Just a little bit more

Tonight, I had a super super super creepy experience with a client.

No, he didn't try to take advantage of me. Nor did he try to get me to do stuff that I didn't already agree to. I'm safe, I promise.

It's that Mr. Lovemaker just loved looking deeply into my eyes and murmuring sweet nothings in my ear. When there's chemistry, he whispermumbled, it's more like passion.

I am so very amazed that clients honestly don't seem to realize that I am getting paid to be nice to them. Maybe it's that they want to believe so badly that what they're getting is some sort of "authentic" experience that they'll take any kind gesture to mean that it's "real." I realize that lots of married men see sex workers because their own relationships have long since fizzled into something less than passion. And I realize that it's more pragmatic (not to mention more economically sound) to see a sex worker than it is to sustain an affair, but I really feel that some dudes have incredibly skewed expectations of what we/I can give them. Sure, you can call it a Girlfriend Experience, but I am not your girlfriend. Maybe it's than when they hand me the wad of cash, I have neglected to tell them that I am only willing to rent out my body and my acting skills. My brain, my passion and my genuine self just aren't for sale.

I think this profession is turning me into a man-hating dyke quicker than you can say womyn.

Here's the worst part, though, the part that maybe made it all the more disturbing to me: I had an orgasm with Mr. Lovemaker.

Wow, was that hard to admit. It was the first time I've had a genuine orgasm with a client and one of less than a handful of times that I've had an orgasm with a man born with his penis. You see, I was fantasizing about my current crush, anything to take my mind off of Mr. Lovemaker's ministrations, and I started feeling myself get turned on. I requested that he enter me from behind so that I could bury my head in the pillow and think about this girl while touching myself and, well, I came.

How come I'm ashamed? How many times have I read similar confessions from other sex workers and thought to myself, Honey, no worries! It doesn't have to mean anything! Easier said than done, I know now.

It's become really clear to me and most likely to you by now that this is the wrong profession for me. I'm no Annie Sprinkle, spreading the joy of sex to the world through my sexual gifts to one john at a time. No, loves, I'm just some broke lady who's begrudgingly loaning out her body until things change for the better.


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