I have never been the type of sensual massage therapist, companion or sexworker who spends time with everyone and anyone. I can't. It doesn't work for me. I am an awful actress. I cannot fake it very well. I'm not a great pretender. I wish I could. I would be filthy rich and have an apartment in Paris where Kevin could have his own room. Alas, I wear my heart on my sleeve.
Most sexworkers who are as selective as I am charge double, triple and ten times what I charge because they can. And they should. I am proud of those women - their ambition, their entrepreneurship and their brilliance. My rates, most unfortunately, have a much lower ceiling because I work without pictures. It's a crazy business model considering what visual creatures men are. I have a thriving career here in Chicago outside of sexwork, and even if I didn't, I would still be the oddly private woman I am. I simply don't want my pictures online, especially my face (which, to this day, is the very best part of me). It is an inexplicably strange quirk of mine and always has been. Everything has a price, privacy included. That price is high in my case, as in low rates. My lower than average rates have mistakenly led men with whom I would never spend time to believe they can purchase access to my time and my body.
Abundance of money allows access.
Lack of money also disallows access.
The simple solution that would disallow access is to raise my rates substantially so the masses won't contact me at all. Money is the very best barrier to entry. That's definitely on the near horizon. For now, however, my rates are what they are because I am simply unwilling to sacrifice my privacy (right now). The problem is that I am not a woman who spends time with the masses. I am not a commoner. I don't want to spend time with the masses. I am not a woman is attracted to the masses. I am not a woman with whom the masses enjoy spending time. Why? Because I am an extraordinary woman. Average men don't enjoy spending time with extraordinary women. Average men feel resentful, envious, angry and inadequate around extraordinary women. In the past, to maintain peace, love and harmony in my relationships with clients, I would make myself smaller in their presence. I would be humble and exceedingly modest because well, nobody likes a braggart. I would quietly play down my academic and professional success outside of sexwork. I would discuss basic things in which I had no interest like sitcom television or football rather than discussing things that interest me like:
- the latest Date Lab article in the Washington Post. They are all disasters but they all give my comfort knowing that dating is fucking terrible for everyone! My mom and I anxiously await the new article every Friday and typically drag the man, always with zero swagger, for dressing like a slob because his hideous looking $21.97 button down from a suburban Kohl's has never seen an iron. But...don't discuss it because the client may have a deeply rooted fear of irons and ironing.
- my upcoming ski trip to Telluride. I am a badass skier, and Telluride has some of the best skiing in the United States. But...don't discuss it because the client may have lost his legs in the Civil War.
- traveling to all of the baseball stadiums with my mom and staying at the Ritz or Four Seasons in each of those cities (when available). But...don't discuss it because the client may hate baseball (who hurt you?) and have a fetish for Red Roof Inns along the interstate where the risk of being murdered after midnight is real but hey, there's a Shoney's next door!
- the first class flight I just booked to Toyko. Don't mention it because he may think I'm a bitch (and I am bitch. If you've followed me for any length of time on Twitter, you know I take great pride in being Mega Bitch of the Year, every year. I do not, under any circumstance, fly long haul economy, Southwest, Spirit or Frontier).
- how excited I am about seeing Don Giovanni at the Lyric Opera in a few weeks. But...don't talk about opera because what if he doesn't speak Italian and only owns camouflage cargo shorts and Crocs? solution: supertitles. solution: get some new fucking clothes. You are neither a hunter nor carrying any cargo (other than hopefully a huge dick but is that really going inside those cargo pockets?)
- how much I love Champagne, wine tasting and oenology. But...don't talk about it because what if client can only afford Boone's?
*Those* are the things that excite me, that make my life vibrant and that make my heart happy. Is it really bragging if I am talking about myself and my life in factual terms? Of course not. My clients know that I do not brag about anything. Ever. I have worked for every single penny I have. I moved to Chicago with nothing fifteen years ago, literally nothing and was almost homeless a few times. As Drake says, "Started from the bottom, now we here." I am also hyper aware of my flaws, both physically and emotionally. I know that I look every bit of my 42 years and that I am not at all hot. Pretty but not hot. Cute but not sexy. My regular clients have known me for years, and will tell you that I am as ridiculously funny/kooky and every bit of not hot as I describe myself to be here.(hi, you guys. this blog obviously isn't about you. I love all of you and am so grateful for you. You've been with me through so much and I think of many of you when you're not here. I want good things for you, for your marriages and for your families. I've told a few of you in person how grateful I am for you and it always leads to me crying while you awkwardly stare at me like I am crazy. So read it here and feel the gratitude without the tears. ) And while I neither need nor want my time with clients to be all about me conversationally, I have realized that I can no longer pretend to be an average woman who lives an average life. I may be average looking but that's the extent to which there's anything average about me.
As a woman, however, and especially as a sexworker, I have been repeatedly told to be kind, nice, inclusive, warm and welcoming at any cost. Even if that cost is one sided, my cost. To make men feel good about themselves even when I strongly feel there is very little good about some men. To avoid making men feel bad because I have more education than they do. To avoid making men feel bad because I travel to Paris, South Africa, Moscow and beyond. To avoid making men feel dumb because I read everything and anything. To avoid making men feel inadequate even when they are fucking terrible in bed (for which there's really no excuse in 2019 with the thousands of instructional guides available online). Avoid making men feel simple when they didn't get my jokes (this, by far, is the worst travesty because I am fucking hilarious). Avoid talking about my love of theatre because that's something only uppity white women do. To be less assertive. To be less confident. To pretend not to really love sex and love my imperfect body. To pretend I have anything less than a 143 IQ. To be less than anything other than the force of nature I really am.
less.
less.
less.
In the process of shrinking myself, pretending, avoiding and protecting the ever so fragile egos of (some) men, I've betrayed myself. I made myself appear smaller than the client. Less than the client. Less deserving of a wonderful life. Less deserving of material wealth, amazing sexual experiences, kindness, love and happiness because there is this misogynistic thinking in the world of sexwork that implies sexworkers simply aren't deserving of goodness, of wealth and of happiness. And if they are deserving of goodness, wealth or happiness, it is expected that they prove exactly why they are so deserving. It's as if sexworkers are being vetted for sainthood simply for wanting and having basic necessities. It's bizarre. As a result, I've continually made myself smaller just so a man wouldn't resent me, wouldn't be angry with me, wouldn't envy me, wouldn't belittle me, wouldn't out me, wouldn't physically hurt me, etc.
I will no longer shrink myself for the benefit of men, especially clients. Rather than being inclusive or marketing under the guise of being inclusive when I really never have been at all inclusive, I'm going to be exclusive without apology. I will be picky without apology. I will be selective without apology. I will be exclusive, and I will not apologize for purposely excluding men who are less than I am. I will disallow access without apology, because I am not responsible for the feelings of other people.
This means that I will only spend time with men who are gentle, smart, sophisticated, interesting, good in bed (meaning you know that the clitoris isn't *inside* my vagina and that no woman wants to fuck all night long) and most importantly, happy about my accomplishments. Men who are my equals. Men who don't feel threatened by me. Men who have better lives than me. Men who are just as smart or smarter than I am. Men who have far more money than I'll ever have. Men who can improve my life with money and enrich my life with something more than money like kindness, wisdom, laughter, multiple orgasms or comfort. Men who eat pussy like it's the Last Supper and do it extraordinarily well. Men who are good in bed in other ways. Men who love lying in bed talking about literature, travel, baseball and pizza. Men who like it when I kindly and ever so gently tell them how to please me sexually. Men who will kindly and ever so gently tell me how to please them. Men who let themselves be nurtured by women who want to nurture them. Men who are attracted to smart, curious, confident, sophisticated women and men who want the best for said women. Men who can provide sound advice when I ask for it. Imperfect men of all ages who are flawed like I am but wonderful like I am. Men who respect me as a sexworker and as a human. I feel great relief to have realized that I have neither the emotional energy nor the patience to spend one more minute with insecure men who cannot handle me for the wonderful, wise, loving, smart, sexual woman I am.
I am an extraordinary woman.
I seek extraordinary men.