Category: Professional Relations

I recently had an interesting incident. I received a reference request, responded with a qualified yes, and heard back from the provider later the same day. The young man had behaved inappropriately and had been put on their ‘Do Not See’ list.

When I saw the young man, he didn’t necessarily behave inappropriately, but I did not feel as though a real connection had been made. That sometimes happens due to language barriers, shyness, unfamiliarity, awkwardness, time restrictions, or incompatible expectations. In those cases it is understandable and when I don’t see them again I am not surprised. In this particular case I felt as though the lack of connection was because he saw me as no more than an object; a means to his end and as many ends as he could get.

I don’t often feel objectified in this line of work. Scoff all you want but even when doing naked yoga specifically for the purpose of providing visual stimulation I do not feel reduced to a pair of tits and lady bits. In the moment, that is what is more important, but overall I know that regardless of how perfectly my look fits your fantasy, if we can’t sit and chat intelligently you’re not coming back for an hour and a half of sitting awkwardly on the couch or avoiding eye contact while on the table. My hands are good, but they aren’t that good. In this particular case I felt as though it didn’t matter that it was me, it mattered that I had a pair of hands and could get in as much action as possible in the allotted time. I’m not averse to getting a quickie out of the way so we can have more leisure once the main event arrives, but feeling like my other skills and my personality meant nothing was… well, a little degrading in retrospect. I don’t often feel uncomfortable and when I do it sometimes takes me a while to tease out why. Such is the case here; I felt odd but I couldn’t tell why. Once I realized that it was because I felt taken advantage of and objectified, I started requiring social time with each new person before we moved to touching. I needed to feel like I wasn’t simply a body.

I don’t know how he behaved with the other provider. Perhaps there was a language barrier (this was a scheduler for a non-native massage provider) and she felt he was dissatisfied. Perhaps, as with me, she felt as though he didn’t care for her, only for her ability to give him action for the entire time he was there. I’m sure if he displayed the same attitude of entitlement with her as with me she probably picked up on it and felt uncomfortable. Again, I don’t know anything about what he did, said, didn’t do, or didn’t say. When I questioned the other ladies who had seen him they seemed perfectly happy and in a follow up email from the provider who referred him she said that they see each other all the time and he is just sometimes in a bad mood. I’m genuinely pleased that the two of them have a connection and that he has a young lady who enjoys the time they spend together. I don’t expect to see him again because I don’t know if I provide the experience he is looking for. I am perfectly fine with that. The whole episode, however, raises some interesting points.

First: communicating with references, not only before but after if a client seems odd or off. There was an instance recently where a handsome, charismatic man saw a few young ladies and then used those references to gain access to providers who were then abused, in some cases violently. I know of another anecdote in which a provider had to move locations to escape a too insistent client who then changed his name and email address, saw a few new ladies, and used those references to book with the provider he had been stalking. It is extremely important for us to keep each other safe. This is why I refuse to accept references from providers who don’t screen or who use meet and greets to screen. I don’t even trust my own instincts, I can’t afford to compromise my safety and that of providers I send referrals to by slacking. I would like to know that either one of his references knows his real name or that he has at least been vetted by a total of six other girls. If someone is willing to reveal their full name to me and verify it with a driver’s license or some other legit ID then I am willing to take the risk of seeing them even with no provider history. I find my self in compromising positions almost daily and am in no way willing to rick my safety. I have no protection but my own wits and screening helps bolster that.

Second: providers are people, too. This isn’t about the feeling of objectification, this is about how boundaries are so different between providers. Some providers work from home and require only a phone call to schedule. That works for them and awesome. I refer people to them all the time when they are unwilling or unable to provide references for me or verify their ID. I’m pleased that they have remained safe and successful over the years. Call me paranoid but in the moment, when I suddenly realize just how much stronger you are than me, I take comfort in knowing that you trusted me with your name and so I can trust you with my safety.
Boundaries also vary between providers as far as what is covered under the blanket terms PSE, GFE, and FBSM or FBST. There have been dozens of discussion on The Review Board and one thing they all can agree on is that no one really agrees. To get an idea of what a provider offers in her sessions, read her website first, then read reviews. Often the provider and the reviewer have at least consulted and given each other feedback. The advice/direction I give is: we all know what you did, the only time you need to mention sexy activity is when it is exceptional or absent. Mention things that are out of the ordinary and mention how you felt. If I don’t say on my website that I offer french/pm/gfe/russian/whatever then I would obviously prefer that people don’t expect it. I get extremely uncomfortable when people approach this with expectations and they often leave dissatisfied when those expectations aren’t met. There are dozens of providers in Seattle. Someone out there offers what you want. Again, if you don’t see it offered on her website and you want it, go to someone who does.

Third: Providers are people, too. This one is about objectification. So many of you gents truly are just that: gentlemen who simply wish to be pampered and touched, cared for and listened to, and perhaps get to spend some naked time with a pretty girl. So many, in fact, that when I see discussions on The Review Board on conduct, I think “everyone knows that” and move on. The truth is, not everyone knows that. Not everyone realizes when they’ve made someone uncomfortable and some even thrive on causing pain and discomfort. Fortunately it’s never happened to me but it does happens. While I’d rather never be uncomfortable ever at all, I do appreciate the times when I get to open someone’s eyes to behavior they were unaware of, much as I appreciate when people open mine to my own actions. Every provider is a human being with emotions, families, and their own motivations for what they do. Some do it for money, some for friendship or the semblance of love, some do it because they have few other options, and some do it strictly for the sex. Most providers are some combination of the above. That shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t change the time you spend together and it shouldn’t effect your appreciation of her as an individual. Perhaps there is a language barrier or she’s shy or the activities you engaged in didn’t meet your expectations. Doesn’t matter, she should always be treated with the respect due a human being. Unsure if you’re being respectful? Check in. Ask her how she feels in the afterglow during your pillow talk and let her know that her feedback is appreciated. I will always be honest and trust me, if I am willing to schedule with you again, it means I had a great time and I’m looking forward to meeting again.

I could go on forever on topics such as this. Respect, consent, honesty, and joy are some of my highest values. I hope you find yourself free to express yourself when you are with me. I’m looking forward to the next time we are able to share moments in the cozy comfort of my little studio. I’m waiting for you with patience and a smile.

Memories surface, popping into consciousness at the oddest moments.

I was talking with a good friend of mine, a provider who feels uniquely equipped for her work and can trace her desire to be a courtesan back even to childhood. I thought that was interesting but moved on as the conversation flowed. It wasn’t until later that a memory surfaced, clear as day.

It is a child’s drawing. Stick figures represent men and a woman. The scene is a bedroom, sparsely furnished, dominated by a four poster bed with elegant curtains and steps leading up to it because the mattress is so thick and well cushioned. The woman reclines on the pillows and a speech bubble contains a name; Stan or Will or some such. On the other side of the door is literally a line of men trailing away. If I had any concept of perspective they would be disappearing into the hallway and receding into oblivion, their only import that they have literally lined up to visit with this woman.

I drew this picture in middle school. I know the age because of the friend who was with me. She and I were only briefly friendly enough to draw together and the two of us were happily drawing extremely high volume prostitutes and admiring their elegance and the power they had to draw men to their door. They only had to lie there, sensual and desirable, and these stick figure representations of lust would come and lavish attention on them. They were glamorous. I wanted to be them.

The memory faded until some conversation jostled it to the surface. The amusing detail in the drawing is the thought bubble above the woman’s head. It contains a different name, as if she is under obligation to have sex with the men outside the door but she wishes for another. Amusing may not be the right word. Poignant, perhaps? Distressing? I don’t know why I chose to add that detail at age twelve. Perhaps I saw myself doing that someday and my conservative upbringing pressed it out of me, only for me to discover it later and use it to liberally season life later. I came to Seattle and at the first opportunity leapt feet first into stripping, then moved on to more one-on-one engagements, all the while flushed with pleasure.

I am exactly where twelve year old me thought I would like to end up. I didn’t know it until recently but this is exactly what I thought I would grow up to be. My provider friend said it this way about herself: “I though ‘I haven’t had sex yet but I bet when I do I’ll like it. I’d like to do that for a living.'” Which is far more deliberate than my fumbling in the darkness of ignorance until I found a place and a community. I have been fortunate in that I found a welcoming community of supportive friends, a safe space to practice, and a partner who supports me.

I find the whole anecdote amusing. When I told my college friends about my profession, most if not all were amused and supportive, full of questions, but respectful and absolutely not surprised. Not one of them thought it odd that I would go into this business, though some who hold to their religious beliefs find it ill conceived.

Now I sit here at a coffee shop, drinking chai, tip tapping away on my iPad with money in the bank and an eye toward the future. Despite my bachelor’s degree I find myself without debt and in fact I have been able to support myself and my practice as well as a modest but comfortable lifestyle. I think twelve year old me would be proud.

I have a tendency towards messiness. I keep most of it contained, but my kitchen had finally gotten far enough out of hand to warrant a quick tidy and some dish washing. As I bustled around my miniature kitchen area, I happened upon a shot glass. Those of you who have met me know I am quite short. At five two, I can barely see onto the second shelf in my kitchen, much less the next two. It was as I felt around, checking for lost items that I found this novelty glass. It’s the sort of thing you would find in an airport in Chicago. It tilts to one side as if a strong breakage had happened by during its creation and the slogan reads ‘Chicago blew me away!’ I don’t recognize it. I’ve never been to Chicago though my aunt used to live there and I don’t remember ever receiving this as a gift. I can’t imagine it belonging to me, so I must assume it was left by the previous owner.

That got me thinking about the connections we have to the passers by in our lives. Whoever lived here before me I will never know. It was probably a single person since they restrict these studios to one tenant. I like to imagine she was like me: a reader, a bit of a homebody, interested in traveling and perhaps better traveled than myself, affectionate, and hopefully happy. Maybe she has family in Chicago and she left Seattle to reunite with them. Maybe she fell in love and moved to be by his side. Maybe she, too, rented this apartment specifically to entertain her gentleman callers. My conjectures mean nothing in the scheme of things, but dwelling on this gossamer connection reminds me that we are also connected to dozens of other people each day. The driver who cut me off also has a life and a family, a job and a home. The woman standing in the aisle at the grocery store is considering how best to feed her children and conserve her finances at the same time. The cashier at the drug store likely has no idea who I am but still flashes me a big smile and makes sure I had a good experience. All these people change my life in tiny ways, a little at a time. That driver has his counterpoint in the conscientious motorist waving thank you and both will change how I feel about myself, my city, and eventually the people that matter to me.

Caring for people who I am invested in is easy. My partner earns my trust and love very day. My girlfriends show me how much they care and invite my emotional investment regularly. My gentleman callers invest trust and time in my feelings of security physically, socially, and financially. Investing in these bright flames is easy and pleasant for me. It is the momentary interactions between me and people I have no reason to invest in that I consider now.

I often find myself negatively effected by those small brushes of humanity. They are in the way of me completing a task or returning home and that irritates me. Because of this other spark of life, mine is inconvenienced. It is hard to not only remember that these sparks are much like myself but to keep that in the forefront of my mind as I live day to day. The tiny connections we make every day are moments of opportunity to empathize or to resent and we can blame no one but ourselves for which we choose.

Our actions influence more than we think. Like ripples in a pond what we do and say around people we may not care for can have a devastating effect on people we love. I’ve always been both oblivious and indifferent to most people’s opinions which means it’s hard for me to understand that while I may not care, others do. This came home in a big way a few weeks ago

I’ve been exchanging letters with an old college friend of mine. He’s the epitome of nerd academically, socially, and culturally. He’s one of the most loyal people I’ve ever known and counting him as a friend is a privelege. Our friendship was always platonic. I asked him once, just to be sure, “You aren’t interested in me, right?” because I’m all too used to having my male friends either become sexual partners or drift away because I’m not sexually interested in them. Over the course of our letters, I asked him how much, exactly, he wanted to know about certain parts of my life. I know he’s very conservative and also he has me compartmentalized into a friend box; he’s not the kind of person who can easily cope with the madonna/whore duality and so he chose not to indulge his curiosity. As part of his rationale he told me a story from school, when he was hanging out with some of the guys. One of those guys was kind of cute and I had a one-time fling with him. No farther than a little french lesson, but I was proud of myself, as usual, because I rock at it and he was blown away. Of course, it didn’t even occur to me that he might tell other people and have a negative opinion about me because of it. I’m used to sex positive people who enjoy getting together and pleasuring each other without attaching labels. Anyway, I came up in conversation and was immediately labeled a slut. Not that I’d deny it, of course, but that’s pretty ungrateful talk for the other half of the slut-party. Stuff like that might surprise me but I’m nearly immune to things like that. To me, it’s water off a duck’s back. This young man’s opinion wasn’t important to me so I don’t really care how he feels about our encounter. However, my good friend, loyal, kind, rich in acuity and affection, was horrified. Apparently he vehemently denied the label on my behalf and was a little torn up over it. I read that and was furious on his behalf. Fuck the attitudes that tell my friends that their affection and trust is misplaced. Screw the guys who are perfectly willing to kiss and tell, and not in a good way. The least you could do is be fucking decent about it. Throw it in my face all you want but leave my friends out of it.

Early last year I began a relationship. We work together and kept it quiet for a while but not long after it became public, several friends from the management team privately warned him that I’m loose and of low morals and the I have a reputation. I had fooled around with one other coworker once and it was mostly common knowledge that I was an exotic dancer at a club on occasion. That was apparently cause enough to warn this nice, upstanding boy to stay away from this skank. Fuck that. You think that you’re protecting your friend from what? A woman who isn’t ashamed of herself? Someone who finds sexuality rewarding to herself and her friends? A girl that chooses sexual partners that other people don’t like? Say it to my face if you’re going to express that opinion and leave my friends out of it.

When I moved in with my partner and his two housemates, one of them objected on the grounds that I “might bring the wrong kind of people around” as if my sexuality breeds junkies and crime lords. We had even met several times and those of you who have met me know I don’t fit the stereotypes that involve drugs and sleazy managers and whatnot. It didn’t take long for him to realize that wasn’t going to happen and now we’re friends. Same thing with my friends at work: the longevity and seriousness of my relationship has given me legitimacy and silenced whatever talk was going around.

I’ve have always been very sexual and proud of my sexual prowess. I remember my first kiss, the first time I went down on a guy, my first (and only) simultaneous climax, my first experiment with bondage, my first client, and my greatest lover. I love it all. I talk about it, I think about it, I share it. I once slept with an incredibly sweet young man simply because he’d never had sex before and I wanted him to know how great it could be and to learn how great he could be also. I am that girl. I am unashamedly a slut and I don’t care who knows.

I didn’t care. I do now. Negative opinions of me reflect on the others in my life. I’ve always been so sure of myself that it didn’t occur to me that others’ might not be. My friends could be vulnerable to anger, sadness, or shame because of my behavior and I won’t even know unless they tell me. I can do something that to me is fun and exciting with no shame and bring shame to people who have no involvement. I hate that. I fucking hate that. The social climate that tells these beautiful people that there is something wrong with them for putting their trust and love in me. The conviction that a woman who has slept with more than some arbitrary number of men, or who isn’t ashamed to admit it, is untrustworthy is despicable and angering.

I have since attempted to limit who knows what. Not really for legal reasons and not for myself but for my friends and family who would be subject to public shame for my actions. Like ripples in a pond I spread across the circle of friends, loving them and doing my best not to make them dirty, as society often sees me.