Category: Professional Relations

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The Worst Admin I’ll Ever do

On July 18 of this year, I had to send an email I had hoped I’d never need to.

I get tested for STIs regularly, though sometimes I let more time go by than I should. Historically, my results have always been negative, which makes sense, given my practices and activities. For ten years, every few months I would get pricked and swabbed and sampled, and every time my results came back “negative – within normal limits” for everything.

Well my streak came to an abrupt and unpleasant halt this summer.

Everything south of the border was good to go, but my love of licking finally got to me, and my throat swab came back positive for Ghonorhea.

The usual symptoms are sore throat, burning, swollen glands, etc, but I hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. I wouldn’t have even known if I hadn’t been (over, to be honest) due for testing. Which, by the way, is exactly why we do it regularly instead of waiting for something to happen.

The physical impact, for me, was basically nothing. I popped over to my local planned parenthood, they gave me a single intramuscular dose of antibiotics, and sent me on my way. I went back to my doctor two weeks later for a follow up and I was 100% good to go.

The emotional impact, however, was so, so much worse, and that’s why I’m writing about this publicly.

Because I was overdue on my testing, I had to go back FIVE MONTHS in my calendar and tell every single person I’d met within that time frame that they had possibly been exposed. And because It’s hard for me to resist that specific kind of a good time during even my FBSM appointments, I had to tell everyone everyone.

I can tell you, that’s the hardest email I’ve ever sent. I was embarrassed I’d fallen so badly behind on my testing. I was afraid that people would be angry with me for exposing them. I was chagrined at the fact that others would have to spend time and money (and in some cases miss out on work or appointments with other providers) on a problem I could have maybe prevented. I was committed to doing better. And I was fucking proud of myself for hitting send on that email, snaky hands and all.

To those of my readers who got that email, I cannot stress enough how fucking proud I am of you. The overwhelming response was “Thank you for telling me. I’ve scheduled an appointment to get tested. I’ll let you know what the results are.” Some of you were scared, too. And helpful. And kind. One or two of you were defensive or insecure. All of you did a great job being responsible.

To my first replier, the one who said “I know you don’t need to hear this but you’re doing the right thing”: I really, really did need to hear that. Thank you.

I drew on my close friends for support (shoutout to Tiny Phryne who sat with me via text as I was drafting the email) and felt so much love and reassurance, but it could easily have gone very badly for me. It only takes one pissed off individual to ruin a career in this industry and it would have been entirely understandable to be upset at this kind of news.

But every single person handled themselves well, and everyone who followed up with their results was negative. Every new result reported made me feel better. I was worried I would have been the cause of someone else’s discomfort or embarrassment and I’m so glad that everyone came out unscathed. I was also reassured that, even if someone had popped hot, at least they knew and could stop it in its tracks.

As for where it came from… If anyone turned up positive, they chose not to share that with me. Which is fine. I’m curious, but it wouldn’t have changed anything for me that I wasn’t already changing anyway. I decided to first: be more diligent about sticking to a once per three months testing schedule and second: to up my throat swab schedule to once a month.

Since July, I’ve done exactly that. I have been pleased to get the regular notification from my health care team telling me I’m good to go for another month, and instead of waiting until it’s time and then trying to remember to schedule my next test, I stop by the front desk on my way out and schedule a rematch as close to four weeks out as I can. It works so much better, and helps me hold myself to a professional standard that I more often aspire to than reach.

I’m writing this post, partly because writing is how I process, but partly to normalize testing and sharing your results when you need to. And honestly, partly as marketing. Good marketing is as much about who you don’t appeal to as who you do, and I’d like to invite anyone who is turned off by this post to cherish that. Discomfort is a sign from your body that you’re not ready, and listening to those signs is exceedingly wise.

Thank you my friends for being such incredible people. For taking it in stride, for seeking knowledge, for being kind, and for trusting me. I am honored to be worthy of that trust and I look forward to many more years of good health.

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Film Review: The Sessions

I finally watched The Sessions the other day. For those who don’t know, it’s a movie based on the true story of a man living in an iron lung. Or, part of his story, anyway.

In 1990, Mark was 41, and published an essay detailing his experiences some years before with seeing a sex surrogate. He was a poet, clever, self-deprecating, but unable to move his arms, legs, or torso, and only alive with the assistance of an iron lung. Using only his mouth and the help of others he wrote, and advocated for the rights of disabled folks to live independently everywhere.

His story is beautiful. The essay is unglamorous, sharing not only the physical experience of seeing a surrogate in order to get over the hurdle of his first time, but the emotional experience of facing shame around his sexuality, and his unhappiness with his own body. While he doesn’t describe the experience as life changing, and he didn’t immediately find true love, the fact that he realized that sex wasn’t impossible, that his body was capable of it and it wasn’t really that scary tells me that it did something. And though he hadn’t found love by 41, he did soon after.

I wish Mark had written another essay. Something later, after he met Susan, his love and life partner, telling us more about his continued friendship with the surrogate, Cheryl, and about how her presence in his life, even such a brief presence, changed his approach to women.

Jessica Yu made a short documentary about his life, called Breathing Lessons, which I have not managed to find in my brief searching. But I did find, and watch, The Sessions, a more recent film, somewhat of a biopic, costarring Helen Hunt as Cheryl, the surrogate.

I hated it.

I watched it because when it was released a few years ago, it was hailed as this cute, sex-work positive film and it was supposed to help change opinions about sex work, sex surrogacy in particular. I actually really like Helen Hunt, and honestly she did a great job. All the actors were fantastic, which sucks, because the script they were given was a hot pile of garbage. William H. Macy plays his catholic priest, a down-to-earth, funny man, earnestly religious, and supportive of Mark’s person and his journey. Mark’s assistants are played by a variety of talented actors who bring humor, love, and honesty to their roles. And John Hawkes did excellent work bringing Mark’s particular ways of speaking and moving to life, with the charm and wit he was known for.

But the stories never really hooked me. The director didn’t give us time to invest in any of the characters’ relationships before they just, ended. In the film, he falls in love with one of his assistants and she doesn’t reciprocate, but they have a tearful goodbye where she tells him she loves him, too, just not that way. The film hasn’t given us enough time to fall in love with either of them by then, so it just feels forced. Another assistant has a forced not-romance with the front desk agent at a hotel they use for his sessions. It adds nothing to the film and wastes time that would have been better used elsewhere.

But the relationships I hate the most are Cheryl’s. Mark starts to fall for Cheryl, a pretty normal thing for a client when seeing his first sex worker. But then she falls for him, too, something that didn’t happen, and doesn’t happen in the span of four sessions. It certainly doesn’t happen to experienced providers. Her falling for him is particularly unbelievable because of how just painfully awkward their sessions are. He writes that they were awkward, and his physical limitations mean that makes sense to me, but she’s just so…. Abrupt. I was extremely turned off by her brusque manner in the first few sessions, and she chides him for being afraid and anxious. She doesn’t kiss him until their last session, even though kissing is pretty standard first base stuff, and she also doesn’t offer him simple affection, only sex.

I know they’re trying to paint her as a professional, but she a professional sex-having person. She’s not there to paint his bicycle, she’s there to help him feel normal about himself, and experience sex and pleasure. If I were him, and my sex surrogate came in and undressed herself that fast, then roughly undressed me, I’d be… not happy. Worse: he has nothing to compare it to so he has no idea that she sucks!

So her falling for him after eight hours of clinical, awkward sex just isn’t believable for me.

But what’s even more upsetting is how her husband is portrayed. He doesn’t work, and she portrays that as something awkward and undesirable. He wants her to convert to Judaism, which is fine, but it’s written as if it’s shallow and disrespectful to her. Mark mails her a love poem, which was unwise of him, but otherwise harmless, except that her husband finds the people and picks a fight with her over it. A fight which we never see them actually discuss, she just gives him the silent treatment, then says “you were right, I shouldn’t have gotten angry that you opened, read, and then threw away my mail.” And that’s the end of it.

I don’t know what the screenwriters were doing with that. I think they were trying to give us a reason for why Cheryl might be unhappy in love, open to falling for Mark. Except it was neither compelling, nor did they follow through on it. The conflict between her and her husband was shoehorned in to try to give interest to the viewer, but it just felt fucked up. Like, pick one, guys. Either her husband sucks and she learns from Mark not to put up with shitty treatment and leaves, or her husband doesn’t suck and is able to manage his jealousy like an adult and the two of them work through their feelings together, or he’s supportive and they are able to take the love poem for what it is: a beautiful expression from a client who appreciates and adores her for a job well done.

She doesn’t even tell Mark how inappropriate it was! Like, if that’s the conclusion we’re coming to in the story, then do something with it! It’s like the filmmakers wanted to have it both ways: romantic conflict, and also everything is completely fine.

Finally, Cheryl is shown making notes about Mark’s emotional and mental state. That is outside the scope of practice for a sex surrogate. Surrogates work *with* therapists, not *as* therapists. She might have had some training, and she would have shared her thoughts with his therapist, but they used her note taking as a way to *tell* the viewer about Mark, instead of *showing*. I believe they were trying to show us her falling in love with him? Perhaps? But as with many of the love stories, there wasn’t enough to make it feel real.

The Sessions didn’t seem to get a lot of views when it came out. It had a lot of potential to talk about Mark, his life, his work advocating for the disabled, the work of sex surrogates, and the role of religion in people’s lives, but it wasted screen time on weak, contrived love stories instead. Cheryl should have been a lot gentler from the get-go, kept her opinions within her field, and had a better way of handling conflict with her husband than the silent treatment.

Overall, I thought the acting was pretty darn good, but the script was awful and the film suffered for it. Uninspiring, busy, unsatisfying, I wish I could have seen the biopic this should have been instead of the stilted mess they gave us.

So if you saw The Sessions hoping to find the courage to take your own first steps toward seeing a sex surrogate, and it turned you off? Take heart: it turned me off, too. I may not have the same mental health training, and unless you ask, I won’t be talking with your therapist about our time together, but I have experience helping people move through the awkward, scary, early phases of their sexuality. I have watched more than one person leave a world of insecurity and fear behind them and put themselves out there. It’s not entirely my doing. These people have put a lot of effort into overcoming their demons, a lot of time in therapy, at the gym, dating, second guessing themselves… but part of that can be done with me, and I promise, I’m a lot less brusque than she was. 

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Welcome back, My Love.

When I was a new provider, I met so many new people. People full of joy and laughter, expectations, sorrow and ire, all people who touched me in some way, and many of whom I touched as well.

I have gone through several iterations of me. I have tightened up my boundaries in some ways, eased them in others. I have become both more wary, and more welcoming by turns. I have honed my skill set, tried a variety of bedroom based activities and adopted some into my regular routine. I have been a shoulder to cry on many times, and opened people’s eyes to the wonders of pleasure, and the possibilities their bodies provide.

As happens in this industry and many others, some of my beloved old friends have left me. Some with words of care and parting, a few with anger, but most simply disappearing from my inbox, leaving a lingering emptiness that makes way for new things, but never really goes away.

I have a place in my heart where they live, those who have found love, made their way to new cities, re-prioritized their finances, gone through health changes, or simply achieved what they came to do and moved on.

But I’ve been around a while, now, and old friends have begun popping up out of the woodwork! Pandemic put a pause on many things, and there’s an entire year there that doesn’t feel like a real year. For a while around 2021-2022 I found a lot of folks returning to the demimonde after brief breaks but that felt different. That felt like a collective breath held and finally let out.

When I say old friends, I mean *old* friends. Folks I met in my beginning years, who got to know me before I knew myself. People who can claim to have met me in my very first, dank, barred-window incall with dripping walls, a massive gold couch, the cuddle closet, and that occasional surprise asbestos remediation.

I tell you, it’s a trip. I feel guilty, because my memory is already porous and the years do not do much to bolster those moments that stuck. It doesn’t help that the things I remember, the specifics that stick in my mind, are never those that stick in yours. You remember the nakedness, the sensuality, the sex. I remember getting locked out with you. I remember the broken radiator, the maintenance guy that saw us walking by, I remember your face, but rarely your name, and details often slip my mind.

I will almost always be happy to reconnect with old friends. One of the freeing aspects of this being a professional relationship is that I don’t expect you to behave like a regular friend. I don’t expect to know why I don’t hear from you anymore. I’m not on your Christmas letter list and that’s ok. My emotional state, outside of our time together, is not your problem. There are enough perks associated with our relationship that, while it’s always nice to know where you are and why I haven’t seen you in a while, I won’t be mad when you un-ghost me.

However.

Those intervening years mean something. I won’t hold them against you, but I also can’t credit you for them. If it’s possible to trade on ancient rapport, I will, but even with stored goodwill, I am a different person than I was ten years ago, seven, five, or even one. I hope you are, too. I won’t presume to know you as you are today, and I hope you will do me the same courtesy.

There are so many people I used to know in this sacred, intimate way. I miss many of them, and think fondly on what they may be up to. Sometimes I wonder what they’d think of me now. I know some folks would call me rude, uppity, for saying a firm no when before I had only meek okays to offer. Others might be surprised at how much more self aware I am. Slightly more interesting, if I do say so myself. More collected, as well, though still prone to excited tangents when some topics come up. Less humble than I was, less accommodating (though still good, giving, and game for most things). But with such a greater capacity for pleasure now than ever before.

If you’re reading this, and you’re wondering if it would be ok to reach out again: yes. With extremely rare exception, I am happy to reconnect, and get to know the you of now as well or better than I ever knew the you of back then. Just be aware that if it’s been more than a year or so it’s entirely possible we are re-starting, not resuming our relationship.

And what possibilities, my love, lie there in the new beginning.

Come back, old friend. I very probably miss you.

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Twenty Carat Clients

I adore my clients. I never know when a new face will materialize out of the fog of websites, advertising platforms, referrals, and the vagaries of economic fortunes. I never know when they will disappear into the next relationship, a different city, a new favorite provider, or simply reshuffled priorities. In the vast majority of cases, this is just how it is. The nature of the demi monde is one of uncertainty. Mystery.

On occasion, however, someone sets themselves apart.

Gig work is unpredictable. This industry even more so. We constantly advise each other and ourselves to save as much as possible when things are good, because it will not stay that way. We try. We sometimes succeed. But there are ways our clients can help.

If you find yourself returning to the same person over and over, you may find yourself becoming a 20 carat client. This is a term I have manufactured, and I define it thus: a twenty carat client weighs significantly in a provider’s books. A twenty carat client provides an unusually significant portion of her income and holds her in unusual esteem. My threshold for that is three or more meetings per month, or 20,000 in total revenue in 12 months.

If you hit this threshold, Congratulations! You are almost certainly a twenty carat client. Your ATF spends time in her personal life thinking about you, she goes out of her way to make time for you, she goes on special trips with you, and trusts you with her financial stability.

With this achievement comes some responsibilities.

While we like to know if we’ll see you again, most clients can come and go freely without putting our financial stability in jeopardy.

You, unfortunately, cannot.

We like to think good things will last forever, and we hope they will, but people change, life moves forward, and people even die. When it happens that you have to end your professional relationship, it is your responsibility to take care of her.

Now, there are no contracts in this industry. No policies, no worker protections, no unemployment insurance, no easily accessible precedents to which we can refer. You won’t get arrested, fined, or even really shamed for not putting in your notice or offering severance. When I say this is your responsibility, I am speaking to your conscience as a person who cares about the woman you’ve spent so much time with, and has forethought and resources.

Caring for her means giving her adequate notice (at least a month for every year of your professional relationship) or providing a financial cushion to ease her transition back to “active duty.”

I could give you reason after reason why this is a good idea, but those who will take this advice don’t need it and those who won’t are unlikely to be swayed. That’s fine. I find that I am almost exclusively surrounded by those who will, as long as they know they should.

Financial arrangements are always a fraught conversation for me. Women are not encouraged to advocate for themselves, particularly not in emotionally charged situations. I am deeply appreciative of my colleagues who have cajoled, reasoned, and sometimes even shamed me into sticking up for myself. I am also grateful for every single person who has heard me set a boundary or ask for aid and has not only respected it, but thanked me for sharing.

I see you, and I love you.

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CuttleFish

I haven’t been to the aquarium in ages so I was delighted when one of my beloved patrons suggested a trip as a way to spend some time between the bedroom and the dinner table.

I have mixed feelings about animals in captivity. On the one hand, the Seattle Aquarium works almost exclusively with rehabilitated animals or those born in captivity, particularly birds and mammals. Their salmon hatchery is small but educational, and they only keep their octopuses for a few months before returning them to the wild.

On the other, the Dolphinarium in Puerto Aventuras had a fully grown sea lion in an enclosure smaller than my apartment. And if you didn’t otherwise need to be convinced that keeping charismatic mega fauna is inherently inhumane, you must have missed the nation’s collective  binge watch of Tiger King.*

But an aquarium is populated largely by invertebrates and otherwise relatively low needs creatures. Their internal worlds, as far as we can tell, are small and so it seems so much less cruel to keep them in (well maintained) tanks. In fact, it seems quite the opposite. In a world full of predators, offering simple prey animals a sanctuary, and feeding predators relatively easy meals, is kind of like offering them an early retirement.

While I did enjoy the afternoon (it turned into a gorgeous day and the outdoor sections became a pleasure to linger in), I felt a snag or two, watching the fur seals and the river otters doing laps, bored off their cute furry asses. I know they wouldn’t survive in the wild, being either rescued or captive bred, and that helps me feel better. It also helps that the staff are dedicated not just to the physical health of the animals, but also to offering them enrichment and amusement, just like we do with our pets at home.

But no amount of sea otters feeding and harbor seals hamming for the tourists** kept me from returning to my favorite exhibit.

The Cuttlefish

Cuttle fish are not fish, they are cephalopods, related to Octopuses and squids. And they. Are. Awesome.

Seattle Aquarium has seven (that I found.) There are two near the seahorses, down low where the little uns can see them, and they are the more colorful ones. Their resting mantle colors are vivid blues and purples and yellows, but they change them at the drop of a hat. They can also change the texture of their skin, smoothing out or projecting spikes to blend in and hide or stand out and threaten.

Though the vivid ones were pretty, they’r tucked into a small corner, and the two were in neighboring tanks, unable to interact with one another.

Moving to the next room, we found a tank with five all together, and at adult eye level. This species is called Sepia bandensis and has a far less vibrant mantle. And their inter… cuttle-al? interpersonal interactions were SO COOL to watch. They mostly hang out under their little rocks, blending in so perfectly that at first I only counted three. While we watched, they came out and slowly, glacially, had a little tiff.

I think it was two males and a female, because one stayed low to the ground, her skin color and texture changing so slowly I almost didn’t notice it, while the other two jockeyed for proximity. They flashed from white to so purple they were almost black, spikes jutting from their skin and then smoothing out. The one in the middle showed his angry black top side to his rival as his underside, the side facing the female, was a reassuring white. As they moved around each other, like a sitcom rendered in silent ballet, their colors strobed, flashed, bled from one to the next, telegraphing meaning in an instant.

The subtleties of color and the speed with which they changed it, slow sometimes, when adjusting camouflage, lighting fast when telling someone else to piss off, are myriad. The color changes are controlled by a special type of cell that (called a chromatophore) they have instant and total mastery of starting at birth. Well, hatching. They come from lil eggs. They’re so cute!!

And how cute are they, anyway!?! Their eyes are at the transition point between their fat, oval little bodies and their short tentacles. Depending on which way they’re approaching you, they might look like they have an enormous fat nose and a teeny tiny little body, or they might look like they have a big round belly while their face is long and skinny. When their tentacles are all together, it looks like a long nose and a slightly disapproving face, but when they open their tentacles for whatever reason, they suddenly become a chibi Cthulhu, their small stature preventing any real scare factor from their tentacle ringed maw. Their motile fin is incredibly thin and encircles their bodies, a gossamer fluttering tutu.

And the best part? When they’re near the ocean floor, they take their bottom two tentacles and use them like little leggies! They’re buoyant, so the legs walk in a kind of astronaut slo mo effect as they wander to and fro.

At the end of our leisurely walking tour, after cruising the mammal tanks and swimming with the whales in virtual reality, we had enough time to revisit one exhibit and I chose cuttlefish.

The love triangle seemed to have cooled off for now and all five little smushy water dirigibles hid in their rocks, indistinguishable from their surroundings.

I don’t know which one it was. Maybe it was the female (I didn’t read until later that you can count their tentacles to discern male from female), maybe it was one of the observers to the delicate dance battle. No matter, one of them broke away from her stony hiding place and slowly, slowly approached the glass. She moved to the opposite side of the window, her little tenticlegs cautiously bringing her my direction. Finally, she settled across from me, mere centimeters of glass separating our noses, and we watched each other.

It’s almost impossible to know, and definitely to remember, what her mantle told me. She was in full camouflage, instinctively hiding her soft, tiny body from potential predators. He skin was mottled cream and brown and almost black, protrusions breaking up her silhouette, blending her into the gravel. And yet, she made small, subtle changes, strobing soft stripes that moved from head to toe, or from eye to forehead? It’s hard to tell what the equivalent would be. Her spikes sometimes softened at the tips, just a bit.

For a moment, nothing moved and no one else existed. I looked directly into her W shaped eye and wondered if she was thinking what I was thinking. What is this creature? This mute, bizarrely sized, caged creature. Did she know she was the one behind bars and not me? Was she wondering if I knew that I am me? Was she observing me, wondering about me, just as I was? And did she have the better life? Ostensibly free of stress, free of wondering about higher meanings or your impact on the planet, well fed and housed with stimulating neighbors, was she happier than me? Was I on the wrong side of the glass?

It’s a hard concept to accord any weight, later, over steaks and wine and gratuitous desserts. Cuttlefish don’t have orgasms, as far as we know, and their tongues are not for tasting, or for pleasure. Their lives are short and fraught, ruled by instincts and unable to know the wider world.

But it’s no harm to wonder, in both senses of the word. To wonder at my assumptions and ask questions of the world, and to wonder at this world of light and color and diversity and pain and majesty.

My thanks are often general, addressed to the many, many people who have helped me craft my life as it is, as I like it. But today I have the privilege of thanking one person. The wondrous gent who shared my joy, watching her watching me watching her, who conjured for me a day at the aquarium without knowing just how perfect it would be.

Thank you.

*To be fair, I missed it, too, but Didn’t miss the messaging.

**The river otters and the fur seals may have seemed kind of bored, but the harbor seals sure looked a lot like they were having fun interacting with visitors. They’d bump up against the glass right in front of someone, or boop face first into it at low speed. They played with each other, and took care to rest where people could see them clearly. Also they are one hundred percent adorable, and they’re a pretty sedentary species anyway.

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HUMP!

Every year, Seattle hosts HUMP Fest. It’s a short film festival started by Dan Savage in which every film is pornographic. I’ve only been twice now, and despite the discomfort inherent in watching sexually explicit (and often wildly kinky) material in a theater full of strangers, it was a blast both times.

Each viewer gets to vote at the end for Best Sex, Best Kink, Best Humor, and Best in Show. Since it debuted in 2005, it has expanded to cover multiple weekends and it now airs in multiple cities including San Francisco and Portland.

Each film is short, so short that it can be difficult to know how you feel about one until it’s already over.

Crimson Cruising, film number one, was a red tinted homage to gay cruising in a sexy art house lesbian flick.

Body Language made use of body paint to make two people look like one heart, beating together as they fucked. In English and Spanish with untranslated titles, filmmakers made a convincing argument that verbal language plays second fiddle when it comes to coming together.

The Boy With the Tighty Whiteys was a-fucking-dorable. Our young protagonist shares his love for the bum-hugging undies and turns what could have been traumatizing memories of middle school bullying into a niche, and a surprisingly hot, kink. My only disappointment was that we didn’t actually get to see our hero cum, but I’m pretty sure he has an only fans…

Anathema was ridiculous, absurd, and hilarious. Two space cadets wind up on an alien planet a la Captain Kirk and what few garments they had to begin with don’t survive landing. A bubble gun adds the perfect fun foolish gimmick to a charming queer five-some.

Feast of Fantasy confused me: I both wanted to attend the surreal sex and food party, and was terrified by it. Someone popped an olive out of her pussy to garnish a martini. Someone else mashed cake all up in their bits. A plague doctor fucked an I don’t know what and there was a LOT of eating food off of people. I have politely nibbled strawberries and cream from a breast or two in my day, but the sheer magnitude of the licking overwhelmed me.

Shadow Play took a minute to understand. Shadow puppets kissing, then fucking in a variety of poses. Pretty straightforward as to the action, but what’s the backdrop? Is that a leg? Someone’s cock? Oh dear god it’s a scrotum pulled taught! I can’t imagine the patience required to hold yourself stretched like that so someone can make smooching noises and film silly shadow puppets.

No Translation brings Spanish and English speakers together again, but this time their bodies are translated as well. An afternoon at home together invites the audience to enjoy the pleasure his pussy and her cock bring each other. A final shot of the two flipping through his sketch book drew an “awwwwww” from the room at what was arguably the most intimate moment of the film.

Screen/Play gave us all the hits as far as seventies lesbian porn tropes go. Roommates watching TV can’t help but imagine themselves soaping up cars (but mostly each other’s tits), slapping flour in a mixing bowl (but mostly on each other’s bums), and just generally projecting themselves into the screen. Off screen, they realize what’s up and things on the sofa get steamy, too. Cute and hot. What more could you want!?!

The Cannoli brothers introduced me to the term docking, in the style of a (deliberately) badly shopped nineties late night infomercial. If you’ve never heard of docking, it’s…. Well, don’t worry about it. Just imagine a cannoli made by wrapping the dough around a couple cute lil cocks. They do not look delicious, but they do look fun to make.

Grace spent a lot of time off my screen. A few moments in I realized that this was the film to miss if you had to use the ladies’. I’m not into cutting, blood, or piercing, but starlet Grace very much is and for those who love it, it’s got it all. What I did see before excusing myself was a very happy young lady. If all I had seen was her face, I could not have guessed what was happening to the rest of her.

Bloom Room… I don’t… I know this is an indy film festival, but this was too indy even for me. It wasn’t even pornographic! Just weird.

Ronald McDonald for Some McDicken just skeezed me out. The other food related films made me slightly uncomfortable, but still offered something visually compelling. This couldn’t be anything but satire, and not very good satire at that.

State of Mind was, for me, one of the most difficult to watch. I admire the dynamic between a loving dominant and a loyal submissive, but I struggle to watch black people assume roles and postures of fear or subservience with any comfort. Had the dominant not also have been black, I think it would have been impossible. The cinematography was beautiful, and I believe that, because of what HUMP is, the relationship on display must be loving. But without knowing the two men personally, it was hard to get comfortable with it.

For Your Health doubled down on the discomfort, except this dominatrix and her submissive added a heavy dose of medical fetish play. Again, well shot and well edited, the film did exactly what it was going for. Which was not my thing at all.

It’s Me, Mr. Yamface was hilarious. Two dolls go to have sex but can’t find their genitals! At a loss, they are excited when Mr. Yamface bust through the wall kool-aid man style and offers them a plethora of choices. This stop motion film plays a silly game full of vulvas, tits, and dicks of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Truth be told, given the chance for some spare stick-on parts, I think I would be just as excessive as Barbie and Ken.

Cum As You Are tried to make an angry feminist point. Lots of smashing things and yelling. Vice overs about power and witches. I’m not a particularly angry person so I didn’t see the appeal. But whoever made their props did a great job. Real glass beakers won’t break against soft flesh. Their sugar ones were pretty darn convincing.

Get Ready With Betty starred our hostess, Drag Performer Betty Wetter, as she did a simple, brief makeup routine. Drag makeup is not only precise, it’s outrageous. But I never knew they could get such results using people’s cocks for brushes! Charming and exactly a Drag Queen’s amount of farcical, her tutorial made the whole theater laugh.

Luscious was exactly that: Sumptuous fabrics, long slow kisses, elegant lingerie, an envy inspiring peignoir, and two overflowing bodies gently roiling in an 1800’s royal bed made for a sensational short film celebrating big beautiful bodies.

Demon Seed absolutely had to have been satire. It had all of the worst things about porn guys :TM:. Uninspired dialogue, stiff acting, a complete lack of foreplay of any kind, and the money shot didn’t even make sense. If you’re trying to put a demon baby in the guy, why did the demon pull out!? I didn’t get the feeling that any of that was done on purpose, and I have no idea how it made it into a festival so richly populated with quality art house style works.

Color Me Wild was by far the hottest from a strictly sex perspective. What happens when you and your lover dip your hands in UV paint and fuck under a blacklight? This. And when you and your lover are stunners with a friend willing to hold the camera for you? This. Hands down my all over favorite.

A Deep Understanding gave it’s viewers a window into probably one of the most obscure kinks of the night. I did not know until now that watching attractive women “sink into quicksand” is a fetish. I get it, the ostensible helplessness, the viewer’s fantasy that only they can rescue the young lady, and being consumed I am all familiar with. Plus, they writhe and moan and whimper, all of which are sexy visual and auditory cues. But the best part was finding out that the performers who do the sinking love it, too. Not because they find it sexy, but because they find it hilarious.

Menage a Fromage tickled my nerdy bone. Hard. Imagine you’re an amateur cheese maker and want to make a unique cheese. Now imagine you have five or six adventuresome eaters who like to fuck. Add a dude in a hazmat suit wielding q tips and you’ve got it. The yeast sampled from the bodies, lips, bootys, even feet of the orgiastic revelers went into a gallon of whole milk, fermented overnight, and became a fresh, soft cheese. Yes, they ate it. And no, I can’t promise you I would’t at least try it.

Two things I noticed this year: there was, in my opinion, an over abundance of slo-mo shots. I get it, it’s a cheap and easy way to make something look dramatic and give yourself extra seconds of the best shots. I myself have used it when editing my own content. But it’s like salt. Too much ruins the dish. Between that and the wildly popular and headache inducing shaky camera trend, I felt like things were a little more amateur-art-housey than I wanted. But hey, I’m not behind the camera, and for 25 bucks it was totally worth it.

The second thing I noticed was a complete lack of cis/het/white couples. No one likes being excluded from spaces and so I notice in myself a mild sense of feeling left out. I don’t like that feeling. But I am SO glad it was there this time. I live in Seattle, I consider myself pretty socially progressive, the festival is run by a gay journalist. This is nothing that isn’t welcome or expected. Ditto with my discomfort: humans are inherently tribal. Discomfort at exclusion is a survival mechanism we have not yet learned to overcome. But I am doing my best to see it, acknowledge it, and let it go.

As with the Seattle Erotic Art Festival, I am trying to remember to attend these city specific sexy events more often. I’ve been to two HUMPs and one SEAF now, in my twelve years as a Seattle Resident. And I’ve been to zero Fremont Summer Solstice Parades. It’s fun to see what happens when creativity and sex meet in the hearts and minds of a variety of folks. It’s fun to talk with friends about how the products of those creatives make you feel and think. And it’s fun to absorb these events and bring them into the privacy of my bed where I can share them with others who aren’t quite ready to enter the arena of public sexuality.

I look forward to hearing from those of you who have been to HUMPs now and in the past, who can’t see themselves there, or who just haven’t been yet.

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I Am Not Certified

All my life I’ve suffered from chronic insecurity. Testing into the 95th percentile as a teenager, I just assumed that was like a participation trophy: designed to boost your self esteem and make you feel better about your effort. Turns out that was not the case and I was well above average when it came to writing (and taking tests).

Though insecurity can make it difficult for people to feel like they’ve succeeded, it can also spur people into higher achievement and so, I think, it was for me.

When I began offering bodywork to my clients, I felt it wasn’t right to provide a service I had no training in. I went to massage school, passed all the exams, and walked away a proudly certified massage practitioner.

When I started thinking of myself as a sex educator, I started wondering what else I didn’t know, and how to find out. I reached out to a small local university and enrolled in their sex education certificate program. While sex and couples therapy interests me, sixty thousand dollars and three more years of full time school sounded a lot less appealing than a quick and easy certification program.

I started class expecting to enjoy myself, and to learn something.

My expectations were way off.

Previous experiences in school led me to think of myself as a good student. I test well, I write well, I take in information well through text, and I generally do well with externally imposed deadlines. Eight years face to face with people’s sexuality has shown me the enormity of it. As with anyone who knows a lot on a topic: I know enough to know I don’t know that much, so I expected to consume vast quantities of new information.

Previous experiences in school were not at the graduate level. Those externally imposed deadlines are more like guidelines, way less structured than expected. I wasn’t prepared to not only answer questions, but have to write them first. Vague prompts frustrated me and my insecurity (perhaps hubris) kept me from asking for help until it was too late.

I was able to take value from each class, but what was revelatory for many other students was just another day in the life for me. I found myself bored by the content, frustrated at my boredom, then feeling an aversion to the next round of content.

Add onto that distance learning and travel options opening back up and I found myself writing my way into a temper tantrum for my first midterm paper.

My teachers were patient with me, and I was able to salvage the quarter, but it was a sign.

One of the themes that popped up over and over was one of independent learning. Sex workers talked to my class about institutional knowledge, wisdom gained through experience, and the fact that certification doesn’t always mean excellence, and excellence doesn’t require certification. Rogue educators told institutional gate keeping to fuck off and let their work stand for itself.

I knew from day one I wasn’t interested in AASECT certification. Their ethics clause includes a stipulation against touching your clients. While I will strive to maintain safe boundaries for myself and my clients, I believe in the power of touch to teach and transform.

Unfortunately, I didn’t realize the freedom in this realization until halfway through the second quarter.

If I don’t care what they think, I can do what I want, when I want, how I want. I learn through reading and process through writing. If they need a video log or a slide show or an academic paper, and I don’t think that will help me, I just don’t have to do it. What freedom!

It truly felt real when I had to fly and miss half of a one credit class. Pelvic floor health and it’s role in sexual function, taught by an internationally recognized pelvic floor PT? I don’t give a flying fuck whether or not I get credit for class, I just want the information! Someone recorded it for me, I watched it later on my terms, and now I have that in my back pocket when I need it.

For a year, I watched TED talks, read research articles, took notes, wrote essays, put together a book proposal, did a lot of thinking, and I traveled. I spent time with friends instead of filling out forms and took an entire month off to build a garden and take my first psychedelic journey instead of building powerpoints.

I am not an AASECT certified sexuality professional. I did not meet the requirements set up by other people, to teach other people’s classes, the way they think classes should be taught. I gained some excellent tidbits of knowledge and external resources. I gained insight into my own needs and abilities. I gained a better sense for how much I do, in fact, know about sex and sexuality. I gained a greater appreciation for the mutual education my community has done. I gained a healthy skepticism of your average American’s knowledge of sex and sexuality. And oh dear God did I gain an appreciation for guilt-free down time.

So while I won’t be listing my educational credentials here, or in many other places, I also won’t be worrying about whether or not I need them. I’ll keep learning the way I like to learn: slowly, over time, from books and from the people in my community as things arise.

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Selected Testimonials

“I just wanted to say thank you for the other day. While [personal revelation redacted], I am very appreciative of you listening. So thank you again for being a wonderful person, listening to me, and talking to me. You helped and that means a great deal.”
-JS via email, February 2023

“As always I am floating on clouds after spending time with you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for treating me so well and for being so wonderful. 😊😘🥰”
-JK via text message, December 2022

“Amie,
When we first met, we could not know the paths we would each walk. What a journey it has been!
I am blessed that every once in a while we have been able to share it together. Thank you for your care, sensuality, guidance, and above all laughter and fun over these years.
I love you, my friend”
-T’s greeting card, December 2022

“You leave me smiling for along time after we part ways. The chemistry we have is amazing, both chatting and when our mouths are busy 😈”
-D via text message, August 2022

“Amie,
Thank you once again for such an amazing session! You truly are “the best” and I am blessed to have gotten to know you.
Thank you for being you. Genuines, beautiful, sexy, and truly caring about providing an exceptional experience.
Every visit with you just gets better and better!
Hugs”
-E’s Thank you card, July 2022

“Amie,
I’ve had fun getting to know you these past two years. I love your clever wit, charming sense of humor, and of course, your cute butt!
XO”
-D’s greeting card, July 2022

“In life, it’s rare to find someone who is equal parts kind, caring, curious, funny, intelligent, communicative, and genuine. I believe that when you find a person with all of those qualities, you hold onto them for as long as they’ll let you. Because the chances you find that winning combination within someone again is as rare as it was to find it in the first place.
Spéciale
The first word I think of when I think of you, and the reason I have a big dumb smile on my face right now.”
-CED’s thank you card, July 2022

“Amie, that visit restored my enthusiasm for sex itself! Wow. And it was so nice to talk with you and see you doing well.
There is only one Amie!! I’m lucky to have her as a professional friend, and the benefits are off the charts!”
-D via text message, July 2021

“Amie is that girl next door that just continued to get hotter and has that personally and attitude that you’ve know her for years. Great at conversation and even better in or around the bed area.”
-TER Review, April 2021

“Amie,
Thank you for a wonderful evening and allowing me to connect with you on such an intimate and personal level. Your patience and genuine caring are beyond compare.
We have seen each other a few times now and I wanted to say thank you. You have been so kind and patient with my questions and concerns and it is not ignored.
Have an amazing evening and stay safe.”
-L’s letter, October 2020

“To the beautiful Amie,
Thank you for the lovely evening, it was a true honor and priviledge [sic] to get to know you and [I] look forward to seeing you again.
P.S. Hotel key and parking money”
-J’s note on the hotel stationary, undated

“FBSM connoisseurs – she is among the finest. Clever, cultured, and clear boundaries: all things I appreciate. Not only has she apprenticed under some of Seattle’s best, […] but she continues to grow on her own and is constantly adding new tricks to her repertoire.
She’s not only intuitive but also well-studied and provides fantastic teases. Add in her intoxicating yet refreshingly genuine smile and that infectious laugh and I always find it difficult to leave.”
-TER Review, October 2016

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Good Clients

There’s a movement out there to apply a lopsided model of criminalization to in person sex work. Often called the Nordic or Swedish model, this legal structure makes it a crime to patronize or support sex workers in any way. You can’t hire them, rent an apartment to them, work for them, live with them, or even let your sex worker friend buy you lunch without putting yourself at risk for felony charges. The provider themselves won’t be arrested for sex work under the assumption that they’re operating under economic duress and can’t be held responsible for their actions. Unless of course *they* are hiring another provider, renting an apartment to them, working for them, arranging duos, or even letting them buy you lunch.

This model of criminalization has rebranded itself as the equality model, claiming to support the equality and freedom of women everywhere while, ironically, unequally applying legal responsibility onto male clients.

Sex workers work because we need money. Sure, some of us would be having sex with men for free, but certainly not many of us and we wouldn’t be having nearly as much of it. Money buys safety, security, food, clothes, housing. It pays for our current financial freedom and out future financial security. And it all comes from clients.

By vilifying and criminalizing our clients, those who push the nordic/Swedish/Equality model vilify and criminalize our income, our security, and our future. If one wanted to end the demand for sex work, they must first end the demand for money. Every sex work abolitionist, every end-demand advocate, should focus on pushing universal basic income and single payer health care for immigrants and citizens alike. But they don’t. They fight to throw our clients in jail and they do it under the guise of helping us. It’s slimy and disgusting and it’s one of the few things that makes me angry and not just excited.

But that’s not what hurts me the most. It sucks when there is less income to go around, when a good client is hit in a sting and their stimulus removed from the sex worker economy. It sucks worse when good clients have their reputations trashed, their work visas revoked, get thrown in actual jail, fined, and are overall traumatized.

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again a hundred times before I retire. I love my clients. Most of them are men and men have some issues to work through, but my heart grows full when I close the door behind a beloved client and remember that I am valued. Valued so highly that this gentleman, this lover, has trusted me with a little bit of their heart.

But I don’t have to love my clients to recognize their value. For those who purport to wish freedom and safety for women, clients of sex workers should not be their enemy. A good client is a provider’s second line of defense. A good client can give a provider breathing room. A financial cushion against the agonizing decision between financial security and one’s better judgement. A link to other providers who can support them.* A good client should be an anti-trafficking agency’s best friend, able to refer exploited workers to those who can help them.

While those agencies figure that out, be the kind of client who offers those things. Encourage new providers to reach out to their peers. Show up clean. Pay their rate. Appreciate them. Don’t participate in ‘hobby culture’. And have fun!

*The few women I know who had been working under a pimp went independent with the help of other providers they met through shared clients. Good clients can help isolated providers find their community. Community is our first line of defense.

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I tried something.

It didn’t work.

Early last year I was suffering from some pretty heavy duty burnout. Between work, travel, friends, volunteering, writing, and event planning, I wasn’t happy. Somehow, I cosmically projected this and the world manifested an enforced vacation. As of December, I have very few stressors and I’m loving it.

There is, however, one left.

The cost difference between the table focused bodywork I offer and the bed-based bodywork I offer is… almost absurd. One is exactly half of the other, despite being no less legally risky or time intensive. It does not require half the energy, time, or effort as other activities. Finding this balance unsatisfactory, when I returned FBSM to my offerings, I resolved to expend half the energy and raise rates only marginally. I would keep to a rigid timetable, keep chit chat to a minimum, offer nothing but the best erotic massage I could, and hopefully help keep from burning out again.

I failed in two perfectly opposite ways.

For the first time ever, someone declined to return because getting intimate with someone they hadn’t yet gotten to know just wasn’t for them. You see I had, in previous blog posts, advised new clients to try massage first. This was in the days where we would sit and chat for a while first, playful and smiling, establishing a mutual like for each other that made table time a step in a budding relationship as opposed to a somewhat clinical standalone session. This poor young man was thrust into an intimate situation without proper introductions. My attempt to guard my energy had worked. I didn’t like it.

And so, over the past few months, as I inevitably slipped back into patterns comfortable to me, I chit chatted and relaxed and everyone enjoyed themselves much more, the hours stretched to 75 minutes, 80 minutes, 90… and in the back of my head a little voice repeated: stop giving away your time!

I used to love my two hour FBSM appointments until I noticed that, aside from the average quantity of laundry, they were just as difficult, and as fun, as any other two hours spent with my lovers. I began to compare the two and would up eliminating the two hour FBSM from my offerings. Would you accept half your salary at your job just because you completed a different task?

These were all mistakes. My attempts to hoard time and energy, to cheat my burnout problem, while still staying affordable* to a wider variety of lovers only short changed us both.

So I’m trying something different, inspire once again by my friend and colleague. For FBSM booked before March 31, rates and conditions stand unless you opt into changes. For FBSM booked after March 31:

1 hour: 350$, for returning clients only

90 minutes: 500$ (550$ new clients)

2 hours: 600$ (650$ new clients)

Finition Francais: Opt-out

It does remain a one-way experience. Time for you to relax and do nothing but enjoy yourself. Grabby hands will not be rewarded and I’ll do my best to leave conversation on the couch. I learned during massage school that I am incapable of both talking and giving my best massage at the same time.

But man it’ll be good to get back to the old days when my wide-eyed wonder turned every body into a magical jungle gym and I truly had enough time to know you. To the days when I felt awe every time someone walked through my door. I’m not jaded, I have too many excellent loves to be jaded, but I’m a lot less naive than I was.

*Who am I kidding? This is about as affordable as “affordable housing” downtown. Please know I don’t take this lightly. In my utopia, everyone has access to affordable, quality providers in every industry but we don’t live there. I continue to offer discounts to Womxn and transgender folk, a nod to historic discrimination.