I throw in the towel for good, whenever that is, I want to have saved up a decent nest egg. Not the most exciting bucket list entry in the world, I know, but there it is. Be proud, mum.
4) School a client. Loudly, with swear words. And then quit forever.
I’ve put up with a lot from clients. That’s part of the job. Bad attitudes, terrible politics, uncomfortably terrible sexual technique, offensive personal manner. Usually I make an intentional and strategic decision to manage my way through that, or out of it, if it crosses a line, but always politely and professionally. A kind of ‘I’ll take your bullshit, but I’ll also take your cash, buddy” approach. Once, when a client assaulted me, I did have a good yell (and also pressed charges), but even then I barely let my well-rehearsed facade slip for a more than a few minutes. I like my job, and I’m proud of my professional skills in managing difficult clients, but like many service workers I also get tired of being nice to entitled jerks all the time.
So, one day, when I no longer care about reviews or reputation or continued business, I’d like to tell a disrespectful and annoying client that he’s a sexist creeper who should be paying at least $5000 an hour just to compensate me for the labour of breathing near him, and explain all the ways that his conduct make both my job as a sex worker and my existence as a woman (both things which I otherwise quite enjoy) exhausting and stressful. I would call him the kind of names that would make an Australian politician blush, and then just as a final (petty) flourish, I would tell him that all my orgasms were faked, before sweeping out of the room, and the industry, forever.
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