The moment I knew I wanted to be a sex worker came long after I first dipped my toes into the industry. I've always been proud of my resilience. I spent most of my teens and 20s defiantly calling myself a cockroach. You can't kill me, but nice try. My first trip into sex work was just another story of surviving despite the odds; I was fresh out of an abusive relationship, living in a Honda Accord with all of my worldy posessions. I had a room lined up in a few months, if I could come up with the first month's rent and deposit in time. I was determined to make it happen, despite my job at the time, home healthcare, providing abysmal hours and even worse pay. When I got solicited at a bar, it was an easy decision to make, especially with the added bonus of sleeping in a real bed for the night. I didn't want to be a sex worker, I wanted stability and my own space. I didn't admit to myself that this moment, and the ones that followed it, were sex work until years later, and it took even longer before I would admit it to others.
This high-stakes decision to do full service sex work, combined with the Catholic guilt and shame I hadn't yet shed about this act, made me completely write off the industry as an option for a long time. I made my deposit and rent in time, and I had found a better paying job. I had healthcare benefits for the first time, a "good" hourly pay of $11 an hour, and even paid time off. Not bad for a traumatized, chronically ill dropout. Unfortunately, capitalism doesn't exactly favor traumatized, chronically ill dropouts. I quickly ran out of PTO because of doctors appointments and high pain days, and the day came that my healthcare benefits wouldn't cover something I urgently needed: the extraction of 4 rotten teeth.
My first trip into sex work was just another story of surviving despite the odds...
I debated a few different options, but eventually decided to audition at a club that a few of my friends worked at, and that's where I got my first public rejection. I eventually got hired at a smaller, less prestigious club that had no familiar faces. My first night was almost as embarrassing as my first audition, I was too scared to sell any dances and left with a little over $30. I was determined to try again though, and my second night was spent with a lovely, generous man, and ended with enough money for the copay for my oral surgery.
It still wasn't until a few weeks later that I actually knew I wanted to be a sex worker. I was sitting at my "good" job, doing repetitive, mind-numbing assembly line work, thinking about dancing on stage and how I had made two weeks worth of pay in a single night. Perhaps most importantly, I had been absent from the club for almost 3 weeks with no explanation, and was still on the roster. I kept daydreaming about sleeping in and resting as much as I needed to, about dancing like my beautiful, graceful coworkers, and about being able to buy fresh food every time I went to the grocery store.
I kept daydreaming about sleeping in and resting as much as I needed to, about dancing like my beautiful, graceful coworkers...
Growing up my dream was to be a ballerina, but unfortunately I was not born into the body or tax bracket that typically makes that possible. My love of dance followed me my whole life, but it had never been a serious option to pay my bills until that moment. The first time I heard a coworker refer to the strip club as "the midnight ballet", I felt a weird sense of pride, like I'd reached my lifelong goal, just not in the way I'd expected. It wasn't just the stage either, it was the seduction of a private dance in a corral of other temptresses. The magic that happens when you get a good customer who sits on their hands and obeys your every word–and pays you for it. Throwing glances and grins to the other midnight ballerinas from across the room, knowing that tonight is one where we'll all be laughing and sharing stories of our night while counting our money.
By this point in my life, I'd long shed the Catholic guilt I'd acquired from being a bastard, a Jezebel, and a queer. I was ecstatic that I could make quick–though not easy–money. This decision isn't the first one I've made to disappoint and embarrass my family, and it won't be the last. Ultimately, I decided I wanted to be a sex worker to improve my quality of life, and it has. Since becoming a full time sex worker, I've had more time and energy for the things and people I love. I can be more active in my community and I have the ability to put my money where my mouth is when it comes to activism. Working a minimum of 40 hours a week had drained me of the ability to do anything but work, but working in the club gave me back freedom.
Are you a sex worker with a 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? 👇☂️✨
