PSO

This line is for the losers who want to pay my rent and breathe into the phone as I ignore them for more important endeavours. It offers an ear to the fantasies that I’d never live out into any reality. 

This line is a confessional for the sinner, a priest, who collected his sins all week long and spilled them out. It creates a sense of unrest within me. As an ex-Christian, I’m still susceptible to the rules: you cannot do anything intimate at church. The priest confesses that he not only wants to taint the pew, but he secretly worships Satan and is “attempting to steal souls”. 

This line is for the ones on their lunch breaks, an escape from a lonesome reality that is their capitalistic existence. It’s a space for me to become the hottest, most uninhibited version of myself, reminding me that I exist beyond my own stressors for pleasure.

This line is me in pjs, hair unkempt, waiting for the ring like it’s a redemption. Sometimes I’m nude, because my AC broke and I’m too tired to dress up for a virtual meet where I’ll never be seen. The phone is a mask shielding my laughter when the cliches become too much.

This line is for confessions, buried beneath the foundation of family homes. Things they’d never share during dinner, or with their wives reading books beside them in bed. It's for the husband who admits he wants to leave his family and start a new life, for the man whose dreams and questions of his sexuality become deferred, all while telling his kids to actualize their dreams. The man who longs to be dominated as his entire life has centered around him dominating others. 

This line is a phone booth, no stained glass windows, 
guilt is the currency, and cleansing starts at $1.99 per minute. I catch your confession-to witness, not forgive.
& I wonder: Who is freer?: The Sinner or the Booth that’s free to forget?

This line is me rehearsing a voice unnatural to my own,
selling every desire by losing parts of my identity.
Every “hey” carries a weight of fraudulence, 
as if they’ll hear the frogs collected in my chest, 
call me out, 
know I’m no goddess-
just a nerd tryna sound like one.

This line is for the nights I fall asleep
Line open, phone in my hand, 
dreaming through missed calls, 
the rings a chorus fading as their voices wait in the dark.

Are you a sex worker with a poem, story, opinion, news, or tips to share? We'd love to hear from you!

We started the tryst.link sex worker blog to help amplify those who aren't handed the mic and bring attention to the issues ya'll care about the most. Got a tale to tell? 👇☂️✨