I had to take a little time away to make sure I didn’t do or say or delete something I’d regret, and now that the traffic has come and gone, I feel a little more steady, if stunned.

It’s a strange thing watching your traffic spike like that. It feels ominous, if only because I’ve been treading what several friends have called a tight-wire of risk, and they’re right. You tread this line for a while and eventually you start to think you’re pretty good at this trick, and then your ankle twists and you trip. Another friend described this as a shell game, in that we’re out there in public with our blogs, we move around to keep a low profile, but there’s always that chance someone finds us and calls us out. And I got called out.

According to Fleshbot and YouPorn, this is a sex blog, and I think Fleshbot and YouPorn are right (sort of). But now that I’ve been discussed as a hooker (people LOVE the word ‘hooker’), I worry that this blog will be probed for some sort of revelatory glimpse into the life of a sex worker. If that’s the case, there won’t be much to see. Given the recent attention, I’ve had to cut all of my clients loose, for their sake more than my own. So for all intents and purposes, I’ve just gone from whore to slut, unless, of course, you’re someone who believes whoredom is one of those qualities that sticks to the soul, or unless you interpret the term as loosely as I do, or unless you’re hot for dirty talk, which you should be, or you should at least consider from time to time because dirty language can be sublime, or sick, depending on your preference. Point being, I’ve cut my clients loose but, hey, it’s all semantics anyway.

People keep saying the laws won’t change, but I think they will. I think we’re just lumbering behind the curve with all our puritanical baggage but eventually we’ll figure it out. In the meantime, Gabriel will have to endure the full force of my sexual frustration, and, so far, he’s been handling me like a pro (ha). A couple of years ago, I wrote that the men come and go (talking of fellatio), and I hope, sincerely, that Gabriel isn’t so transient. There’s something great there. I can’t describe it.

And for the sake of Fleshbot and YouPorn, I really should describe it. I should try very hard to describe it, one-handed, even if it means I’ll only graze the surface. This recent fuss has been one huge distraction from some very rich sex-blog territory, because nothing calms a stressed-out girl like an exuberant lay.

ABC News didn’t out me. My mother recognized me. Huge difference.

That’s what happens when you use misleading headlines, Gawker. People skip over the content and simply reiterate that first line, spawning a thousand micro-stories like a bad game of telephone.

Further note: Gabriel is not a client.

*

So.

There’s a broad spectrum of experiences, options, and circumstances when it comes to sex work. The media presents one or two of these images. Bree characterized this perfectly, back when I was struggling with my decision over whether to speak to the press:

The American public does not want to hear about the reality of sex work. They’re only interested in crack-addicted street walkers, or spewing masturbatory drivel about chinchilla-clad, Cristal-sipping whores flying around the world in Citation jets. They either put us on a pedestal or kick it out from underneath us.

And that’s absolutely true.

I, and other women like me, object to the assertion that sex work is inherently degrading and that no woman pursues this work or experience by choice. Women do make these choices, and I’m among them. And I have no regrets. My perspective on Sawyer was just that — I was a woman who made a choice.

This isn’t to say that degrading and dehumanizing sex work doesn’t exist, because it most certainly does. But it does a disservice to everyone when we fail to recognize the differences, the differences in power, autonomy, and freedom.

When I saw that my post was picked up by Gawker (later regurgitated and reprocessed by the NYPost, TMZ, and Fox), I groaned. I didn’t want the traffic and I don’t have much love for the snark-driven commentary they’ve got going on in the sidelines. But one commenter said something remarkably unsnarky. Skahammer wrote,

Not only does it complicate the personal life of a young woman who probably has plenty to deal with already.

Not only does it give mainstream news organizations a model for the reactionary bullshit they can try to pull to remain relevant in a Web-2.0 world.

But it gives sex workers just one more reason to remain in the shadows and thus never reach the people who would be quite supportive of them in public discourse.

I’ll probably keep doing what I’m doing, which is talking about sex and relationships and blow jobs and rape fantasies, and I might occasionally talk about sex work. While Skahammer was referring to me, I want to extend that hope. I do hope other women talk. Those stories are for them to tell, but the more, the better.

*

Related to this, I encourage you to visit these sites:

Sex Work 101, a public education project from Sex Work Awareness - see Audacia Ray’s article Why should sex workers talk to the media?

Bound, Not Gagged, a group blog for/by sex workers

Letters from Working Girls, anonymous letters published at/via Reverse Cowgirl

Desiree Alliance, a volunteer-based, sex worker-led network of organizations, communities and individuals across the US working in harm reduction, direct services, political advocacy and health services for sex workers

Sex Workers Project (NYC), the first program in New York City and in the country to focus on the provision of legal services, legal training, documentation, and policy advocacy for sex workers

Sex Workers Outreach Project, a social justice network dedicated to the rights of sex workers and their communities, focusing on ending violence and stigma through education and advocacy

$pread Magazine, a magazine for sex workers and an important alternative to mainstream media - from their mission statement: “We believe that all sex workers have a right to self-determination; to choose how we make a living and what we do with our bodies.”

*

Last thing: I’ve been getting a bit of email and some of the stories have been amazing. I just want you to know that while I’m a little overwhelmed, I’m reading these notes and giving them a lot of thought. Just know that your notes aren’t disappearing into the ether.

So, I did this interview with Diane Sawyer. It was an anonymous interview in silhouette, with a distorted profile and an altered voice and a few other anonymizing tricks. A few of you already know about this — one of you said I was identifiable by the way I used the word ‘yeah’ and the way I touched my hair. Another said I wasn’t recognizable at all.

When Sawyer asked why I agreed to speak with her, I said, “I don’t know.” But I do know. I did it because she asked. It was flattering, if a fucked form of flattery, but I was mostly interested because her perspective stands in diametric opposition to my own. She represents the view of middle America; she works for a family-friendly network with no tolerance for grey area in a subject as inflammatory as sex work. It was clear that there could be only one slant for her documentary, being the old Victorian trope of the broken, dysfunctional, fallen prostitute, incapable of forming her own opinions or making her own decisions (and I find it interesting when self-described feminists reinforce this). A network like ABC wanted Dickensian sex workers and that’s precisely what they were going to show. But here I was being given a chance to offer my own take and experience, which runs counter to their thesis, and more specifically, I was being offered the opportunity to sit down and talk with this woman personally.

In reality, Sawyer was much more even-handed than she appeared on-screen, though her questions reflected a set of very backward assumptions. As I said to her then, I knew that one interview wasn’t going to change anything, but I was hoping it might make a dent in the assumptions some people have about sex work.

I have strong feelings about that interview. I think they should have spoken with other women who represent my perspective, since I know I’m not alone, as well as with (real) sex worker activists. I also have strong feelings about the general response to that interview, from all sides.

I’m mentioning the interview now because last night I learned that my parents tuned in to ABC that fateful day and promptly recognized me, in spite of the silhouette, the altered voice, the distorted profile, the vague and thoroughly dated details. I received an email from my mother saying that she knows. She saw the interview and decided to sit on this knowledge until she could see it again, and then she decided to contact me. What tipped her off exactly, I don’t know. Maybe my mannerisms or my tendency to mumble or the few details that were mentioned. Whatever it was, it was clear to her. I’m sure that while she knows nothing about me personally, she can recognize my speaking habits.

And I’m not sure how I feel about this, my parents knowing. I haven’t spoken to them. I haven’t responded to her email. My father hasn’t said or written anything - I doubt he ever will. I’m stunned, but I’m not ashamed of what I do or what I’ve done. I feel exposed but I don’t feel apologetic. I should feel mortified, but I don’t. Instead, I feel like a very private part of my life has been exposed, like they’ve just caught me in the middle of some sex act. So I suppose I feel awkward. And because I have an especially curious mother who isn’t so clear on boundaries, I’m sure she’s combing the internet right now to identify every trace of my whorish self. She might be reading this right now.

A few sentence fragments from her note:

“I have to say that it wasn’t a complete surprise…“

“But I was in a state of denial…“

“…it explains a lot about many things…“

“I listened to what you had to say in the interview and I expect you feel you have thought all of this through.“

In some ways, I feel the way I felt when I was sitting across from Sawyer. I feel like I can only sigh, because I doubt I can begin to penetrate the many layers of misunderstandings and preconceptions, let alone that relentless working assumption that a woman’s value as a human being decreases as she gains sexual experience. (Sawyer asked me about preserving the ’sanctity’ of my body, as though sex without the imprimatur of love were inherently degrading.). I’m glad my mother didn’t lash out in anger or patent disgust — what’s come across in her note is some mix of restraint, confusion, and extreme discomfort. That deserves some kudos, even if I still feel miles away from having a real conversation with her about this, which, unsurprisingly, is exactly how I felt when I sat down with Diane Sawyer. We just don’t see eye to eye.

So, today I was dazed. I went to grab some dim sum with some of New York’s fine sex writers (thank you, Viviane) and then spent some time talking with Chelsea as we walked through the Lower East Side. While we were walking, I was thinking how relieved I was to be in such pro-slut company.

And later in the day, I saw Gabriel, another blissfully pro-slut individual. He told me to take my clothes off, and this made me smile, which made him smile. While we undressed, I thought about how good this is, even if I have to battle my urge to shut down.

My mother wrote, “…I expect you feel you’ve thought this all through,” but nothing is thought through. I’m just thinking. And learning.

He fucked me over his sofa, the flat of his hand pressing down into my back. I felt him take my hair in his hand before he pulled out to come across my lower back, which splattered in a thick, swerving pattern. After, he took a snapshot of his come against my winter-pale skin. Once he toweled my back down and we both dressed, I took a look. It was a beautiful shot.

1) When to be open.

2) When to shut down.

2b) Whether to shut down.

3) When to shut the fuck up.

3b) Whether to shut the fuck up.

4) How to order tea without confusing the cashier at Starbucks.

5) How to deepthroat with minimal resistance between the back of my mouth and the depths of my throat.  Practice.

Practice.

I’ll figure this out by leaving town. Actually, I probably won’t figure anything out, but I’m going to leave town anyway.

Gabriel is endowed with a gift: he gets hard quickly and stays hard indefinitely. And after he comes, he gets hard again. He’s an endless supply of erection.

This morning, I woke up destroyed and dehydrated. Again.

With Gabriel, my body’s pushed past its usual rhythms. I can come easily with most people, and if I’m aroused enough, I can go on for hours and hours and hours. That’s rarely tested, and when it is - with Gabriel, it is - I realize that after a certain point, my body starts to do strange things. I’ll hover at the edge of orgasm for a very long time and then come without warning. Parts of my body become sensitized, others become raw. My body starts to feel sensations differently. As it begins to settle and throb, he’ll thrust again and that small stroke reverberates through my spine to my fingertips. Even when I’m limp, I want to arch and pull him deeper inside me, however weakly.

I fell asleep as some point and woke up with a jolt. I don’t like letting my guard down. And I sort of loved letting my guard down. Those who know me know that I don’t like sleeping over, for reasons of insomnia (occasionally) and vulnerability (frequently), so sleep, even momentary sleep, is unusual for me. It felt good; it left me conflicted.

This is where the blog/blogged relationship becomes complex for me, knowing he has access to this. Normally I would write about my interior self as well. I’d unpack and sort these disoriented, post-coital thoughts, which will probably distract me until I distract myself. It’s a little foolish because I just wrote a comment to the previous post saying that in an ideal world, we would read one another’s minds, and I suppose my blog leaves me open to having my mind read. But I’m not sure these thoughts should be audible.

So then, my body. My body’s raw. Excitable. A bit slutty and cock-hungry. I’ve decided that it requires discipline, so I’m going to return my body to a disciplined state (it could use the physical exertion) and perhaps, in the process, quell the restlessness of my mind.

I’m going through my old notes and came across this:

I’m enjoying a brief stint of self-imposed exile. Tomorrow I have two long gigs, back to back, so I declared today a work-only period: I read until it hurt, left town for one of the larger research libraries, and returned late and exhausted. I’m too tired for a boy in my bed, so instead I’m sorting email and stretching my legs.

I have these moments when I wonder how long I can sustain this split life. But then today, when I slipped out of the rain and into a used bookstore, I had enough cash on-hand to buy several art books and a collection of essays without emptying my account for the month. So, yes, for a while I can.

Nothing has changed.

I’m still ambivalent - unsure of whether I can sustain the double life, unsure of whether I can stop. And reading this now reminds me that I’m grateful to the men who pay, even when I deal with their drama and baggage and compulsive surveillance. It still comes down to that feeling of going into a bookshop and knowing that I can buy an art book without sacrificing my ability to pay rent.

I’ve spent the night rounding up my archived notes. There are old posts stored online, in old Word documents, in RTF files scattered across a few hard drives. I’m a disorganized person, but somehow I had the sense to save these over the years, and somehow I made sure that I didn’t lose them. These things date back to 2003. I just read them through and it’s left me a little disoriented.

For a while, I thought I’d lost the flimsy text file that preserves an entire blog’s worth of posts, which chronicled my exit from fetish and entry into callgirldom. It was a simple file that I’d saved deliberately under a strange name so it wouldn’t be obvious on my hard drive. Unfortunately, it was so well hidden that a year later I couldn’t find it. I kept old laptops and spent days searching them, trying every keyword imaginable, but nothing. It broke my heart.

Then, one day, I found it. Like that. I wasn’t even searching for the thing, but there it was: notes from 2004 to 2005. They charted my agency ‘interview’ and my first gig, my first travel gig, the madam’s attempt to marry me off (like chattel - always like chattel), and my first experience with New York’s most difficult client (who went on to become a fair dramatic figure in my life). There are mentions of men I don’t remember dating, clients I don’t remember having, and there are descriptions of emotions that startle me. Reading these things brings it all back into perfect focus.

When I was young, my mother pushed me to keep a journal, so I did. Unfortunately, she also read it on a regular basis. I’ve associated journal-writing with danger and indiscretion, but writing has also been much more cathartic for me than conversation, much more than ‘gabbing with the girls.’ I’m realizing that I don’t express myself well in person. I seem to have social blocks that prevent me from really saying what I mean at certain times. I’m dismissive of experiences that are actually very meaningful and affecting. I don’t allow myself to admit if something hurts or feels good, not fully — I feel some need to turn everything into an anecdote, and anecdotes are invariably stripped of their depth. Anecdotes are light and entertaining. Somehow, I feel this obligation to keep things light.

When I left New York last year because of the surveillance, I stayed with my family for a bit. My parents knew about the situation. I hadn’t given them the details, but they understood the gist of it. At one point, my mother brought it up directly and I found myself minimizing the experience as if it weren’t keeping me awake at night. I knew how bad it was and how upset it made me, but I blew it off and tried to convert it into a light and easy anecdote.

As an anecdote, it worked. She laughed, made me another cup of tea, and asked about something equally anecdotal from my relationship. And I’m sure she went on to tell her friends about my crazy little life here in New York with all its wacky, sitcom-like drama. I remember asking myself why I wasn’t just being honest about how I actually felt.

Someone who reads my blog and knows me in life - not Gabriel - once remarked on this, how I seem so dismissive and light about things, so seemingly unaffected, that he had no idea that I had such strong reactions. So I wonder, sometimes, if I’m only emotionally honest when I write. And if so, I wonder why.

In the comments, Axe wrote:

OK now I must ask what qualities a man would have to bring out a womans dominance.

Is it a look?

Puppydog eyes?

A sign that says “please hurt me”?

Old spice?

Plain Jane offered in this response:

For me I find there are a couple of types of guys that bring out my dominant side:

1) Someone who has a quiet way about them.
2) Someone with a shy smile with that kick of cute in them.
3) Someone who is aggressive and it kind of leads to that desire to put them in their place, so to speak.

I think women have different triggers for that sort of thing, though.

My own triggers are similar. If someone intrigues me and I’m having a hard time figuring him out, I usually want to push him down and pry him apart. It’s an irrational impulse, but I feel it and I often have to fight it. I attack obtuse, illegible men the way I attack anything I don’t understand. I want to get in there, understand it, and own it. Unfortunately, when I do, I also tend to move on. I need to work on that.

I like Jane’s description of a quiet guy with a shy smile - that does it for me too. Men like this… I want to strip them down and use their bodies, or force them to come by hand. Handjobs can be a little rapey. I like hand-raping shy men with cute smiles.

On that, if someone’s hard but doesn’t want to be, or if they’re hard but intimidated, or conflicted, or confused, I get extremely aggressive. And wet. So I like men as sexually coerced fucktoys forced to ejaculate on my command (by hand, and mouth, and cunt).

And like Plain Jane, I also get aggressive if someone gets a little too toppy with me. I like it when men take over and fuck me, and fuck me well, and I like it when they’re aggressive, but some men can get a bit authoritarian. I’m super-sexual but I’m not submissive, so if someone treats me like a submissive, I get defiant in response. Which generally results in some kind of combat sex with much bruising for all parties involved.

The trouble with sex is that the more you have it, the more you want it. I’d been having it with some frequency and then, with the Spitzer spectacle, it came to an abrupt stop - I killed appointments and gigs and dates to stay in. I’ve been hermetic, with one delicious exception, and now I’m in heat, in full fuckbuddy mode, playing with my phone, scrolling, my finger hovering over the twentysomething’s name. Should I? No. But I could. I’m in a towel, my apartment’s a mess, I’ve got nothing in the fridge to offer. Still…

Gabriel’s far away and I don’t think this is his thing. I’m taking a breather from James. Matt and I have been cagey around one another. But the twentysomething is reliable. And his strange little quirks are easy to overlook when he comes in, strips down, and fucks me.

I had a whole relationship like this not so long ago. He’d go out, I’d stay in, and about the time I was done with work and ready for bed, he’d arrive all tipsy and sexy and horny and he’d tear into me. We were awful as a couple but the sex left me ravaged, and that hooked me. And there was something vaguely hot about the way we were so bad as a couple and so good sexually.

After we broke up, he’d call me from some other woman’s apartment craving dirty talk. He’d whisper to me while he jerked off with his blonde bed-mate sleeping beside him, and it always blew my mind that he got away with it. That sort of thing turns me on.  It’s warped.

He still calls from time to time.

I’m too restless tonight. I masturbate often and I masturbate well, but it never comes close to sex itself. I need penetration. Cock.

I’m tempted. I’ll call.

When she asked why I have trouble with commitment, I said, “Because I’m a pussy.”

Except I didn’t say pussy. I caught myself and used a woefully inadequate and slightly less offensive synonym.

“You’ve been hurt?” she asked.

Sure, I said.

Yes.

Well, who hasn’t been hurt? Pain is important for perspective.

I know I’m a pussy because six or seven years ago, I took an ex to task for being a pussy himself. He claimed he couldn’t be vulnerable. He said he’d been hurt, that he was too afraid to open up. To my ear then, it sounded like some sort of pick-up line — “I’ve been hurt. I can’t love.” Implied within: “Help me. I’m wounded.” I took him to task, unfairly, for being disingenuous. And I said, with a clenched jaw, that there’s no excuse for his games.

I was right about the games. I’m not sure if I were right about him being a pussy, but if that made him a pussy, then I’m a pussy.

It’s been years since I’ve had that sort of conversation with a significant someone, the emotionally crushing, all-night death throes where every nuance, every hitch, every clumsy conversation and quirk is rehearsed and dissected, as though all that arguing could somehow purge the negative baggage, and it never does.

(At some point, I just stopped arguing altogether. I just… stopped. Completely. It’s as though I’ve managed to exhaust all of my energy to argue, forever.)

Going back further still is my friend Sybil, who dated a French poet. And he, too, claimed he couldn’t be vulnerable because he’d been hurt. He also said this hurt made it impossible for him to date just one woman. Casanova-complex bullshit we’d said, as a couple of perpetually drunk twenty-year-olds who believed firmly that we understood all the delicate workings of human relationships. We were wise beyond our years, we thought, and when I think back on those memories, I wince.

But, sure. I’ve been hurt. I’ve been hurt by my own doing. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve opened up at the wrong times, to the wrong people, under the wrong circumstances, and I’ve been involved with the emotionally distant and the scary obsessed. I’ve been unable to reciprocate someone else’s love, and I’ve loved without reciprocation, and both situations have been crushing. I’m okay with that.

I don’t think it’s because I’ve been hurt.

This fear of commitment is more like a yawning expanse of existential dread. A fear of those exhausting, drawn-out arguments over meaningless minutiae. A fear of committing to someone, and then waking up with the realization that I don’t love them. Or that they don’t love me. Or that I’ve lost myself, who I was, who I wanted to be. It’s a fear of inertia. A deep, gut-wrenching, heart-stopping fear of inertia. That’s what I meant to say when she asked why I fear commitment. I meant to say, “Because I’m afraid that if I commit, I’ll lose my autonomy and disappear.” I called myself a pussy instead, except I didn’t use the word pussy.

I can be fearless to the point of stupidity and I have a reasonably high threshold for pain. But there’s fear there, under the lady-bravado. No question.