Your bitch quit sex work at the start of this year. There are only two dungeons left in Australia, I didn’t want to work at either of them, and also maybe they didn’t want me working there either. My attempts at indie work just resulted in fewer clients. The amount I was making wasn’t worth the work I was doing.
Plus, I’m a dungeon gal. I specialise in short bookings, a bit of cheeky fun. Like, my favourite session is the kind that my colleagues and I called a ‘spank and wank.’ I want to play-act as a sexy bitch for several short bursts, and then go home, smoke a bowl and count my money. Clock out. This doesn’t really translate well to indie work. Independent Mistresses often have long sessions, complex relationships with their regs. They have dedicated work phones! To me, this sounds like an actual nightmare.
I want to play-act as a sexy bitch for several short bursts, and then go home, smoke a bowl and count my money. Clock out.
I had a work phone for a bit while working indie. I know the privilege in being able to choose not to use one, but frankly, I rarely got any genuine inquiries from calls or texts anyway. The work phone experience was so awful that I often just switched it off and put it in a drawer, but even that wasn’t enough. The work phone haunted me until I wanted to bury it in the cold, cold earth and cover the turned soil with leaves as if it never existed at all. It made me want to walk into the deepest forest, weave leaves and bark into my hair, and never return. Still, I’m sure ‘u available’ and ‘how much?’ would ring around my head forever, no matter how far into the woods I went. Sigh.
Anyway, in February I took my ads down. I retired. I’d retired once before, 20 years ago, at the ripe old age of 22 – but it didn’t take. This time, I think it might have.
Your bitch stopped writing in recent years, too. I burnt out. I got burned by publishing and exhausted myself writing pieces that no one would buy or publish. After grinding through innumerable grant applications, I realised that arts councils prefer fiction writers who ‘plan’ things. They aren’t keen to fund my work when all I can say in advance is that ‘I’ve got a vibe and I’m gonna follow it to see what happens.’ I get it. Doesn’t present as a sound investment, does it?
The other day someone asked me, ‘how’s your writing going?’ I replied without even thinking, ‘I don’t really write much anymore,’ and for the first time, it didn’t hurt to say it.
Take these things away from me, and who am I? I know that I’m more than what I DO, that all of us are so much more than what we perform for labour. It’s just that I am a workaholic, I’ve got to keep my idle hands from becoming tools for satan. And look, there’s otherwise so little sense of myself behind all the masks that I wear. I dunno about you all, but I sure do love wrapping my entire identity up in something! I am a capital W Writer and I am a capital S W Sex Worker. Or I was.
I know that I’m more than what I DO, that all of us are so much more than what we perform for labour.
Quitting sex work isn’t just about identity, though. It’s about community. It’s a feeling like you’re outside of the best club. All the coolest, weirdest, beautiful, and most fabulous people you’ve ever met are in there, in hot little outfits, and you’re outside in the cold, palms pressed against the glass, dressed in civvie clothes and cotton undies, your hair all lank, and mascara running in the rain.
I’m always looking for a family in ill-fitting places. If I was a bit less shrewd, I would have most definitely joined a cult by now, but I’m reasonably savvy, thanks in most part to sex work. I’ve always had a lot of acquaintances, but struggle with real, close friendship. The dungeon became my world. My colleagues were my support system, the folks I verbally processed at, which I’m sure did not endear me to everyone. They were my weird little family. When I quit the dungeon, I lost that.
I didn’t want to quit sex work exactly, it was the only choice that made sense. I didn’t want to quit the community, either. I was so scared that I’d be out of the club, but… I’m not. Sex workers are still my biggest cheerleaders when it comes to my creative output. When I post thirst traps to feel good about myself, they always respond with the heart eyes emoji. Never fail. It means so much.
Quitting sex work isn’t just about identity, though. It’s about community.
My kit lives under my bed. Sometimes I open it up just to look, and every time, the first thing to fall out is a cane, one that I made, sanding and varnishing it myself. It was for a favourite reg of mine, a wonderful older gent with the softest, cleanest skin. He would always look into my eyes as I teased his cock with my light touch and say, ‘you’re just so beautiful.’ Of course, he was a favourite. The memory keeps me warm inside.
I’ve got all my work clothes in two big tubs in my closet. I am always pulling them apart looking for some piece to give to a friend who might actually wear it, who might fit into all the bras that won’t reach around my ribs, the zips that won’t close for me anymore. I am always taking time to refold and replace everything. I love to sink my hands into the box when all the contents are jumbled. My fingertips slide past silk, velvet, plastic, leather.
These are the things I can’t get rid of: The PVC corset that I bought from the woman who trained me, the vinyl worn away where the laces cinch. The HB bodysuit that I wore into most sessions in the final years at the dungeon (Look, I know HB is a whorephobic company, but it’s the FONDA BODYSUIT!) My patent Bordello shoes, the six-inch heels bringing me up to five foot six, a more acceptable height for a Domme. All the detritus of my sex worker self, staying the same while I evolve into something else, something further away.
When I see the callout for writers, it says ‘current and former sex workers welcome’, and that raises me up a little bit. I feel included. Cos I feel like once you’ve been a whore, you are always a whore. But in the best possible way, you know?
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