Want vs Need

I guess it's important to say that I consider myself a feminist. Not to go into all the history, but depending on what theory you subscribe to (if you subscribe at all), I am a third wave feminist. This is partly based on age (after all, I am only in my 20s) having grown up with the idea that girls can do anything boys can do, not only from my own mother, but from teachers and TV and battle of the sexes challenges in gym class. So yeah, being a girl has always been an okay thing. Glass ceiling? Yes. It's there. But no one I know makes any money, so I can hardly cry foul about that in my experience.

Now, generally, 3rd wavers are known for not being opposed to sex work. Where as my mother's type of feminism requires any utilization of the female body to be regarded as 'demeaning,' I have always struggled with that notion. What could be demeaning about using your very own body to support yourself? An accomplished stripper has always seemed like the ultimate woman to me. You're a perfect specimen of feminine beauty and men are willing to pay to look at you. Hasn't this been in vogue since Aphrodite? And if you so desire to engage in more than longing looks? Well, good for you. Sex is fun and it feels good and if people are willing to pay you for that as well? There are plenty of girls for free at the local bar, yet you are something so exquisite they are willing to pay for YOU.

Not demeaning in the least.

And so working at the club has always seemed okay to me. Sure, people are weird, and I've had requests for situations that I wasn't interested in participating in. But that is part of the beauty: you bat your eyes, smile coyly and say thanks but no thanks. I have always been in charge. And when I made enough money to make my evening complete, I pack my things and go.

Now things are different. No longer am I there because I want to be. I'm there because I have to be. This money is my income. I need it. It pays my rent, buys my food, keeps my heat on during these 4 degree nights. That realization struck me as I left Real Job last weekend and walked to the club. And I felt ill. I didn't want to go. I cried tears that burned my face in the subzero wind and felt utterly defeated. Because the money wasn't something I simply wanted, but needed it to survive. How much harder it is, to refuse a request, when the money they slip into your palm is going to feed you for the next week.

And once everyone in the club, guys and girls alike, started to comment on how good I looked and how I must "have been busting ass at the gym" to lose that much weight in two weeks, refusal stopped being an option. Because I haven't been busting ass at the gym. I just haven't had money to eat.

So yeah, when creepy old guy gives you $100 to make out with him for ten minutes, what do you do? I guess on the bright side I know many of the girls there make that amount of money through many more illicit means. Should I be flattered? There is something to be said about that, I guess. First base with me is worth the same as 3rd with other girls. But that is also very... weird. I'm certainly no prettier, no sexier, no more interesting than any of the other girls there. It is unnerving.

Also there is this orchid blooming at Real Job that smells exactly like creepy old man's breath. Orchids aren't known for their fabulous fragrance, but I'm haunted by this particular halitosis orchid. It taunts me with my shame.

And this is when sex work stops being empowering. It smothers you in the mantle of no other options and that is scary. Because i feel optionless. I've sent SO MANY resumes and cover letters into open positions in my field and have not even had the courtesy of a rejection letter. And, quite frankly, I'm REALLY accomplished in my field. I should at least be getting a round one phone call.

Just a note about housekeeping

Having lived in college dorms and old mansion-like houses that were converted into far more units than should be legally allowed, I am familiar with odd, late-night smells wafting into my room at various times. Pizza. Or the lovely smell of bile and vodka (oh the joys of having the dorm room right next to the elevator freshman year...) but I have moved up in the world (so to speak) and I currently live in a house. A house that I have access to all parts of. A house in which I know all of the other people under the roof and can ask them about rouge smells.

What I can't figure out is why, at least two times a week, I can smell pot and bacon. It's only in my room. It's only at night. And it comes on so strong and so suddenly it's like someone made a bong out of a roasting pig and took a hit in bed with me.

Where is this COMING FROM?

Do you believe in magic?

Do you believe in magic? Not the crazy Chris Angel kind but the goddess-loving, organic wheat berry eating, drumming in the woods naked witch kind. I'm still not sure. In highschool I explored a lot of paganism and with that came the study of magic as an energy. I still really like the idea of it, even if I'm not 100% sure about it as a practice...

Lately, I've been sending out cover letters and resumes like there is no tomorrow and I just can't seem to get that phone call, let alone an interview. So I started thinking about spells for money and jobs and the like. Its been in the back of my mind: pulling out all the old supplies and throwing myself on whatever deity will enable me to survive. 

This past weekend, I worked another fetish party. I went in there knowing I HAD to make $200 in order to not bounce my rent check that  I already mailed to my landlord. I haven't made $200 at a party in quite some time. Again, this is all due to the growing expectation of unabashed prostitution, but how do you fight it? Generally I work the early shift, starting right after I leave Real Job and working till about midnight or 1am depending on how the night is going. 

This night was the same. I was the first girl there. I changed and watched the NFL Playoffs till the guys showed up. A few guys sprinkled in. I tried to engage them, but there were so many girls and so few guys. Suddenly I looked at the clock and we were 2 hours into the party and I had only made $20. Disaster. 

And then the Jets beat the Colts. I don't know if you watched that game. It came down to a field goal. Exciting. I'll admit I was standing around during the last 2 minutes of the game watching with all the guys as well. And when the Jets won a celebratory riot ensued. Guys were running around, shouting "that is for US! This win was for US!" and I didn't really understand why all of a sudden I was standing in a room of New York fans (since I wasn't in New York) but as I learned, Rex Ryan who is the head coach of the Jets, filmed a series of foot fetish videos staring his wife. And that is more than enough to get a club full of foot fetishists to root for your team, as it were. 

With the celebration I hoped that the guys would start spending money. And perhaps they did, but not on me. There I sat with 20 bucks in my pocket trying to remain friendly but essentially giving up. I texted my boyfriend to save me, but alas, he was still working, so while I waited for him I tried to mingle. 

Here is the thing: I have a lot of people that I talk to at these parties. Some of the conversations I even enjoy. But I am there TO MAKE MONEY. So its frustrating when the same guy talks you ear off week after week and then never slips you payment. Yes, I know you don't pay for conversation, and maybe I'm not your "type" but I'm clearly type enough to stimulate you intellectually, and what the hell, you can support my sexy brain even if you don't want to support my sexy feet. I digress.

We were talking about magic. The girls introduced me to a guy who gives massages. He kept saying he "didn't know me" and I told him my name and tried to come up with good "getting to know you" fodder. He explained that he could tell everything about me with his thumbs. So he gave me a backrub. Wow. Was it good. Actually, good might not even be the right word. I mean, I was stiff and it HURT. But at the same time, it was like I could breathe and think again. And then at the end, he told me "ok, now go make that money"

And the stars aligned. It was really weird.

Suddenly, I was in high demand. I was consistently busy and then decided that I had made enough and grabbed my coat to meet my boyfriend. That's when I was approached by a guy who asked if I had to leave right away. I told him no and he said that he would rent a private room. I blanched. That only ever means one thing. I led him to a corner and asked what exactly he was into. "Lapdances. And.... you know" Right. I DO know. That's exactly the problem. I flat out told him "ok, well lapdances are all I do. Just so we're on the same page." He pondered this news for a moment and then said "ok, let's do it anyway"

About halfway through, it occurred to me that giving a lapdance for 30 minutes straight is really hard on your thighs. At least the girls that perform other.... tasks in the rooms get to flex different muscle groups. It also occurred to me that I have NO IDEA how to give a proper lapdance and should go about learning. Although, where does one learn that skill? Is it all on the job training? This is why I will never be a stripper... I can't stand the thought of not doing something well. 

I had another long lap dance customer earlier in the evening who really likes my body, which is nice, except he tells me why the whole time we session. And it's always really great phrases like "You have all this extra meat on your bones" and "your ass is just so big." I know he is saying these things as a good thing. I know he is trying to be nice. But it's like highschool in there and the other girls catch on and giggle and whisper "fatass" which, yeah, compared to most of them, I am.

But the winner of the best of the night award goes to the guy who approached me while I was dancing in the mingle room. He tells me how sexy my dancing is and how it just "pushes all his buttons." He wants to know what I'm into. I tell him I do foot sessions. He says he is sure I have sexy feet, but that he wants to see more. I say that I can dance for him if he'd like. He presses on: "Yes, but what else?"

"Nothing"

"Nothing?"

"No sorry."

[long awkward pause while he stared me down]

"Slut!" and then he walked away.

Yes, sir. You are right. I am ABSOLUTELY a slut because i WON'T put out. Good job.

Asshole.

Fun with Craigslist

Readers (if any of you are left),

Sorry I've been M.I.A. I guess I get a little ADD at times and chase after the next shiny thing when it comes along. Part of it too, I suppose, was that I had nothing terribly exciting to write about. Not that I wasn't still doing my thing, but the holidays make everyone busy and when you're spending time with your family (or your significant other's family) there tends to be very little room for scandal.

Oh, but that reprieve is all over now.

I've fallen onto some hard times. Harder than before. Hard times like my Real Job cut my hours by 25% leaving me with a 25% hole in my income. Maybe 25% doesn't sound like too much for you, likely because you have a decent job with a livable wage. To me however, 25% means I don't have enough money to cover all my monthly expenses like rent and electricity and my student loan payment, let alone the less pressing debts of food and transportation to and from work (when i do go).

25% means I'm fucked. Plain and simple. I'm SO GLAD I got that degree from that prestigious university.

So like any 20 something who finds herself in that 25% hole, I turned to the internet. Come with me on my train of thought. Choo-choo!

"I model. Perhaps I could scour the talent section of Craigslist for someone in need of a model. It has worked for me in the past, when I first started modeling. It will work again. And one or two gigs will be enough to get me out of the hole."

Reasonable, if not a tiny bit naive. But like I said, I had good luck the first time. Oh but that's right, back in the good old days, Craigslist had a section for "Adult" work and that's where people in the sex and adult industry posted, leaving the other categories open for non sex-for-money opportunities. It is SUCH A GOOD THING Craigslist shut down that adult section because all those people have simply left the internet. POOF! Gone. They don't hang around in the other sections, clogging up the postings with legitimate-sounding ads and then respond to your incredibly professionally written cover letter email with:

"Are you interested in doing video work? Pay starts at 300$ per scene.
Would it be something you are interested in or need more details? Pay
is in cash.
D.J"

Talk about a non sequitur. Not only does this have NOTHING AT ALL TO DO with the posted job I responded to, that is the whole email. The entire thing. You would think that if you're going to throw that at someone you'd at least preface with "hi" or something.

Now I'm not that naive that I didn't know what he was getting at. But I thought, what the hell, and asked for more details. 

"These are adult videos. They consist of a short interview then oral,
penetration and facial. Condoms are used during penetration. You will
be paid cash before shoot. Interested?"

DJ didn't even sign his name this time. And that was the end of that little conversation.

Here is what gets me: if condoms are going to be used during penetration (which I'm all for, by the way, let's be smart about this) why on earth would I then take it in the face? 

So obviously that route is done. Currently I'm throwing all my energy into making clothes and selling them on etsy, but getting that first sale is turning out to be a frustrating nightmare. I just don't have the time or money to advertise. And I'm not internet savvy enough to get there on my own. Or maybe I just suck at crafting and just refuse to believe it. That could be it too, I suppose.

I just don't want to believe that in order to make an extra income the only option is hardcore porn. What sort of world are we living in where a pretty girl can't even make money letting people photograph her without clothes on? why must she be naked AND have things shoved into her vajayjay?  

Fascinating.

One thing I've been doing lately to unwind at the end of the day is making fascinators, which, if you don't know, are the sort of Victorian-inspired feathered headpieces that look pretty awesome and are getting to be pretty popular.

There are like a zillion people on on Etsy selling fascinators so I'm trying to think of a way to market mine differently. And I think I may have figured it out: since i'm making them out of scraps of old projects and actually using packing material from Real Job shipments, I can claim (truthfully) that they are recycled and earth friendly. Which is cool.

Wanna see?

 

This one I can't actually sell, because it used a Goldfinch feather I found in the woods, and the peskty migratory bird act states that songbird feathers can't be bought or sold, but I can use it for me. 

Black and Gold!

Into the den of Saints and Sinners

Another foot party last night. Blah. The upside is that Real Job and fetish club are in the same neighborhood and the food parties are starting earlier now. Which means I just go straight to fetish work after Real Job work. And because I start earlier, i hit the amount of money i want to make earlier and go home earlier. These things are good.

Things that are not good: I know we've gone over this before, but seriously, the place is a brothel. When I started it used to be guys where there to worship feet. Now there are my few regulars and they are the only guys I session with. Last night there were a TON of guys, but every new guy I talked with chatted me up for a bit and then asked if I did private sessions.

creep: "You know, I only session with the girls I know here, but every so often I like to add another girl to my group. You're really sexy. Do you do private sessions?"

me: "well, it depends on the sort of thing you like to do in sessions. There are some things I'm not interested in."

creep: "my sessions get a little wild and crazy"

me: "oh yeah? like how?"

creep: "you promise not to tell anyone?"

me: "no, of course not. I just want to make sure we're on the same page"

creep: "well, the girls I session with... they let me eat their pussy"

me: ".......oh, wow, Really? Uh yeah, while I'm flattered, I'm just not into that. But thank you for being upfront with me. Some guys would do a session and not bother to ask if I'm ok with that"

creep: "well yeah. I'm a nice guy. And you're really sexy. So you should let me lick your pussy"

me: "Yeah, no. Again, thank you. I'm flattered that you think so highly of me, but honestly, I don't do that. I just don't like the way it feels"

creep: "oh, I understand... can I lick your ass then?"

At this point I excused myself. I wish that I would have been quicker on my feet at the time, though, and asked how much he paid for one of those sessions. Not that any amount of money would have turned me, but I'm curious.

Moments later, I saw him go into a private room with one of the girls. They came out 10 minutes later and he went in with another girl shortly after that. Here is my issue: you bury your tongue into a girl's vagina. Then, less than a half an hour later, you stick your tongue into ANOTHER girl's vagina. Considering the STD/STI rate in the city I live in, I just don't see this as a good idea for anyone involved. Seriously, if you want to let some guy eat you out for money... I mean, it's not like it's hard work. But how do you know he's clean? And when he is going from girl to girl in rapid fire? EW.

And yet, not the weirdest exchange of the night.

There is a man who comes every week. He is older. I sessioned with him once. He has 100% Catholic guilt. He wants you to spit on him, tell him he's worthless, etc. But he also wants you to call him daddy and tell him you're a sinner. At least he did with me.

Thing is, I don't think he remembers that we've sessioned. But he does remember me. And every day he comes up to me and tells me, very sincerely, that I don't look like I belong at the club, that I'm too innocent looking, that I deserve better. I always assumed this was his way of hitting on the girls at the club, until last night.

last night, he approached me, and told me that he had been praying for me and that he had a message for me from god. And that message was for me to quit the parties. "These other girls," he told me, "they deserve this life. They don't have morals. But you are a good girl. And I know the money isn't that good for you. You just do the foot stuff, right?"

"Yes," I told him. "That's all"

"Good. But it still isn't worth it. Don't compromise yourself. It's a slope, and all these girls, they do things for money... I have something for you, and I hope you go to church tomorrow and pray on this, and I hope I don't see you here again"

And he handed me this:

Front

Back

Seriously. He tried to save me at a foot party. Now, I know that that scene is a good place to find fallen women who might need saving, (certainly there were a lot of people trying to save everyone at the porn convention I worked at)  but generally the people doing the saving are not also partaking in the debauchery. Just because he didn't session with me didn't mean this man didn't session. He did. Religious hypocrisy at its finest.

I'm not a religious person. But, what he said did make some sense. Less and less of the guys are there for services I offer. One of the girls I'm friendly with spent a good 15 minutes after a session scrubbing her hands with soap. She couldn't get the smell of, what she called "old man penis mold" off her hand, after she gave him a hand job. I....I can never bring myself to be that girl.

On a completely unrelated note, we did have a homeless girl sneak into the club last night to get off the street. To be fair, I think it dipped below freezing for the first time. She got the most attention I've ever seen a new addition to the club get. I think this was because she was underage. We deduced she was about 8 months old:

Homeless Kitty came into the club

Friendliest kitten ever. She curled up on my lap and feel asleep, even amongst the din of the music and talking and annoying drunk girls. So we fed her meatballs and one of the other girls took her home.

Taxi

So yesterday was halloween. I'm a huge fan of dressing up - it's the one time out of the year where no one thinks I'm crazy when I doll up in full makeup and outfit-that-is-more-costume-than-clothes, but I'm at that shitty age where my cohorts think dressing up is lame and really there is no where to go in costume anyway, because no one has costume balls or if they do, I certainly can't afford to go to them. Last year I dressed as a unicorn in full white body paint and yarn tail and ended up at a house party where A) I looked like a fool with my costume partner who was a Narwhal because really no one else dressed up and B) we couldn't figure out where to go in costume anyway, so we just sat around watching the World Series. Perfect waste of good latex body paint.

I knew this year would be more of the same, so I didn't even bother with a costume. I pulled out an old 80s prom dress and stuck  a flower in my hair to hand out candy. All the little girls who came to the door cooed over the "princess" who gave them candy. Then when the children had gone, I dressed up in drag and went to the local bar to watch Sunday Night Football. That was funny at least, I make an ugly man and ended up looking like the unibomber, but still, it took the bartender who knows me a little while to realize who I was.

But the real story was earlier in the day, when I had a photoshoot. There is a photog who I work with whenever he comes to town (every other month or so) and we generally shoot content for the pay site I'm on. This time he had a fun idea: to shot various states of undress in the back of a taxi cab as it drove around town. I thought it could be cool, but also was a little concerned: what if we offended said taxi driver's morals or sensibilities if his fare started stripping in the back of the cab?

Obviously, we planned on asking permission to shoot photos before we got in the cab anyway, but I tend to be rather blunt and I wasn't sure how to simply say "hey there, can I get naked in your cab? Kthanksbye"

In the end, the outfit I wore solved the issue. Who didn't love Vivian Ward

 

and the runway looks she inspired?

Basically, I walked down a major road in an outfit similar to above (a dress [shirt?] with garters showing and black thigh highs) past a row of cabs. The one that craned his neck to keep looking as I walked past? He was the one we asked.

So there I am, in the back of the cab, pulling up my dress, practically hanging out the cab window trying to get enough room to make good angles and not flash my vagina to ALL of the parkway when I noticed something: it was a Sunday morning on Halloween weekend. There were slutty nurses, slutty cows, slutty Jersey Shore Housemates, slutty fairies, and Lady Gagas walking home confused, hung over, and likely on their way to purchase Plan-B. No one was paying attention to my subtle flash of labia.

The moral here is that the early morning after a city's night of costumed casualties is the PERFECT time to slip past the radar unnoticed...