I Spent a Year Having Sex for Money—And It Totally Changed My Idea of Pleasure
We’re more sex positive than ever. But we still haven’t erased some fundamental truths: Women’s bodies are still policed, sex education is still lacking, and talking about sex still carries a stigma. It’s created a whisper network around sex and made the very mention of the words female pleasure enough to make you blush. So this week we're discussing good sex and why it matters. Our mantra? Owning your sexual pleasure is power.
When attempting to sell sex online, one must walk a tightrope between being suggestive and not being so explicit as to signal blatant illegal activity. Black American Princess Seeks Her Knight in Shining Armor. I’m a 20-year-old Ebony co-ed in need of a helping hand from a kind and respectful gentleman.
My first trick, a balding middle-aged white man with glasses and a Member’s Only jacket, responded to my Craigslist ad rather straightforwardly, with just a few coded questions about prices for different acts or services. “I don’t want to do anything with you,” John #1 informed me as he put $100 on the dashboard. I grabbed the money and quickly shoved it into my purse, my heartbeat racing. “I just want you to watch,” he said and locked eyes with me as he unzipped his pants to begin stroking himself.
Afterward—relieved, shocked, and full of anticipation—I made a beeline to Chinatown to pick up a few wigs and later to Target for some cheap makeup and lingerie. Lovely Brown, an escort for hire, was officially born.
Becoming Lovely
Independence has always been important to me. When I moved away from my family at 18, it was like breathing fresh air for the first time. After years of reflection, I now understand my childhood and adolescence to be toxic and dysfunctional, but at the time I just knew I wanted to get out. When I fell behind on my rent in my second year of college, going back home, or even asking for help, was not an option.
I was living in the San Francisco Bay Area—a sex-positive place with a history steeped in sexual taboo. It was an eye-opening experience. Sex workers had always intrigued me, skilled in the act of bucking the expectation of what a woman’s sexuality was supposed to be and how women should behave. Several of my classmates at the college I was attending were escorts or peep show dancers, and they made their line of work sound empowering and financially lucrative.
Now, I wasn’t just intrigued; I was broke. I was working part-time at an after-school program, but between being a college student without many marketable skills and the great economic downturn of 2008, it felt as though ends would just never meet. When I got behind on my rent and bills by nearly a month, I decided to see whether I could bridge the gap, just this once, with sex work.
As Lovely, I specialized in GFE, or the girlfriend experience, meaning most sessions weren’t just about sex. There was talking, kissing, the obligatory blow job. Men weren’t paying hundreds of dollars for a run-of-the-mill lay—I was providing a fantasy, which included looking the part, while sounding and acting it too. But still, these weren’t dates. Any emotional intimacy was manufactured, a service rendered.
Every part of my body was up for commodification. I sold sex for a few hundred dollars an hour, stripped at a peep show for an hourly wage, and would provide à la carte services like hand jobs or sensual massage on a case-by-case basis. Every week one of my regulars would “by chance” meet me at a Safeway parking lot in Berkeley. Discreetly I’d slip him a brown paper bag containing my used panties, as he pressed a 50 into the palm of my hand.
I did a lot of things as an escort that were firsts for me. One guy liked to dress up like a baby while getting pegged from behind. Another client would ring me up sometimes for the express purpose of giving me oral sex, something he said his wife didn’t like to receive but he very much liked to give. At his request I pushed one guy’s head into the toilet bowl, forcing him to eat my shit. As in most underworlds, anything goes.
I was always taken aback by the sheer volume of men trolling for sex on the internet—out of the dozen or so men I serviced each month, there was no typical customer, unless white men over the age of 21 with a pulse counts as a type. The best part for me was talking to my clients. I loved speaking to the guys, hearing tidbits about their lives. I became obsessed with figuring out why men buy sex. Before the session was over, I made it a habit to ask some variation of “Why do you do this?”
Some men were single and lonely; others were married and lonely. I heard stories about how they weren’t getting enough action after the baby was born, or as their wives went through menopause, or for whatever reason really. For many, the amount of sex they were or were not getting at home was irrelevant—new pussy is new pussy.
When I was Lovely, I found power in that idea. It didn’t matter that I was an overweight college student with no fashion sense. I could get grown men to not only desire me but pay me for the privilege of my company. My pleasure was never the priority, but on occasions a special snowflake would blow through my door and it would be good for me too. The work wasn’t honest, but it paid the bills and made me feel sexy during a time when I felt anything but in real life.
Pleasure and Power After Sex Work
When sex is work, the thrill has a way of slowly dissipating. None of the women my johns talked about was ever enough—and I started to believe I’d never be enough for one person either. I wasn’t powerful; I was merely a pawn in the game of misogyny—a decently paid one, but still.
Within a year, I was done. I moved to New York to study English at a private liberal arts college—a fresh start. I was only a junior in college and I figured my time as a Craigslist escort would be nothing more than a small detour on the way to adulthood. But leaving Lovely Brown behind wasn’t easy. I was alone in a new city, and my depression went into overdrive as I tried to forget about the last year of my life. My weight yo-yoed, and my personal grooming was shaky at best. I was dirty. Tainted.
After working as an escort, I found sex for pleasure cumbersome, foreign, and at times repulsive. Ironically, casual sex felt like a struggle after being Lovely. How can we share such intimate parts of ourselves with strangers or even casual acquaintances? On top of that, I lost sight of my own sense of sexual pleasure. After such a long time being someone else’s fantasy, I still struggle with my own wants and desires in the bedroom.
Having a healthier relationship to sex meant getting to know myself sexually, but where to start? I didn’t know how to navigate sexual or romantic encounters at all as a civilian. The idea of trusting in a relationship seemed impossible—how long would it be before my partner went in search of new pussy? Scared of true intimacy, I alternated between internet hookups and self-imposed bouts of celibacy for years, never able to shake the feeling that I was tainted.
Forgiving myself took time. And therapy. And self-care. Burlesque and pole dancing classes have helped me feel connected with my body. I no longer feel the need to moan uncontrollably with every touch or to talk to men in a baby voice; instead of focusing on the performance, I focus on my own pleasure. I no longer believe my past put me at a deficit or that I’m any less deserving of love and affection than the next person. Asking for what I want is something that still elicits nervousness in me, but it’s a feeling I’m pushing through.
In the decade since I left the sex trade, I’ve had sexual encounters of varied levels of success and even a relationship or two. After a breakup last summer that was particularly hard on me, I took a break from dating and sex. For a long time I just didn’t feel like sharing myself or my body with anyone. Instead I’ve been focusing on getting mentally and emotionally stronger so I can eventually have the type of relationship or romantic encounter I desire. I’m also focused on hitting my career goals. Things are not perfect, but I’m getting there, and one thing is for sure: The next time I get it on, I’ll really want it. For real this time.
Originally Appeared on Glamour
