Prostitution, I feel like it’s always been on my mind a bit. It intrigued me
It wasn’t the only thing that intrigued me, though. I’ve always been drawn to items that are a bit marginal, life paths that were out of the norm. I practiced a lot of different jobs, sometimes just because I had the opportunity to test them.
But therefore, I had a somewhat simplistic and idealized image of prostitution. Being an escort girl, I saw it as the pinnacle of independence, audacity, and freedom in my fantasies. It smelt of danger, but also emancipation (and I needed to emancipate myself). And then, there was something scratching over there, and it tickled me to check it myself. See what it did to me. See if the legends were true.
Except when I wanted to start as an escort for the first time (and where I almost did), I met a guy who quickly became “my guy.” So I became “his girl,” and it was out of the question for “his girl” to sleep with people other than him (especially not for money, no, but don’t mess around, we’re respectable people).
Our relationship became more and more toxic
So instead of becoming an escort then, I became a staid girlfriend, more and more staid, as our relationship became more and more toxic. Looking back, I think I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it: have a boyfriend, like everyone else, a conventional love and sex life as possible. To be expected, like all those ordinary people. A monogamous and exclusive relationship worked well since it lasted a long time. Prove to the world that someone was able to support me in the long term (because when someone can help you in the long term, it’s THE proof that you’re frequentable, huh). I saw it as a path to simple happiness—the entry into normality.
Except that for this man, I was never good enough, never pretty enough, never funny enough, never smart enough. He dictated to me the life I should have, the girlfriend I should be: the one who constantly tries to be perfect and to love him as he deserves: ideally. And then he blew hot and cold. More and more, I tried to conform to his expectations, facing the failure of never being loving enough, never devoted enough, never attracted sufficient to him. To make him suffer, naughty that I was heartless, even unable to confirm.
He had unattainable physical expectations.
You are so beautiful, but you would be even more attractive if you were permanently shaved, with redone breasts, with a different wardrobe, if you wore make-up and you wore heels. There, you would be stunning. Right now, you’re just a draft, but I’m going to turn you into a work of art. You have to follow my advice.
Because here, my style, in my everyday life, was somewhere between the shy teenager and the German hiker. If I could, I would have spent my hairy life, in urban pajamas, a sort of dinosaur-fleece jumpsuit that I would change when it was too covered with holes and stains. Sometimes I put on a skirt and (let’s be crazy) a little mascara, but only when it was a holiday, huh, don’t push it.
So here it is, for “my guy,” I was never feminine enough, never beautiful enough. But at the same time, when I “made myself beautiful,” I was too beautiful: all the other men became a threat. Besides, according to him, all the men interested in me necessarily did it because they wanted to fuck me (why would they be interested in me, if not, huh, why?) His possessive jealousy was justified.
I started by losing the little confidence I had in myself
Then I lost my smile. Then I lost weight. Then I almost lost my friends, by not seeing them anymore. And one day, I was forced, for my balance, to open my eyes: I had to get out of here as quickly as possible.
I took some things, and I cut myself on a Tuesday afternoon. I never came back, despite his blackmail, his manipulation, his pleas, but also his insults, his violence. I felt like I had escaped something serious. I remember the first week after the breakup: freedom. Freedom of no longer having to reply to messages say where I was, with whom. Freedom to no longer feel obligated to tell him that I loved him. Freedom to fall asleep alone in a bed, finally. It was like a big breath of fresh air after being locked inside for too long.
I applied to an Escort Agency
Suddenly, one of the first things I did was apply to an Escort Agency. Take the plunge, finally, after so many years of not being able to do so. But there, I no longer had a regular male. My appointed male’s consent is supposed to be granted not to have the authorization to do so.
Then I was a little scared; I had more space and more bearings. It seemed to me to be the practical solution, the easy solution. Deep down, I knew it was now or never that I had to do it as long as I was in this somewhat crazy and determined post-breakup period, as long as I felt free to do it, as long as I dared.
Then it all happened so quickly. On my first date, I felt like I was doing something crazy. To be agent 007 on a secret mission. Dressed in a suit, there in this hotel, like an actress in my movie, I felt like I was doing something pretty damn adventurous and exciting, in every sense of the word. I was excited but a little nervous too, sweating badly in my armpits and wondering if he would notice and if it was going to be a shame. I was afraid of not succeeding, or of not being up to it, quite beautiful, quite naughty, relatively high class, quite… perfect. But at the same time, I was looking forward to it.
But then, sitting there sweating under my arms, I saw him arrive, my very first client, the one through whom I was going to become a whore, a real one, a professional. And I said to myself:
“Oh damn. It’s going to be easy.”
Because he was frankly not ugly, and he looked nice. And indeed: it was easy. It wasn’t harder than sleeping with anyone else. With the satisfaction that at least, with this one, I wouldn’t need to deal with the aftermath. That he wouldn’t fall in love with me. That we both knew why we were there.
I left with a smile. I felt this pack of tickets in my pocket, and I had the impression of having deserved it, that I had done well. I was proud of myself. I had done something on my own. I was independent; I was able to manage without anyone’s help. It smelled like freedom. When I returned, a friend in the living room asked me if the job had gone well (since suddenly I invented a fake job). I said yes, laughing to myself, thinking, “if you knew what I was doing just half an hour ago…”
It was an adventure, and it was a bit enjoyable. I had a secret thing, just me, that made me feel confident.
What was funny is that since I couldn’t go to meetings in pajamas before my passes, I was transformed from head to toe. Which sometimes took me more time than the pass itself… And despite everything, I remained the Escort Agency‘s somewhat “organic nature” escort, the one to whom clients repeated that “you, at least, we can’t see that you’re an escort” (because yes, customers like to pay for prostitutes who don’t look like prostitutes. Since they think they’re customers who don’t look like customers. In short).
There, someone recognized that showering-waxing-hair-doing my makeup-wearing-lingerie-dressing-in-chic-clothes, conforming to the beauty criteria of society was a hell of a job, worth a hell of a salary. That was hard work, draining time, money, and energy that it wasn’t just something all women should do, just because they’re women. But so, in fact, I realized that I prepared myself a bit as my ex liked me to prepare myself except that there, I was paid for that.
Some guys wanted to pay me just to give me pleasure
It was more of a mandatory thing: it was a strategic professional choice, an effort that I made for a specific purpose, for a specific duration. It felt so much better, since it meant I could not give a fuck off work anymore, and could happily become, for 90% of my time, the Yeti in a dinosaur suit that I used to be and always dreamed of being.
Gradually, I realized that some guys wanted to pay me just to give me pleasure. Just to see me cum. Or just to talk, debate, eat something, drink wine. That in fact, contrary to what my ex told me, men, even when they paid me to, didn’t all just want to “fuck me” (which, in my ex’s mouth, meant above all “to take advantage of me”). Some of my clients treated me privately with much more respect than some ex-partners in my private life.
The breakup suited me well, I regained self-confidence, slowly. I was worth something, which was better than worth nothing. I had rights, including the right to set my limits. I dared more and more to emit a clear and audible “no” to something that I did not wish to do, first with the customers (because it was simpler), then with those who shared my life in the private. Selling sex made me realize that I had no obligation to give it away if I didn’t want to.
I found out that actually sex work was nothing new to me.
The only novelty was that I was getting paid for it. But that ultimately, it was still sex. I was able to test things that I would never have been able to test in private; there are times when I had fun, where I had great encounters, both on the client-side and the side of colleagues. Sometimes it was fantastic; sometimes, it wasn’t. Sometimes I walked out angry, ashamed or discouraged. It challenged my assumptions about sex work, my idealized view. I have become more realistic. But overall, I don’t know. I liked it, and it was a surprise every time.
Being an escort felt pretty good to me
But here it is: it was a secret thing. If I didn’t want it to be known, well, I shouldn’t have talked about it. I was afraid of constantly having to justify myself, and I wasn’t even always sure why I was doing “that,” why I liked to sell sex to wealthy men, me whose bohemian life was at the antipodes of luxury and hotels with stars.
I just knew that I liked it, that overall, I found it rather fun and friendly – in any case, more fun and more pleasant than other jobs. And above all, it was my independence, both from my ex and my family. It was the best effort-earnings ratio in my eyes, let’s say.
So becoming an escort, especially initially, gave me little wings. I reclaimed my life, my sexuality, my body. But it was out of the question to say. I started lying a little all the time about minor things, but by the way, that’s a lot of little lies. Why don’t you get tattoos when you want to? Why don’t you stop this tedious job of dressing up as a fancy hen? Why do you take a shower every time you come home from that job? And it’s okay, are you doing financially? Why do you have expensive lingerie there in the corner? Why don’t you want us to take the condom off, even though we did the tests? Why do you always have money when you never have a well-paid job? And what are you doing right now? Where do you work, with whom?