Category: Metaphysical/Thoughtful

I know it’s been a while since I updated my blog. I’ve got a half dozen half finished. Hopefully this one goes from start to finish in one day.

I recently saw an interesting and provocative play. Disgraced follows the story of an atheist from a fundamentalist family and how he navigates a wife who admires the culture he came from, a colleague who advanced past him due to affirmative action and racism, an adulterous affair, and a dinner party that devolves into drunken rage.

Amir, grown up Muslim and still tied to his family by duty and emotion, is married to Emily, a blond haired, blue eyed, all American artist who draws inspiration from Islamic art. Jory is the strong black woman who fought her way out of the ghetto into a prestigious position in a Law firm alongside Amir. Her pragmatism and Libertarian conservatism don’t interfere with her wit, sharp perceptions, and marriage to liberal Jewish Isaac. He is Emily’s colleague, gallery manager, and one-time lover; their meeting of minds over her interpretation of Islamic art paving the way for infidelity. The main action occurs during a four way dinner party at which all is laid bare. Infidelity, racism, fear, anger, self loathing, derision, love, contempt, shame, sadness all show their faces over the course of their increasingly drunken interactions. The whole play examines the effects culture, religion, and race play in the end product of a human being.

Apparently this play is well known, traveling from Broadway all over the country. The Uber driver that took us safely home after was in fact a New York native and had seen it back home. My friend who recommended it was waiting at our local bar to discuss it and it has sparked several conversations with several people since then.Conversations help me solidify my thoughts and so I have some, interesting to me at least, to share on Islam, sex work, moralizing, and feminism.

First: I identify with Amir, brought up Muslim, taught heavy racial divides and contempt for or even anger towards foreigners, Jews in particular. Having eschewed this worldview and the religion it came with, this wretched man parries the swings from both his wife and his wife’s colleague-cum-lover as they praise the beauty in art, the delicacy of culture, and the family ties he has all left behind.

I find his wife particularly odorous. She of the privileged white race, upper class, moderate upbringing, full of scientific advances and open-mindedness. It doesn’t even occur to her that a culture that produced such beautiful structures and visual art could also be close-minded, cruel, short-sighted, and her (a woman) enemy. She pressures and cajoles her husband to maintain relationships with his cousins and culture while he attempts to distance himself and explain exactly why he wishes to do so. Her cultural appropriation doesn’t end with art; she pressures him into attending a legal hearing concerning a local Imam accused of fundraising for terrorist organizations. “He’s innocent!” She pleads, “and he just wants someone like him on his legal team.” His eventual attendance and accidental quote in the paper, aided by likely racism, ends up costing him partnership in the firm and furthering his shame and rage at his own culture. Throughout discussions of wife-beating and political backwardness she is constantly badgering him to rethink his own. Damn. Culture. She thinks some mosaics are pretty and upon that subjective analysis she tries to force her husband to revoke all the decisions he has made since abandoning his religion and the culture it carries with it. Her sheltered views of Islam and history of privilege gives her this moral superiority she wields over him as she herself has an affair, albeit short, with what he has been taught is his mortal enemy: a Jew.

Isaac also has a privileged upbringing in a moderate Jewish household. He holds wealth and status, a successful wife, and his love for another man’s wife. He and Emily see eye to eye on the matter of Islamic art and swanky, naïve, appropriation of its simple geometry and so they find themselves allies in the siege of Amir. One significant difference between Emily and Isaac is that Amir had been taught to despise Jews and only hate Americans so when the infidelity comes to light and epithets fly, so does spittle; from Amir’s drunken frothing mouth onto Isaac’s face, ending the dinner party-cum-verbal brawl. His hatred of Americans and women comes out in his violent attack on his wife.

Jory represents the token black woman, the comic relief, Amir’s workplace superior, and Isaac’s condescending wife. Simultaneously embodying and breaking stereotypes surrounding black women, she is a voice of moderation, neither condemning Amir’s culture nor condoning the more oppressive traditions. She is the one who first perceives and reveals the infidelity and she is the least drunk, least belligerent, least provocative at the dinner party. She is the one blameless character in the play and as such acts as foil to the three white characters. She is my favorite because she feels, to me, the most lifelike. She is the only one I’d actually like to sit and talk with, the others being so condescending and self important or self loathing depending that they bring nothing I’m interested in to the table except as a tableau on a stage.

Watching this play was pleasurable because it was unexpected, it wasn’t unreasonable to imagine as truth, it gave me a chance to examine some of my own thoughts regarding culture and religion, and it’s always a pleasure to see good theater done well.

My first thoughts were in agreement with Amir discussing his cultural heritage. His insistence that as pretty as parts of his fundamentalist culture were, most of it was very much not. He outlines the reverence in which a world in 700AD where life was harsh, in a desert, without modern law or convenience is held by fundamental Muslims. No modern morals governed human interaction, only harsh rules that had to be in place in order to eke out life in a hard place. Fundamentalist Christianity has much the same awe for a world long gone. The endless cries to go back in time to when America was ‘a Christian Nation’ and people were kind to each other ignore the reality of the modern world. It may have been realistic to require a 14 year old bride to be a virgin but who at about a 25 year old one? It may have been reasonable to sequester menstruating women because blood carries infection but in the days of modern female health it’s unreasonable to demand. Cutting off the hand of a theif in order to shame, punish, and warn potential new victims is unnecessary when we have not only have painstaking records of humans and their crimes and ridiculous sentences and still refuse to punish CEOs that ethically steal from millions. Banning homosexual activity officially was of course necessary when eight out of ten children died and sex without procreation was wasteful (though anyone who thinks it didn’t happen is a fool). The ideals of fundamentalists aren’t just to hark back to a simpler time, it is to drag the world into a time of disease, famine, murder, and hate, a time we are good to leave behind. So far they’re doing a damn good job of it. I heard Amir talk about Islam and I heard echoes of Christianity. He spoke of the Middle East and I understood.

My second thoughts were less vehement, whimsical in one case and pointed in another.

As I walked from the bus to my incall, I passed a woman and a man watching a group of about eight toddlers playing in a park. He was graying, well dressed, somewhat preoccupied and she was elegantly draped from head to toe in black. Though I could only see her eyes and her hands as she caressed a passing child, I was struck by her beauty and grace. The black fabric draped heavily on her arm as she reached to herd a toddler and her fingers were long and fine. Her eyes were dark and mysterious and as I passed her voice sang out “Your jacket is beautiful.” I’m not one to ignore things like that so I turned in passing and told her “I was just thinking how beautiful you looked. Really.” And I meant it. Though many believe the burqa and the Niqab and the Hijab are oppressive, and I generally agree, she was still beautiful. Recognizing that beauty just a few days after watching a play that outlined exactly how cruel Islamic cultures can be towards women struck a chord, gently, musingly, in my mind. Perhaps the sunshine addled my wits, perhaps it was just my good mood dampening any leftover anger, but seeing someone seemingly happily enjoying her cultural heritage while also enjoying the benefits of living in progressive Seattle and making a big deal out of neither made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

That image rose in my mind, alongside some striking Twitter threads, when my friend who referred me to this play struck up another conversation a few days later. We were talking about the full face veil and she expressed a disapproving opinion. She felt it was inherently oppressive and that women, even when they chose to wear it, were responding not to a desire but to a social pressure, a conditioning that wasn’t the same as real choice. You won’t believe how many people use that same argument against sex work. Some argue that even we who claim to choose this, free of coercion, threat, economic duress, or emotional abuse cannot truly be choosing this since we are only responding to the patriarchal notion that women are nothing but sex dispensers. This friend of mine tried to make a distinction between the veil and my work but my response was this: You cannot tell a woman who is doing something by choice, even if you don’t believe in what she’s doing, that it is not truly her choice. You cannot remove agency from a woman simply because you take issue with her behavior and BELIEVE it to be oppressive. Only the woman engaging in that behavior can tell whether or not it is oppressive.

I hope that you, my reader, will also find that ability to temper your opinions within yourself. An individual’s choice is something we fight for here in the states. Whatever other values we hold we will always believe in that. Remember that when your children do something you don’t approve of. Remember it when a CEO makes a cruel decision. Think back on it when you read a newspaper and see inflated numbers, stories designed to incite you, the average voting citizen, to remove the choices of others. Value your own right to choose and hold sacred mine as well. Hopefully we all will hold that most sacred and learn to live together.

I often say that the hardest part of what I do is NOT fucking the gents who come see me. We share such deep intimacy, physically and often emotionally as well, it is difficult for me to maintain my boundaries. I overshare about my life, my past, my dreams, my family, and sometimes my work. My naïveté constantly reasserts itself, despite occasional reminders of poor behavior, and so I need constant reminding from myself and my loved ones to keep a certain level of reserve. While my instinct is to open myself fully and completely to people and experiences, I have over the last several years developed habits that add an element of distance to many of my interactions. With my friends who aren’t aware of my profession, I must take care of how loudly I’m talking near them and what I’m talking about with them. I have to distance myself with phrases like ‘I read somewhere’ and ‘I know someone’ when discussing issues critical to my industry’s public image. That distance pains me, much as the distance I require myself to maintain from my clients pains me. Depending on our level of trust and intellectual intimacy, I scale how and what I share and those of you who have heard my civilian name are counted on one hand.

This is not my natural state. Initially, it was the nature of my practice that kept the distance. I only saw out-of-towners and had few regulars, so the opportunity to become closely tied with a client was limited. Our brief and singular trysts were delightful, but I was in no danger of growing too close. Then one day I did. One of the most difficult conversations I’ve ever had in my life began “I think I’m falling for a client.” Hours and tears later, my partner and I decided we were too important to risk and so I never saw that client again. I sometimes wonder how his life turned out. More often, I wonder how our relationship might have been had I been as careful then as I am now. Would we still be on good terms? Would I still occasionally visit for waffles and a romp? Would I at least know that he moved on to a greater life? Because I did not maintain carefully the gulf between professional intimacy and unprofessional fantasy I will never have him, a beautiful man who deserves a beautiful life, as part of mine.

There is nothing like a tragedy to bring us to our senses. After I lost what could have become a beautiful relationship and risked my life partnership, I began creating artificial distance in my practice. Though I still sometimes find it difficult to maintain professional distance, I am pleased with the lasting results of my efforts. I have cultivated deep, meaningful, highly sensual, professional relationships with kind, respectful, intelligent gentlemen of all shapes and ages. I have watched them become as close as friends, as dear as lovers, as playful as family, and always sexy. I have translated this drive to be clear in both intent and distance into my personal life, garnering respect and love from newly founded relationships. Without the gift of careful boundaries you and I share, we would not be able to delve so deeply into each other, sharing in lives we would never have known any other way.

To my beautiful, beloved clients: thank you for acknowledging and understanding the distance that allows us to flourish. Thank you for never pressing, but being open. Thank you for your continued support and the careful but abundant joy you bring. Thank you for the gift of loving, sustainable boundaries that comes back to all of us tenfold.

Merry Christmas and happy New Year!

It always reassures me when gents who are obviously physically superior enter my incall shaking with nervousness. The nerves don’t often last long but knowing that they care so deeply that I am safe and comfortable that it manifests visibly reminds me of some advice I got as a teen: “you have a power over men. Be careful with it and be kind.” I wish more women knew that.

Men have power in strength. Larger and stronger on average than women, men have the potential to exercise that power at any time for any reason. Fortunately it doesn’t happen as often against women as against other men but when it does (still too often) it is obvious and society chooses to punish it. When women exercise our power to confuse, distract, manipulate, and grant favor it is far less obvious and, because of the visible power of men over women, is often dismissed or ignored. Because of the quiet nature of women’s power, many women don’t even know they have it. I firmly believe that if women recognized their power and realized there is no shame in using it responsibly we might have far fewer hot buttons in society.

The first time I met Maggie McNiel she mentioned giving a ‘pity fuck.’ She wrote about it in a column I had read a while ago and it’s been rattling around in my brain for a while. The idea behind it is having sex with someone you woudn’t normally choose to in order to help them physically, psychologically, or socially. A totally selfless act that often goes uncompensated and in some cases creates dangerous attachment. The terminology turns me off a bit but the intent I think is wholesome. What if we called it sex from compassion? What if when we see a need we have the power to meet we choose to rise above our pride and distaste to educate and care for. Perhaps it’s a dream but imagine if it wasn’t shameful to seek out care and love in the arms of a priestess. Imagine if the angry, the confused, and the lonely didn’t have to spend every night in solitude. Imagine if there was a substantial number of gracious women who hold as their respectable duty to society to make sure that no one is unloved always. What if each young man and woman were taught to make love with care by someone who knows how? What if sexual surrogacy wasn’t just for the physically disabled but also for the isolated and the sad? It may be crude to quote from Spiderman in a blog about sexual power but as Uncle Ben said: “With great power comes great responsibility.” What could we do for the world if we recognized and valued this power? It’s a thought.

Our word choices are critical when we discuss policy and current practice concerning sex work. I cringe at the phrase ‘selling sex’ or ‘selling their bodies.’ The implication of selling oneself or selling a service is that for a certain time, I surrender control of my own body. That is absolutely not the case. At any time, in every session, either participant can say ‘no’ to any activity. Does that sound like slavery? I don’t think so. Instead of ‘selling sex’ I ‘have a session’ with a client. It is important to realize, even when we’re fighting for the right to ‘sell our bodies’, the terminology puts negative connotations into the mind of our audience who then resist out of the goodness of their hearts. Who would choose to allow anyone selling themselves for anything, even if it’s by choice?

Another set of terms I discussed last week involve the idea that we as providers have less power than our clients. Many sexual positions involve the apparent submission of the receiving partner but any participant in an explicitly submissive/dominant relationship knows that is an illusion. While the receiving partner may appear submissive, at any moment the safe word will stop all activity at once. The truth of each session is that I do not submit to your demands, I accommodate your desires as far as I am comfortable. I am not subservient to your will, I am obliging to your requests so long as they are within the boundaries of our interaction. This means that, while it may appear by my propensity for yes and my smaller size that I am being made use of, I have complete agency.

In my community, there have been a few discussions of what to call ourselves. It’s pretty common to describe the ladies as providers and I find it fits me well. I have clients I see for a set amount of time during which we engage in a variety of entertainments depending on how much time we have and how my client is feeling that day. Our arrangements do not venture into our personal lives, though they are deeply personal. I have heard some suggest ‘patron’ as a term for our dear ones. I would have to disagree though I appreciate the intent. To me, a patron is one who has an ongoing, consistent relationship with his artist. Similar to a courtesan, the erotic artist relies on the regular contributions and they see each other as his schedule allows. Thus she is assured of her income and he is assured of her companionship. A John is often seen as a derogatory term but I propose a neutral definition: a John is a client who is not interested in long engagements or intellectual connection. Shorter, less mentally intimate sessions work for prostitutes with busy schedules or who simply don’t like socializing with their Johns. It sounds terrible because of the social connotations of the term but I intend it only as a way to differentiate styles of entertaining. I do not consider myself an artist because I have no patrons. I do not consider myself a prostitute because I do not offer short, non-intimate sessions. I consider myself a provider because I have clients. This terminology is all my own and is in no way intended to denigrate styles of sex work. Different strokes, as they say.

Another term that comes up is ‘the hobby.’ Apparently some people find the term offensive to various degrees. The problem is, what else do you call it? Punting? Hooking? Patronizing? Trading? I’ve thought about this off and on and I still can’t find a better term. On the one hand, it’s kind of nice. Hobbies are fun, we do them because we like them, and they often add interest to our lives. On the other hand, they are non-critical, easy to set aside, and often considered frivolous. I’m not particularly invested in this one but it is an interesting term with an interesting, if low-importance, debate around it.

That’s what I can remember at the moment. I will of course follow up if anything important comes up and I am open to suggestions for further thought.

I hope you, my reader, will consider setting aside any judgements for a moment to consider your emotional reaction to all of the terminology I’ve presented. Interesting how some of them make you feel good and some of them are upsetting. Recognizing that the way you say something changes how it is perceived is a huge step towards effective communication.

Update as of 12/17/15:
I realized as I continue writing that I have come up with an alternative term for ‘the hobby’. I often use the term ‘the industry’ and refer to ‘clients’ who partake. I didn’t realize that I had been using it for a while and that it makes a fine alternative for those who don’t like the frivolity that hobbying implies. It does bestow an element of professionalism on our work and opens the door to terminology you might hear at an OSHA meeting. Words are important. Use them 🙂

Update as of 01/04/16:

I found this article today. I don’t agree about the offensiveness of terms, but it helps to disambiguate (made up word?) some terms.

http://www.biwoc.org/post/136274403976/sex-workers-language-and-slurs

The text is quoted below.

“”

Prostitute is a Slur

Prostitute is a word that is used entirely to criminalize sex workers.

The word refers specifically to exchanging sex acts for money, which is a crime in most places, and is part of the reason other terms like ‘escort’ came along; escorting is selling one’s time which may or may not include sex, and is paid by an hourly rate, whereas prostitution is paid by the sex act. In many places, ‘escorting’ allows a loophole for full service sex work though it also has some classist implications. It remains though that prostitute is a word that strips full service sex workers of our humanity and reduces us to criminals; this is the history and intention of it. It is a slur, so don’t use it except to self refer if you’re a full service sex worker yourself.

Hooker is a Slur

Hooker is a disparaging term for a full service sex worker, often linked to street-based work, which again has class issues. It is used to demean and degrade full service sex workers. Don’t use it.

Whore is a Slur

This is an area where a lot of people fuck up, believing bullshit like “but whore is used to target all women!” No shit, guess why? Because it refers to full services sex workers. That’s the entire reason why it’s offensive. When you call someone a whore, you are literally calling them a full service sex worker. Don’t do it, and don’t use it for yourself if you’re not a sex worker (the word can be applied to sex workers who don’t do full service in some situations, but only to self refer). 

When you use any of the above words, you are contributing to whorephobia; the specific marginalization that sex workers, usually women, experience in every aspect of society from interpersonal relationships to the state. This stigma often results in discrimination, violence, rape, death and even murder. Language matters. Words are important. 

Whorephobia

Whorephobia is the term that sex workers coined in the 1970s to describe this oppression. This is the only instance where non sex workers can use the word whore. While there are problems raised with this word, it’s what we have, it’s been around for 40 years now so unless sex workers decide to change it (if that’s even possible) this is what we have whether we like it or not. The fact that this word contains a slur is no fucking excuse to attack people for using it, and the only people who complain about it are whorephobic fauxminists themselves who are trying to silence us by taking away our language to call them out on their bigotry while changing the subject, trying to paint US as misogynists. This is not a “new libfem term” and libfeminism has fucking nothing to do with sex worker rights anyway; sex workers have historically occupied the fringes of society, something which every brand of feminism likes to avoid. 

If you don’t feel comfortable using this word, feel free to write it as wh*rephobia instead.

Street-Walker is a Slur

This word specifically attacks street-based workers, who experience the worst marginalization of all sex workers with all other things being equal. Even in sex worker spaces, street-based workers are often looked down on by indoor sex workers such as escorts or brothel workers. This is called lateral whorephobia and it’s fucked up. No one gets to use this phrase except street-based workers. 

Pimp is another term that often comes up in these conversations. It has a complicated history and has strong anti-Black connotations. Pimping is a reality, it definitely does happen and there are situations where this word is appropriate. It’s also a concept used to attack sex workers by criminalizing anyone who assists us; legally, anyone who helps a sex worker organize their appointments or drives them to and from a client can be charged as a pimp. It’s a disparaging term that often targets friends and partners of sex workers. It’s also widely used by anti sex worker fauxminists to discredit peer-based organizations; SWERFs will baselessly claim that sex worker organizations are actually run by pimps. This virtually never happens as most organizations have strict policies regarding who can become a member; only sex workers can join peer-based organizations. 
John is a term used to refer to the clients of sex workers. We virtually never use it, we call them clients cos that’s what they are though some sex workers call their clients tricks. That’s really up to them, but non sex workers would be better off using clients, especially since not all clients are men anyway. 

Appropriate Language 

The catch-all term for anyone who sells their sexual energy is ‘sex worker’. This includes strippers, peep show performers, brothel workers, cam performers and many more. The key point is that they sell their sexual energy; there are people in the sex industry who don’t and therefore are not sex workers, such as security staff, DJs, drivers, managers etc. 

Since this is an umbrella term, you may need to refer to specific sex industry positions.

Full service sex worker is anyone who has sex with their clients. Sex can be a variety of things but usually involves genitals touching (some sex workers only do massage with hand relief, and they are not full service sex workers), though not necessarily every time. The term implies that some form of penetrative sex is an available activity. Porn performers aren’t usually referred to as full service sex workers even though they have sex because the people they’re having sex with are not their clients, though some porn performers do full service sex work in addition to performing in porn.

Indoor sex worker generally refers to any full service sex worker who works indoors. They may work for themselves privately in their own homes or from hotel/motel/rented rooms, for an escort agency, or in a brothel/parlor. Indoor sex workers generally experience lower risks of violence; from clients, strangers and police. 

Street-based sex worker generally refers to sex workers who work outdoors or in public/semi public places. Some people consider sex workers who meet clients via the internet/newspaper advertisements and see them in semi-public spaces (e.g. cars, public toilets) to be street-based but more commonly, street-based sex worker means the sex worker meets their clients in a public place; sometimes a bar or club but more often, a stroll (a stroll is a street where sex workers tend to work; clients know to go to that street in particular to find sex workers and vice versa). Sometimes strolls are decriminalized; in Sydney for example, it’s not a criminal act for sex workers to meet clients at Kings Cross, though it isn’t legal to meet them in public anywhere else. Public sex is always illegal. Sometimes ‘outdoor sex worker’ is used, but less commonly.

Brothel worker is pretty self explanatory, I’ve not heard of another term to refer to sex workers who are based in brothels. Some brothel workers also do escorting, either privately or via the brothel.

Escort is an acceptable word to use to refer to independent full service sex workers who work indoors, though some (like myself) dislike it because it has certain class connotations as above.

SWERF is an acronym that means ‘sex worker exclusionist radical feminist’ and illustrates the fact that despite their protests, anti sex worker fauxminists actually hate us, including those of us who are forced, coerced and/or trafficked. They hide this behind false statistics and pretending that anyone with a tumblr account is too privileged to have an opinion, but in truth, they just want to silence us and force us out of our jobs. 

I hope this covers all the language questions, if I’ve missed anything please let me know
“”

I’ve always known that the mainstream narrative around sex work isn’t the most common narrative. The stereotypical escort is one of two types: victimized, forced, abused, drugged, etc or money-grubbing, twenty-something with fake breasts and disdain for her clients. While both types exist, it is far more common, particularly here in Seattle, to see a variety of backgrounds, demographics, and motivations.

Personally, I’m a sexually explorative, monogamous in my personal life, twenty something who wears little makeup, lives a relatively middle class life, and spends her free time cooking, knitting, and socializing with my civilian friends. I’ve met ladies from all over the spectrum, everywhere from the unreliable and functional addicts to the meticulous elite. The latter is far, far more common. A question was asked recently, one that I’m proud to know comes from my community. The question was ‘Who are the ladies over 40 here in Seattle?’ and the answers were overwhelming. There is a link to the thread at the end of this post so you can see for yourself who made the list.

A few things struck me about this question, the first and most reassuring to me is the sheer volume. Out of the say 200 independent providers that regularly participate in this community there are over 20 specific names in that thread. That’s a huge percentage. Huge! And they’re all over 40! Perhaps it’s this community that attracts a higher number of mature women but I firmly believe that it’s not an accident. Several of our local legends didn’t even get started until their thirties and over the last decade(s) have established themselves as highly sexual, intelligent women capable of a wide range of desirable characteristics such as intelligence, experience, empathy, reliability, assertiveness, and of course great ball handling skills 😉 I am hopeful that I can one day join the ranks of the mature lady legends of Seattle’s sexy underground.

The second striking realization was that I regularly ask many of these ladies for references. A few leaps of logic tell me that I am attracting gentlemen who usually stick with the more mature (and by virtue of age, more experienced and intelligent) providers. That I can command a certain amount of interest usually reserved for those far more interesting gives me a deep sense of pride. My youth will fade, my breasts will droop, my skin will wrinkle, my hair will turn gray but my mind will, hopefully, remain sharp for many more years. Also, the youth and beauty I have are no fault of my own. The mind I cultivate and the words that come from it are my fault, my problem, and my pride. Every day that I am able to bring the combination of youthful energy and mature wisdom to my loves is a day that fills me with joy and pride. I can’t imagine doing anything else more fulfilling.

Disclaimer: while I have often been told I am unusually mature for my age precocity is no substitute for true wisdom. I will not be truly comparable to the legends in the post linked below until I have their experiences. I personally highly recommend Sarah Nicole for nurturing, Sola Love for healing, Maggie for vigorous discourse, Houston Price for raw sex appeal, Jillian Roberts for high high class, and Ananda and Joyfull for playfulness. All in addition, of course, to sensuality and love for all.

http://thereviewboard.net/forum/posts/439299.html

One of my beloved regulars broke up with me yesterday and I couldn’t be happier. We’ve been getting together regularly for laughter conversation, wine, and some saucy fun for a year or more and yesterday over coffee, just a quick social hello, he broke up with me. He told me he simply didn’t have the energy to see me and maintain the new relationship he’s found himself in. My grin nearly cracked my face. I may never see this clever, endearing gent ever again. I couldn’t be more pleased.

Much like a counselor watching her client develop self awareness and healthy coping mechanisms or a nurse daily observing here patient’s return to health, watching my loves find someone else to fill their time, bring them joy, and make love to brings me peace.

That’s not to say that our interactions are the interactions of an unhealthy individual, far from it. I only mean to say that for some, this is a pit stop, a surrogacy, a chance to learn without shame how to move easily and comfortably in your own skin and to explore how far it will take you. For some, it’s an amusing and convenient diversion, for others a way to patch the leak in the marriage boat and keep it afloat for years to come, for still others it’s a way of life. For those who stop at my door on the way to something else, goodbyes are sweet. I will always hold space for them in my heart and my memory and someday I will wonder how they’re doing but I’ll never know. I’ll imagine some fuzzy sunlit future and hope it’s the truth and remember our cozy past and be well.

Best of luck, and always, love.

This was supposed to go out yesterday. I thought “A Labor of Love” sounds like such a lovely title for a Labor Day post, I should write something. I sat down to write, got distracted, and realized that I so often extoll the virtues of my profession and blather on about how much I enjoy it that yet another post about how awesome you guys are would just be overkill. So I slept most of the day and spent my waking hours incredibly stoned, reading a book.

This morning I woke up early enough to catch the last commuter bus downtown which gave me a good hour or so to grab coffee and futz around on the internet. The morning was gray and the forecast was for gloom all day. As I walked to and from the bus, my mood sank comfortably into gloom as well. Two of my best girl friends and confidants just moved away from Seattle and the third in my loving lady trifecta has been out of town and/or so busy I haven’t seen her in two months.

I generally try to compact my work days so my free time comes at the end of my day but today I’m spread evenly throughout the day. It means I have chunks of time long enough to think but not long enough to go do something. It means I often get bored, sleep, or waste time online. The prospect of such a day plus the bedraggled stray feeling of social neglect tagging behind me made for a dull morning. Even my favorite coffee beverage from my favorite barista wasn’t enough to lift my spirits.

Then you showed up. You know who you are and you are not alone in your ability to first distract me from my melodrama, then genuinely change my mood. Your big smile, your respect for my limits, your appreciation for our time together, your conversation, your insights, your trust, and that dreamy look you wear out the door flipped my mood around so thoroughly that I don’t mind so much the prospect of creating new friendships from scratch and keeping myself sane in the meantime.

I would not love what I do if each day I faced a series of impersonal, disconnected, pushy, self involved, shallow interactions. I love what I do because each day I meet genuine, caring, respectful, humorous, interesting people. You are not who I would meet under any other circumstances. In what world would I meet such a variety of individuals and connect with them on a prearranged yet personal level? In which universe would I be allowed to lie naked and warm in the crook of your arm in the afterglow of sexual passion asking you about your life? Where else would I find both the impetus and the freedom to pursue educational avenues alongside personal reflections? Nowhere else but here, in my little corner of Seattle, where you and I are the only two in existence, for a while.

You are my inspiration.

Thank you

Over the last few years my professional life and my persona life have traveled separate but intersecting paths. Almost as if the pendulum is beginning to settle.

In January of 2013 I drove out to the suburbs and met a kind, sweet, solicitous young man who proceeded to converse and make love with me, then send me home with a generous wage. In February of the same year my good friend sat across two large bowls of pho and warned me of the danger I was in, speaking to my experience through his lens of the mainstream narrative of sex work. A few weeks later we fell into bed together and we have been inseparable ever since.

It hasn’t been all rose-tinted glasses and laughter. One night, after drunkenly flashing a coworker, I started a long, loud argument over trust; namely whether he trusted me. I remember holding a half-eaten hamburger in my fist, shaking it in his direction and swearing at him. Another sunlit summer afternoon he sunk his fist into the wall after I revealed my first and last infidelity (defined as such by the lack of communication prior, not the action itself). However, as we both learn to read each other’s moods and needs, our discussions are quiet; full of ‘I’ statements, reassurances of devotion, and loving touch.

My personal relationship has settled, much as my professional ones have, into a mix of routine and novelty that nurtures me. The domestic duties are largely taken care of by the time I get home and we are free to watch shows we like, go out to see friends, or stay in and watch the fire burn in the fireplace come winter. My week is filled with beloved regulars who brighten my day in a different way every time they join me in my little corner of Seattle. I leave reluctantly in the morning, longing to stay warm in bed, talking sweet nothing to waste time. I leave reluctantly in the evening, finally setting things aright for the next morning and fondly remembering the warmth of my loves. It is a quiet domesticity on both counts, even and easy, busy without being overwrought.

This post was inspired by a recent question posted by the lovely Larissa Nostrova. She’s always coming up with interesting questions but this time it was “would you still?” If you as a partner were getting sex as often as you wanted it, would you still be seeking professional companionship? Reactions are mixed. Some choose to be exclusive when dating, though serial monogamy can be seen as a type of polygamy, each partner separated only by time. Some discover that the injection of sensuality and desire supports their personal relationships, recreating that sense of passion and confidence that then reignites their personal life. Some are actively polyamorous, seeking professionals in order to have a fulfilling but no-strings-attached experience in order to recharge and relax. Some are perpetually single and so the question is moot. I thought it might be interesting to answer the question from the other side.

I have a more frequent desire for sexual activity than my partner. He has acclimated to infrequent sexual activity over the course of his life and so our current level is higher and more satisfying than he is used to. During and after my personal sexual revolution I became accustom to a much higher frequency, if not quality, than I currently experience. He and I have different baselines and my profesional activities make up the difference. I wouldn’t do what I do if I couldn’t make a living at it, but if I had a regular 9-5 that kept me too busy to play with people’s bodies and senses I’m not sure if or how much the difference in baselines would chafe. Over the last four years I’ve not gone more than a few days without being naked with someone. If that suddenly changed….. Suffice it to say I’m hoping it doesn’t change for a long time yet.

To answer Larissa’s question: if I got as much sexual/sensual activity as I wanted, neither of us would have time for a job and I’d have bigger problems than my sex life, haha! My life affords me both the diversion my brain craves and the freedom to pursue it. It’s a beautiful thing.