An Open Letter to the Respectable Men Who Don’t Have My Back
Sex work is real work, even if my clients imagine otherwise
You know me in the light of afternoon, over wine or scotch in a midrange hotel. You know me in a luxury suite in a strange city, a diversion during a business trip. You know me as patient and gentle, coaxing stories from you with soft caresses and empathic, active listening. You know me as the woman who understands you. The sex kitten. The fantasy girl.
You moan as I unzip your pants, your cock stiffens at my ministrations. You feel pleasure in these moments with me; perhaps you discover some lost part of yourself. Perhaps you talk about your wife, how she doesn’t understand you, how the sex has evaporated from the lovely home you share with her; how you walk the halls aching for touch, for connection. Perhaps she remains a phantom unacknowledged between us.
I do not ask, but I am happy to listen if you feel the need to talk about her. I will never show jealousy because I do not feel it. I may enjoy your company, but I am not attached to you. I am, after all, a professional. I want to give you pleasure. I want to create an oasis in your otherwise chaotic life where you can let your guard down and let the vulnerable, shadow parts of you out to swim.
