Chuck Frickin-Bats
CW: NSFW, mentions of sex, sexual violence, and murder
When I talk about my first session as a sex worker, I have always framed it as a comedic disaster. It’s not untrue, but it was also much darker. I used comedy as a coping mechanism so I could forget how it all really felt that night. I was fucking terrified of getting hurt or ending up dead and the adrenaline had me wired the whole time and for hours after.
My sex work debut came when I was 20. I needed money to support my two teenage brothers, who had just moved in, and provide for myself, too. My car needed urgent work, and rent was due soon. I had no support, no job, no money, no prospects. I started doing sex work work on my own, completely clueless, fumbling constantly, and scared witless. The scant advice I had was to be a dominatrix, as it was supposed to be safer than full-service work. Usually, full-service means having sex/sexual services with another person for money or other goods. The media and news are packed with images and stories of “prostitutes”, “hookers”, and “whores” being killed. I was petrified to end up as one of those stories, wouldn’t you be? Dommes seemed mostly exempt from that risk of violence, however, and I could still get desperately needed money. My first client contacted me, and my hands started shaking.
Thrilled and scared, I demanded his reference —as an acquaintance had instructed. A reference in the sex industry is a way to try to stay safe. After all these years, I have developed a razor-sharp intuition and finely tuned bullshit meter that I rely on. Like starting sex work, I had little choice in developing that skill, my life depended on it. He passed the reference check! Regardless, I still feared becoming a headline and was scared shitless.
Majorly stressed and desperately hoping not to fuck this up, I picked my nicest outfit. It was a fashion crime of a Torrid clearance-rack dress with wedge sandals that didn’t match. We met at the Bellevue Denny’s at 3 am. The outfit was not subtle, and we drew attention. He looked like he was going to shit himself. I probably did too.
BDSM educators said that a BDSM likes/dislikes checklist was essential for proper play. Hands and voice shaking, trying to be a good Domme, I plopped a stapled, multi-page paper checklist onto the sticky table with a pen and made the painfully embarrassed client fill it out right there while I sipped my Diet Coke quietly. After he filled it out, I flipped through it like we were doing a job interview. He passed another test —he just wanted me to peg him —simple enough. I followed him back to his place, texting his license plate number to a friend who was my safety check, or the person I would check in with after the session as a safety measure, who knew what to do if I didn’t check-in.
The minute we’re in the door, he hands me the money. I didn’t even then know to ask for the money first. I was so pumped. A little triumph peeked through the raging nervousness. I tucked that sweet, beautiful, crisp cash away while he went to clean his butt out. He was in there awhile and there was nothing to look at or do while I waited for him. It was a completely empty, dimly lit, short-term apartment.
Centuries later, he exits the bathroom and declares that he can’t get clean. Crap. Prepared, I pulled out the disposable enema I had packed, much to his dismay, and made him try one more time. He returns, after another century, having failed again. God-damnit, this was a disaster, but a very twisted part in the back of my head was amused.
He asks for his money back.
My brain glitches.
I needed that money, but what would happen if I refused, once again fearing that I could risk becoming a dead hooker headline. I give him half back, but before I’m out the door, he asks to cuddle instead, and I agree, moving to the sheet on the floor of his bare Microsoft temporary residence. Quickly, he tried to move beyond cuddling. Awkwardly, while being dry-humped and fondled, I was trying to haggle for the other half of the money back. He agreed mainly to get my pants off. He humped me with an impressive speed reminiscent of rabbits on a nature channel that gave the situation some levity in my head. After he finished, he tried to hustle me out the door without paying, trying to take advantage of my newness —as many would. Voice and hands shaking, stubbornly and potentially stupidly, I stayed in the doorway until the rest of the money was in my hand. My sex work initiation had begun and 13 years later I’m still breaking the law in order to make a living.
CLAMOR 