When I first moved to New York I shared the corner of a basement with my friend, where we hung a shower curtain as our door and could reach out and hold hands from our respective twin beds that we had purchased from Costco. We called this our bedroom. I was working as a full time nanny, picking up freelance writing gigs on the side and going to soul-draining comedy open mics at night. I was, in truth and against all odds, having a blast, but it wasn’t sustainable. After a few more years of taking care of rich people’s kids, getting ‘paid’ in drink tickets for comedy shows, and “just circling back” a psychotic amount of times in an attempt to get an invoice filled, I realized I needed to find a new way to make money. I turned to sex work, and I’ve never looked back.
I first dipped my nips in, so to speak, to the world of sex work as an amateur camgirl, and I was horrible at it. Camming requires so much attention to detail and digital savvy that I simply lack, and the most money I ever made was when I fell asleep on camera and woke up to a bunch of tips from people that had gotten off looking at an unconscious woman. Incredible. On the one hand, that is a big yikes and really showcases how men need therapy, but on the other hand it’s a bit of a slay in that it proves that women should get paid to do literally nothing. Either way, it was clear that this online gig was not for me, seeing as it’s against the rules to sleep on camera and that was apparently my only lucrative party trick. I tried out some in-person sex work next and realized I’m a lot better at making people fall in love with me when they’re physically sitting in front of me and I have more than a millisecond to enthral them with my charming wit. Plus, call me old fashion, but I’m the type of girl who likes to clock-in, work my magic, and then clock the fuck out. For the most part, stripping and other in-person sex work allowed me to this more than online sex work did.
I needed to find a new way to make money. I turned to sex work, and I’ve never looked back.
One of the side hustles I had picked up to pay the bills before diving into sex work was working as a personal assistant for a visually impaired man. He frequented a local gentleman’s club that branded itself as “not a strip club,” which is dumb and whorephobic because it was a club where dancers were paid to strip off their clothes. The idea was that it was classier than a strip club because we weren’t allowed to wear traditional stripper attire or dance on a pole. Boring! Anyway, the man I worked for suggested I go apply. You may think it’s a bit ironic that a guy who wasn’t able to see me, recommended that I become a stripper. But honestly his recommendation couldn’t have been more valuable because, as I would soon learn, being a stripper is much more about marketing your charm and being able to converse with some of the dullest people alive than it is about being hot. Being hot helps though.
No one teaches you how to give a lap dance. You have to just trust your inner slut and hope you don’t fall in your seven inch heels or like, crush your customer’s dick. In many ways, a lapdance is a bit like (slutty) interpretive dance. Once you’re hired, the house mom (a manager of sorts who is in charge of looking after the dancers), tells you to go get dressed and get on the floor. I showed up to my audition (an interview that involves flashing the hiring manager) already dressed like a true amateur in a velvet black mini dress from H&M with a lingerie onesie underneath. I hadn’t yet been given the veteran stripper advice to wear another thong underneath my lingerie, so I gave my first lap dance with my labia peeking out the side of my small one piece and it’s a miracle I didn’t get a UTI. Other than exposing my vagina to the elements AKA men’s unwashed pants, it went pretty well. In hindsight, I was giving lap dances that were too good because I also hadn’t yet learned to never give it your all for a $20 floor dance. There’s no use in wearing yourself out or giving men things they don’t deserve and haven’t paid for. But that night I was giving them the works, and got asked to do lapdance after lapdance. My knees aged about 10 years that shift, but I went home with $400 in my bag and I felt on top of the world. Now I’d be pissed about that amount, but at the time it felt like a lot. I had worked for 4 hours and made $100 each hour, and it all came from me; my charm and wit, my body, my exposed labia. Girl boss alert!
No one teaches you how to give a lap dance. You have to just trust your inner slut and hope you don’t fall in your seven inch heels.
Thankfully, for my ego and my bank account, I got better at stripping and soon was leaving with $600+ in my bag, and eventually would have $1,000, $2,000 and $3,000 nights. I’ll never forget the feeling of freedom that came with no longer being stressed about paying bills and not having to count each penny I spent. I have a distinct memory of walking to the ATM after one of the first nights I made over $600 in the brisk New York City Winter, with the wind whipping against my face and feeling nothing but a warm rush of excitement. Looking back, I was an absolute dumbass for walking alone at night with that cash on me, but I was still too scared of spending money on cabs – that scarcity mindset takes a second to shake. Once my savings account started to, y’know, exist, I learned to let go of the fear of all of my money being spent, and it made me feel like the shit if I’m being honest. Have you ever bought your friends a round of drinks and not looked at how much you spent the next morning because you know it’s fine? Shit slaps.
Money is stupid and made up, but we as a society have really committed to this capitalism bit, so now we’re forced to rely on it. Being broke is exhausting and all consuming. Suddenly having money to spend was liberating. I could say yes to bottomless brunch, offer to cover dinner, and even get a bed that wasn’t from Costco! Of course, I am a privileged sex worker and therefore am able to do this work not just for survival and by choice, and a lot of that comes from me being white, petite, and able bodied. For me, sex work has been great for making more money while working less hours, but like in any other industry, those of us who are fortunate enough to reap these benefits are the most privileged.
Money is stupid and made up, but we as a society have really committed to this capitalism bit, so now we’re forced to rely on it.
When people ask sex workers how we got into this industry, they’re often expecting some crazy story or terrible thing that led us down this ‘dark path.’ How else would your life get to the point of providing sexual services for money?! People often want to hear about sex workers’ trauma, likely because they are uncomfortable with the idea that we could end up in this situation without being forced or desperate. That we could choose it. Because they can’t fathom having what it takes to do what we do. But for many sex workers like myself, the answer is really simple: we needed and/or wanted money. Plus, it allows for those of us who have a hard time fitting into conventional boxes and nine-to-five schedules to be able thrive outside of those constraints. The civilian world is not built for people with any sort of neurodivergence, mental illness, chronic illness, disability, etc. Sex work provides many of us with a schedule and lifestyle that doesn’t feel suffocating or impossible.
Don’t get it twisted, sex work isn’t easy money. Money in sex work is complicated because it’s often immediate and it ebbs and flows. You never know when the money will be coming in, and you’ll have amazing nights and terrible nights. It’s unstable and takes a lot of patience and energy, but for many of us, it makes more sense than vanilla jobs that often pay less for more hours of work. At the end of the night, feeling dollar bills pour over me as I dance on a stage is how I prefer to make my money. And now I have an actual bedroom with walls and a door.
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