Over a year ago, I went to Sydney Australia in part to see how it would feel to work in a decriminalized environment. What would freedom taste like? Here’s what I wrote about it on May 9, 2009:
It feels like mad power, like bliss, greed, glee, defiance, strength, skill and pride. Like the nervous giggling when I first stripped that turned into calm assuredness when I saw my first client’s mouth fall open in awe. Gotcha.
That’s the fun thing about sex work. It’s a power game and I’m always perfecting my skill, working on my game. The goal is to be able to create just about any effect I want — from lust and trust to generosity and deference. Whatever. I want to the one that comes out on top. I love sex work because I love power. I love the way it tastes, smells, looks, feels, sounds.
The Taste: his cigarettes at the end of the booking. He’s offered repeatedly during the call but I only accept at the end and I know he’s grateful to share this with me.
The Smell: Of cash money. Crisp new bills have their own scent. Stale cigarette smoke and perfume in the girls’ room.
The Look: It’s one that never lets go. The look that says I Want You. That says fuck. That laughs and winks and sparkles.
The Sound: “Hi handsome, what’s your name?” The soft burn of his cigarettes as I look at him across the bed. “Oh my god you’re beautiful” or, anxiously “how was I?“. Katy Perry on the client lounge speakers.
The Feel: When I run my fingers over his chest, down his thigh, kiss his cheek and then — only then — ask for more money. Of squeaky-clean skin from showering up to 10 times in a night. Relief that there is somewhere I can fully express my lust for power and money. The sweetest laughter, sharing stories about the night before with other queer hookers.