I am finding that dealing with a steady stream of men who only contact me when their NEEDSEXRIGHTNOW hormones are raging is making me more and more drawn to girly girls in my own personal life, as a sort of reaction/rebellion. I have a history of dating butches and FTMs (actually, not really many of the former, since there aren't a whole lot of them around anymore), but I'm finding lately that ostentatious displays of masculinity are turning me off.

Just today, in fact, an FTM Daddy (which is like, my type to a T [pun intended]) emailed me, singing my praises and possibly wanting to hook up. But, when I went to go check out his pictures, all I could think was Eww! A boy! Of course, I am fairly certain that this is just a temporary thing, but I always think it's interesting to see how sex work affects one's sexuality, and I thought that y'all might like to know as well.

This also means that if there are any hot queer femmes out there reading, now is your chance!



Boundaries are good. They help keep me sane.

I did a lot of intense processing with myself after a day feeling full of ick about John and realized that I didn't take into consideration the idea that I could assert boundaries and slow this shit down. Just because he might give me some money and gifts doesn't mean I don't have any say in what I do or do not do. So, I emailed him yesterday afternoon and said:

I have to say that I've done some thinking, and I'm worried that things are moving a little fast. This doesn't mean that I'm saying no to your proposal, but that I want to slow things down a little bit. Thanks for understanding, [John].

He replied back immediately and admitted that he might have gotten carried away and that he would be fine with slowing things down. Phew!

I also did a lot of thinking on whether or not this sugar daddy arrangement is really ok with me. Sure, the money is fairly dependable, but I'm beginning to wonder if the amount of time required to upkeep the relationship is worth what I'll get. I suppose I won't know until he starts giving me money, right? I thought about proposing a monthly allowance of about $1000 for a certain amount of hours spent with him so that I don't feel like I'm giving him all of my time. John is under the impression that this is my first time doing this sort of thing, so I don't want to come off as too...savvy, I suppose is the word. But I also don't want to do a lot of work for a relatively small amount (meaning, if I'm only getting paid $1000 a month for spending 40 hours a month with him, that averages out to only $25 an hour!!!).

Anyway, I'm trying not to jump ahead of myself, because he could still be a big faker, but I also don't want to be unprepared and end up screwing myself over.



Things have been progressing with John, the would-be sugar daddy, and what he wants from me is touching places that I'm not sure I want him to have access to. See, I am a terrible liar, so almost by accident, John already knows way more about the "real" me than I'm comfortable with. He knows my real name, I accidentally blabbed and told him where I work, and now, he wants me to call him Daddy. It's all beginning to feel a little too personal.

I laid in my bed last night, unable to sleep because I started freaking out about the possibility of John doing tricky things like calling my job or finding out where I live. He hasn't given me any indications that he'd try anything like that, and in fact, I know his full name and his place of employment, but I still willed myself into a paranoid frenzy. I kept on composing an exit strategy and then kicking myself (rinse, lather, repeat), because jesusfuckingchrist I need that money. I've been living paycheck to paycheck these days, living off of Ramen and leftovers the last few days before payday, and the extra cash would be more than helpful. In fact, I've been wondering whether or not I'd be able to survive financially without the supplemental income that sex work provides. I also began to stress about the mounds and mounds of credit card debt I've gotten myself into (also the result of not making enough money) and how I could probably pay off my credit cards and start in on my college loans if I stuck with John.

To elaborate on what I mentioned above, the whole Daddy thing is squicking me out. Not because I think it's gross or wrong or whatever, but because that is what I love most in my own personal sex life. It's one thing for me to suck dick or fuck some random dude, but to call him Daddy, like I long to do with most of my partners, might be too much for me to handle. And a part of me worries that I might like it. So I thought to myself yesterday, what if I tried to enjoy this? Would that be gross and terrible and disgusting? And over and over again, I came to the conclusion that yes, as a queer feminist, it would be gross and terrible and disgusting if I, even for a second, enjoyed the company of and the sex with my would-be sugar daddy.

I believe that it's impossible to grow up in this terribly misogynistic sex-negative culture without internalizing all of that heinous shit, even when we work tirelessly to counter it with activism, positive self-talk, etc. Still, I always surprise myself when waves of guilt and shame wash over me in unexpected moments.


The Whore Revolution Has Just Begun

Sometimes, surrounded by my little sex-positive feminist bubble, I forget that not everyone is down with the whole hooker thang. In fact, I would venture to guess that most people think that all sex workers are crack-addicted whores (in a bad way) who are out to wreck happy marriages and coast off the welfare system while they collect beau-coup cash from sucking back-alley dick. Sure, sex workers and feminists have done a lot (A LOT) for advancing the notion that empowered women can (and do) choose sex work for a career and that it's ok, but most of the world hasn't caught up. Even a lot of the leftist community has a skewed vision of the sex trade industry; it seems that the large majority of those folks think that it's made up entirely of agency-less children who have been forced into sex slavery by abusers (which, of course, is the truth in many cases, especially in certain countries abroad, but certainly not all).

So I had this moment sometime last week when I realized that, duh!, I'm going to have to disclose my occasional job to future partners. When the only form of sex work I did was modeling naked for a feminist erotica website, I didn't think it was really anybody's business what I did. After all, looking coyly at a camera in my skivvies for a token sum doesn't really affect my sex partners. And even though I'm safe with the johns in the work that I do now, the fact that I do it for money is something that they probably have a right to know. And, taking that fact into consideration, the chance that I'll get rejected multiplies many fold. I of course knew that this was a possibility in theory, having read lots of sex worker literature, but it didn't quite hit me as reality until I was thinking about some of my current crushes and recoiling in horror when I came to terms with the fact that I might be having to reveal this intimate part of my life with every casual fuck and every potential long-term partner I might come across.

But this is sticky territory. I mean, do I really have an obligation to disclose this to someone if we're having a one-night stand? Because, how is what I do that much different than a person who is very sexually active? And, as my journal title indicates, the sex work I do is an occasional thing. I actually haven't had a ton of clients. So, unless someone is likely to be a long-term partner for whom this information actually matters, am I bound by my own ethics to disclose?

All of this makes me feel very very icky, as I am forced to remember what awful awful things people in our culture think about people who trade sex for gain. It makes me shake with fear that I have no legal protection should my job find out about this, or my parents, or even people that I would have thought to be open-minded, but who would really be willing to condemn me in a hot second. Of course, it doesn't mean that I plan to stop doing what I'm doing, because I have and will continue to be for the whore revolution. Maybe I should choose to be positive and see this as my opportunity to dispel those nasty myths and catch people up to speed.


Sugar Baby Maybe

Wow. Was that the cheesiest title you've ever seen? Sorry about that, darlings.

Anyway, Mr. Potential Sugar Daddy (let's call him John, for ease of use and for its obvious figurative connotations) and I just got off the phone. We emailed back and forth this morning, inquiring about the basics (Where do you work? Where do you live?) and exchanging pleasantries. John is heading off for Sweden this afternoon -- it'll be a 2-week long business trip -- and he wanted to chat with me before he left.

He claims to be completely serious about this sugar daddy thing and detailed just how he'd like the arrangement to work. John wants to take me out to fancy dinners, take me on extravagant holidays and, of course, give me money. I just about creamed my panties when he uttered the phrase "pay your rent." He even mentioned something about helping me publish a book (!!!). The arrangement will involve sex, of course, but he's not in it just for that. John told me that he'd like to get together after his business trip in two weeks and take me out for a fancy dinner to see whether or not we get along. I plan to be sweet and agreeable no matter how distasteful I find him. Because, you know, I'm just dying to be a sugar baby. Plus, I've seen a picture of him, and while he's not exactly good-looking, he's also not repulsive. I can do this, ladies and gents. I think I really could.

The interesting thing about sugar daddies, if you think about it, is that when you average out the amount you're getting paid over the time spent with the sugar daddy, it's actually a lot less than hooking or other forms of sex work, where one can earn several hundred dollars for an hour or two of work. However, the sugar daddy arrangement is much more dependable than the other kinds of hooking I do. Most of my sex work clients call sporadically and sometimes never call back. I spend hours upon hours trying to score dates over email and phone, usually with little to no return. So, since I am wary of joining an agency, securing a sugar daddy arrangement would be perfect for me. I could cease worrying about the potential dangers of meeting new clients and stick with just one guy.

So, chickadees, I'll keep you updated on the situation, though not much is likely to happen until he comes back from Stockholm in a couple of weeks. Just think, though! If this worked out like I think it might, I could potentially quit my job, write full time, and publish the tell-all memoir everyone in my life has been pushing me to do for years now.


Sugar Baby Dreams

Mary Cassatt, "Portrait of a Little Girl"

I can't say that I've ever been one to put much serious stock in the whole Protestant work ethic dealie. As a child, what I wanted to be when I "grew up" changed about every five minutes. I could never settle on one dream for longer than a month or a year. Nothing ever held my fancy for long. To this day, my dreams are constantly on rotate, each holding a place of high importance as they come into my mind's eye one, two, even three at a time. I am one of those people who posseses many skills but no specialties. When I was a recent college graduate whose dreams of working in the progressive non-profit world failed, I became depressed and despondent. I sat in my room for almost a month, jobless, watching rented Sex and the City dvds in my room, giving myself makeovers and wondering where my life might go next.

A year or so later, several jobs and a lot of frustration behind me, I came to the realization that I didn't have to put so much stock into what I did for a paycheck. Sure, it'd be great if I was paid to do rich and rewarding work, but the chances of that happening seemed slim. So I decided that what I did for a living didn't have to contribute to my sense of self-worth; rather, I could define that by what I did in my non-work time. There are fates far worse than a boring job, after all.

So here I am today at my current office job. It's fairly dull, but I am much happier now that I've allowed myself to let go of that capitalist notion that one's money earning potential defines one's worth.

All of this background, my dear readers, is to preface my excitement over the possibility of finding a sugar daddy. I would love nothing more than get paid to look pretty and smile. Your knee-jerk reaction might be to recoil in horror. Lusty, I can hear you exclaiming, how in the hell could that be reconciled with your dedication to feminism?! The answer is simple, I tell you: it doesn't have to. I'll spare you any far-reaching rationalizations about taking money from "The Man" (literally or figuratively) as a way to subvert the white supremacist capitalist patriarchy and tell you honestly that what I do for money has nothing to do with what I believe in my other life. I firmly believe that having a job that is always in line with your feminist/progressive/anti-racist/anti-corporate/anti-capitalist principles is damn near impossible. And if you do have one, consider yourself among the fortunate few. Meaningful choices are functions of privilege after all (and I acknowledge that I do have some choices). So while I may believe that acting like a simpering sex toy for money is kinda vomitous, I also know that the pay and the benefits for that position far outweigh the many retail jobs I've had where acting like a simpering corporate pawn is a condition of employment.

Of course, as one might expect, the market for sugar babies is flooded. We are a dime a dozen, us girls and boys who'd love to take Daddy's cash in trade for sex and company. I've always figured that one had to be either extremely attractive or very good at manipulation to score such an arrangement. And since my looks are unconventional, because I am the worst salesperson you'll probably ever meet, and because I am really very shitty at pretending to like someone I don't, I didn't figure myself a very good sugar baby candidate. So, it's not like I'm putting a whole lot of stock into one email sent to me by some random guy who is as likely (if not more so) to be penniless as he is a millionaire, but the unexpected message sent me reeling into a fantasy world where the cash flows freely, leisure time is a staple, and the piƱa coladas keep on coming.

An enticing offer

From: [Name Withheld]
Date: June 23, 2005 1:50 PM
Subject: question
Message: would the idea of a sugar daddy interest you

Oh HELL YES it would!


Cash Cow

I've been having quite a difficult time making decisions about how many (if any) "real life" friends I want to tell about this journal. You see, I am notoriously terrible at keeping my own secrets. I love being able to have my life as a open book, but obviously the information revealed in this journal doesn't quite facilitate itself to complete transparency. I can only imagine the horror I'd have to go through if people at my day job discovered that I hook on the side.

Anyway, you're not here to read about my personal woes. You want more stories. I can respect that.

Cash Cow advertised himself on the internet as an extremely submissive man looking for a dominating woman to "use him like a human ATM machine." He possessed every broke sex worker's dream fetish: he wanted to be financially dominated. I, of course, jumped on the chance and sent him a stern, but alluring email describing my features and promising him that I could be "the gold digger [he'd] always dreamed of." Cash Cow bit the bait and we began to talk.

There was a slight glitch in my plan, however. Namely being that I had never dominated anyone professionally and only very rarely in private. You see, I'm a kinkster in my not-for-profit bedroom, but I am most often on the submissive side of the kink. So before I'd compose my next commandeering email to Cash Cow, I did research on the web to see how other financial dominatrices (yes, there are such people) worded their webpages. I was actually grateful that Cash Cow hadn't pressured to meet with me right away, because writing out carefully worded emails threatening to suck him dry of all his savings until he was broken, poor and totally at my mercy felt like much-needed preparation for being able to spit out insults and threats at will when we finally met.

For a couple of weeks, Cash Cow sent me emails describing his desire to lavish me with cash and gifts. I told him what size and style of lingerie I preferred and ordered him to give me a token of his appreciation upon our first meeting. He had daily assignments and punishments when he didn't do what I told him. I was clever: because I didn't know what an appropriate punishment would be for someone who wanted to be financially dominated, I made him come up with his own. And oh my how he did. Cash Cow decided that his punishment for not calling me when he had promised one day would be to go downtown during his lunch hour to a porn video booth, wear the lacy panties he so loved, expose himself until another man walked into the booth, and suck him off. So he did it. Twice. Cash Cow sucked cock on his lunch hour and drank a protein shake for dessert. Supposedly, this was for my benefit.

As the days passed by, I got tired of the constant emailing and wanted to finally meet in person so that I could begin to profit off of this venture that was beginning to waste my time. But, surprise surprise, Cash Cow began to act shady when I tried to confirm a date and location. Even though he had advertised himself as financially submissive, Cash Cow didn't seem too eager to part with his money. After sensing my frustration, he sent me a pathetic email telling me that he didn't have a lot of extra money because he had a wife and a kid to support and that he would rather give me gifts of lingerie instead of money. No fucking dice, dude. I sent him a curt reply reminding him that his personal ad had claimed that he wanted to be financially dominated and that I was not pleased with this attempt at backpedaling. He sent me an apology and tried to convince me to come out for a drink with him ("My treat, of course," he simpered, "I think we'd really get along!"). Fat fucking chance, Cash Cow.


A quick note

I just wanted to mention that little picture I posted is not me. I borrowed it with thanks from subversivegirls.com, a cute lil startup alt erotica site. Anyway, if any of the subversive girls happen to wander over here and have a problem with me using that gorgeous image, let me know and I'll take it down.



My first actual foray into the sex industry was very gentle. To use a ridiculously cheesy simile, it was like a kiddie pool is to a simulated wave pool you might find at a water park. And actually, the kiddie pool metaphor is a fabulous one, because Mort* had a cute lil' fetish. This man in his early 80's just loved taking naughty baths with pretty girls.

But hold on for a second and let me back up. I actually met Mort through an interesting relationship I had with a notorious trans man**. Clint and I had met through a personal ad and he was hell-bent on projecting a bad-ass persona to the ladies. The only photo he sent me of himself showcased him wearing a black leather arm band and kneeling next to a growling dog. And being the bratty little bottom that I am, I ate that shit right up. And so began my odd relationship with Clint. A typical date with him: I'd drive to his house, we'd smoke a little pot and maybe drink a little Grey Goose, I'd sit on his lap while he'd growl nasty things into my ear, and we'd eventually retreat to his bedroom to fuck. Clint, like any good mid-thirties playboy, had mirrors lining the ceiling above his bed. Luckily, he preferred me on all fours, which meant I didn't have to turn my head or shut my eyes to avoid the ridiculous spectre of two people in the midst of enthusiastic fucking.

Clint was a massage therapist, but despite the fact that he only worked a couple of times a week, he seemed to be pretty damn comfortable, money-wise. One day, he called me up and announced that he had just bought a truck on a whim. I was in college at the time, and such an impulse buy seemed scandalous to me. Now, being out of college for several years and continuing to keep company with lots of broke twentysomethings, it still is. But I never questioned the money. I didn't figure it was my business anyway.

In the (new) car on the way to dinner one evening, Clint told me the long and sordid tale of his wealth. I won't get into it here except to say that Mort (remember, tub time fetish dude?) was basically Clint's sugar daddy. In his advanced age, Mort didn't seem to ah, notice that Clint had transitioned from a very butch dyke to a very butch man and still called him "she" and by his birth name. Clint also told me about Mort's sudsy fetish and offered to pay me $75 an hour to bathe with him. After thinking it over for a second, I declared that I was game.

Now, let me digress for a second here and mention that in most of the sex worker blogs I've read, the writer usually goes into some kind of explanation about how it was that s/he came to consider sex work. Up until that moment in the car with Clint, my interest was purely academic. Having dove head first into the world of third wave feminism through the Women's Studies program at my college, I devoured all the feminist sex work literature I could get my hands on. At that point in life, I was even volunteering regularly for a non profit dedicated to sex worker outreach. So really, the opportunity was just a formality. I was already eager to explore the world of sex for trade and Mort was to be the first.

Anyway, the very first time I bathed with Mort, Clint joined me, I suppose to facilitate the process and ease me into the experience. He filled up the kiddie pool in the basement with warm water and the three of us climbed in. Mort rubbed my back and arms with the soap clutched in his shaking hands while Clint chatted casually to no one in particular. Sandwiches were ordered for lunch and I remember eating my veggie sub in the quickly cooling water, watching lettuce and bits of sub bread drop from Mort's mouth as he ate. I really think that that and the film of soap scum on the top of the water disgusted me more than anything else that was taking place. This is so freaking easy! I remember thinking to myself.

After that first time, I bathed with Mort on several other occasions, even recruiting another enterprising friend of mine to join us in the tub. Her and I would chat gaily about our lives while we absentmindedly scrubbed Mort or let him rub the bar of soap along our bodies. Not once did I touch his penis (at his age, he could no longer get erect) and the closest he ever came to touching any of my naughty bits was when he once rested a wrinkled hand on the top of my breast.

Sadly, the arrangement came to an end after a few months. I was spending less and less time with Clint because I began to realize what a major jerk he really was. Also, Clint decided that he wanted to move out West and decided to take Mort with him. And I did feel regret that my sweet deal was packing up and leaving, but I felt even worse about the fact that Mort, a widower, was leaving the only home he had ever known to move cross country with a dude who was exploiting him. Clint was moving him against his will and Mort really had no choice but to go.

I hear that now Mort and Clint are living in a trailer somewhere in Southern California. Clint had mentioned buying Mort a jacuzzi, which I sincerely hope he did. God bless that little old man and his harmless little fetish.

*Not his real name. In fact, none of the names I'll be using here will be real so as to try and keep myself as anonymous as possible.
**If you don't know what this is, google FTM. I don't have time to play schoolteacher right now.

Vamos a empezar

Hello darlings,

I love the internet. I really do. It gives me many many things like distractions from work, a way to keep in touch with my far-flung friends, and thanks to the blogging boom, it lets me peer into the secret and occasionally fascinating worlds of people I have not met and never will. However, what once seemed to be a vast expanse of loosely connected information has now come to resemble the very enclosed community I have to deal with in "real life." Now, even the 'effin internet is a small world.

I guess this is as good a time as any to admit here, darlings, that I am cheating on my other journal. The first and until now, only. The Other Blog is something I've had and maintained regularly for over 4 years now, which is practically Medicare age in blogger years! But as more and more friends, lovers and work associates discover my blog, the more I find I must censor myself for privacy and propriety's sake. But since I'm somewhat of an exhibitionist, I really really loathe to do such a thing. The whole reason I started a public journal was my desire to write my life to the world, or at least a small subsection of it anyway. But now, for many many reasons, I can no longer freely write about all the juicy shit I used to dish.

So, here I am. As my journal description indicates, this blog will share the anonymous tales of an occasional sex worker. Among other things, I am also queer, chubby, multiracial, and mighty feisty. My name is Lusty (not my real name). Everything you read here is as truthful as my memory serves me, but I consider this blog to be in the style of a biomythography; even if all the details aren't completely accurate, the spirit of what happened is.

I am pleased that you've chosen to read along with my journey. I can't promise that every entry will always be the salacious dish that you might have hoped it to be, but I promise to be authentic and I will do my very best to entertain.

Now onto the storytelling!