My only vice, or food, glorious food!

I’ll start from afar but not as far as last century, don’t worry. Around 6 years ago I met a woman who was also a beginner in sex trade. I was a poor student jumping from one temporary job to another, struggling to make enough to buy a travel card for the next day so I could attend my classes (and more often than not, ending up borrowing my bus fare from flatmates). She had just finished her education – she was homeless, jobless, with thousands of debt, and, when she joined the agency I met her through, only a hundred quid in her pocket. A couple of months later, as we were chatting, she asked me:

– So what is it for you? Now that you don’t have to worry about your bus fare for tomorrow, now that you know that each week you will have a few pounds left for yourself, what do you use this money for? What’s your vice?

For her, it was cabs. For me, it was food.

As many other things, this one was rooted in the childhood. My mother never cooked. She used to say she had better things to do than slaving away in the kitchen. She chose to do the better things and had someone else do the slaving for her. So our fridge was always full of delicious stuff that I never saw being made. Up to the age of 22 the only cooking I did was adding milk to my cereal. Sorry, cooking coloured boiled water (tea in layman’s terms) also counts. Naturally, I took it for granted.

When I was around 14, my eyes were forced open to what cooking actually meant. My maternal grandmother loved it (even I wonder whom my mother got her progressive views from) and I remember a feast she once organised for the extended family. I was called in to do my part. For three days non-stop my grandmother only left the kitchen to sleep. This was when I realised how much effort and time cooking required. I suddenly saw kitchen for what it is – a branch of Hell Ltd. Forget cooking for a party. Think of cooking for yourself. You spend at least an hour peeling, chopping, grating, frying, boiling and mixing. Another half hour will be spent washing up pots and pans and plates and spoons. Add 10 minutes for serving and cleaning the table. Then you eat everything up in 10 minutes and some time later (hold your breath!) IT ALL GOES DOWN THE LOO. To sum it up, if you still don’t see the point: 2 hours of your life, 2 hours that you will never have back to re-live in a better, more useful way, will be washed down the toilet. And you are not even paid for this time! I suppose it’s all fine if you enjoy cooking, but what if you don’t?

So when at 22 I was finally given the independence I’d been fighting for for years (not all parents are happy to see their children go) and  found myself living on my own and in London, I had to face a choice:

  • I could hire a cook,
  • I could eat out 14 times a week,
  • or I could learn to cook.

The only financially acceptable option for me was to cook. Talk of getting what you asked for. I took up cooking with the enthusiasm we all have for things we are clueless about. If anyone is interested, I could come up with “How I learnt to cook” post. You’ll pee yourself laughing at my expense. The result of my efforts was by most part still flushed down the loo, only without having passed my digestive tract as nature intended. Moreover, at that time I was so stupid and inexperienced, it didn’t even cross my mind that I could get a boyfriend and thus have someone cooking for me in exchange for sex.

So what do you think happened when I became involved in the sex industry? Yes, that’s right. At last I had a few pounds a week left for myself and I could EAT! And my 2-year-long abstinence from food helped me realise how much I loved it. I love food from the bottom of my stomach. In fact, food and I, we have a very healthy relationship – food loves me back. It satisfies me, it pleasures me, it never disagrees with me. We’re inseparable. We’ll die together on the same day.

6 years down the line, sex trade gave me many things that I’m grateful for:

  • Opportunity to be independent financially, emotionally and otherwise
  • Variety of sex that mere mortals only dream of
  • Countless ways of self-expression
  • Respect and adoration of men
  • New shoes now and then

and I could go on and on. But being able to afford to eat what, when and how I please without having to waste my life on cooking is priceless. I can afford to do my food shopping every day – not once a week or a month. How can I buy food for a month if I don’t know what I will want to eat tomorrow? I can afford to buy organic food, as fresh as you can possibly find in a city. I can afford to not own a fridge or a freezer – if it needs to be stored in a fridge, it’s not fresh. And, best of all, I can afford to eat out every time I can’t be bothered with food shopping. Life is beautiful.

Sex Work: Myths and Reality, Part 3

Myth: Punters are rude perverted people and sex workers are victims they abuse and take advantage of.

Reality: This might be true in some cases as there are so many people out there, but 95% of clients are normal people – your friends, colleagues, neighbours, etc. Few of them know what they want, forget planning a perverted act. When they call to book, I always ask a few questions. Would you believe simple questions can be that puzzling?

Question: What would you like me to wear?

Possible answers (totally real. Got one last night and the other about an hour ago): Could you wear a basque like the one on your photos but not too much as I’m shy? (Is it physically possible to put on a little of a basque?)

Or: I’d love to see you in a corset with stockings and suspenders. I like this “girl next door” look. (Where do you live that the girl next door wears corsets and nothing else on a daily basis? I know a lot of people who’d do anything to become your neighbour.)

Question: Is there anything particular you are looking to do during this booking?

Common answer: Whatever your usual session involves is fine by me.

Here I always fight the urge to say that my usual session starts with half an hour of active use of a strap-on (lube and a gag are optional but mutually exclusive) and finishes with you massaging my poor tired feet. Gentlemen, there is no usual session, they are all (supposed to be) tailored to your needs, thus the questions. If I know in advance what you are after, I’ll be better prepared. Otherwise, as it happens occasionally, I show up and all of a sudden you want this and that and I haven’t got the equipment.

In short, what most clients are trying to say is “I don’t know. (I’ve never done it before – optional). I’m feeling shy and nervous. You just take the lead and I’m sure whatever you decide to wear will be beautiful”. And what most of them want is a human touch, a hug and a kiss, nothing kinky or perverted.

And so, the reality is that a lot of clients are scared out of their pants to even talk to a sex worker, forget abuse them. I might make fun of it here, but I know how hard it might be to admit your fears and it always makes you guys seem so cute and touching that I fall in love right on the spot.

Farewell, May.

Sunday 30th, 8am. My phone rings. The only reason I answered it was because the guy next door decided to mow his lawn. At 8am on Sunday. He’s obviously done something unimaginably wrong to his wife and now has to think of another way to use his energy in the morning. Sad. But why does everyone in the neighbourhood have to suffer with him? I should probably drop my business card through his letterbox.

Anyway, the call. People who call so early on Sunday mornings are those for whom it’s still Saturday night. I answer anyway. The caller, a young guy, asks how much I charge. I tell him.

-What?! This is too much!

-Have a good day then.

I thought that was all. 3 minutes later my phone says I have a text message. I check it. It’s the guy I’ve just spoken to, informing me that he has 4 mates there with him and they are all, well, you know. And they are wondering if I would consider seeing them one after another at half my rate as I’d still make good money.

5 guys? One after another?? At 8am on Sunday?! FOR HALF MY RATE! A lamp post would be more interested than me. So I text back saying that if there are 5 of them there, they can easily help each other out. Turn round, pillow over my head. Will definitely introduce myself  to that hobbyist next door, if only to give a piece of my mind. My phone goes again. Pillow off, sour face, expecting an irate text from a bunch of hobbyists but what do you know? They actually have a sense of humour. The text reads “Oh yeah!” I laughed. The best way to wake up on a Sunday. Text back a chuffed to bits emoticon (instead of “Respect, man!”) and make a conscious effort to get up. Isn’t it amazing how lack of sex deprives everyone of sleep, even those that are not affected by the said lack?

And that’s my May to you.

Have your cake and eat it

Otherwise, what’s the point in having it?

I’ve a little fall out with the lady next door. Actually, from her point of view it’s probably not so little. Anyway, for the past week I’ve been trying to make amends and kept knocking on her door with a cake as a symbol of peace. She’s not answered the door once. I don’t know whether it’s because she’s not ready for peace yet, or she’s away. Or maybe she’s not into cakes? Either way, tonight I’ve a whole cake all for myself. Second one in the past 7 days. Isn’t life beautiful? I hope she’s not back for another week.