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.


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