the hypocrasy of the one-night-standers

This morning while I was having a coffee and cigarette and checking my email, a young shirtless guy steps out into my courtyard and says hello. Then he leaves. This stranger appearing and disappearing is the result of another drunken night of debauchery on my housemates behalf. She and so many of my other friends are out and about having the time of their lives or so they think, getting wasted and picking up men for sex. For sex? Time of our lives?

I do something similar, but oh so different, and yes it sounds like I am being a harsh critic, but it shits me to think that what they do, random sex, is ok, when what I do, arranged and pre-paid sex, is not. I resent it, yes I do.

Particularly, because I know so many women and men who are struggling with complications created by their promiscuity: STD’s from not using protection, emotional issues from these one-night-stands never eventuating into anything, loneliness, low self-esteem, blah blah blah. All the clichés.

There’s nothing wrong with casual sex. As long as you are doing it for the right reasons.

But I am yet to meet someone -  especially a woman, in her early twenties – aside from other sex-workers I know, and the occasional swinger in a loving and open relationship, who is completely comfortable with the fact that they are having very frequent sex with a lot of different people, without massive repercussions.

It’s made me think about my own attitude towards it.

Would you believe me if I told you that since I began working as an escort , my feelings towards the emotional implications of random, casual sex has become wary – cautious.

Why? Why do I see it as damaging, why do I care what they do?

Because, like some of my clients, my friends are reaching for something unattainable through sex. Like the client who wants to know who I really am, and offers me love and affection and hopes for unpaid sex, and a relationship – God forbid – some of my mates are hoping to be swept off their feet, and taken on dates and more than anything, to be told that they are amazing, and beautiful and the coolest girl that they have ever met.

I shouldn’t care. I am trying not to.

But it’s been difficult in the last few months. I have been struggling with the fact that I have to hide my profession – Do you know how many people ask you what you do for a job? – from everyone, that I have absolutely no desire to get pissed and pick up a man, that I am being asked by some of my closest friends, “how long will I be doing this”, “what are your options”, being looked down upon by the very people who do it for free.

It hurts and it’s hard.

But I guess the upside is that I get money, and I’m put on a pedestal, and I am the one who has men professing love and stuff that I don’t actually care about, because for my clients and me – we know that though we are taking a step out of reality for a while, living in a fairytale world in a hotel room for an hour or two, we can say nice things to each other, we can enjoy each others company – fresh, without alcohol, our personalities, our desires are accessible, the sex is safe and discreet, and the best part? Each of us walks away happy, because the fairytale ends when the booking is over, there is no bullshit, resentment, or shame.

What I would like to see is my friends maturing emotionally to become

Thus continues my struggle with the things that seem so topsy turvy in the world. As I always say: if you all knew it, you’d all be doing it.

Until the next vent,

Marmalade. X x x

I haven’t been getting much work for a while. Initially, being optimistic; I thought it was due to either the fact that Xmas was coming – people saving their pennies for other luxuries;  or maybe the state of the economy, I haven’t been in contact with any new clients…

Then, three weeks into the lull of so little work and a growing anxiety about what the hell was going on, I check my main advertising online and see that my phone number and email are not displayed, for some reason beyond my comprehension, and realise that despite the 2000 hits my ad has had in the last fortnight no-one has been able to contact me, unless they already had my number.

Great. Here comes the quietest time of the year and here I am dilly-dallying with whatever, trying not to stress, and my frigging ad is basically useless. Anyway, no matter.

I have been working on other things, and feel good about the fact that I have had time off. I’ve been able to relax, enjoy myself, do a bit more yoga than usual. I’ve been feeling super moody anyway, and not in the right frame of mind to spend time with clients really.

I need a change, I think. I feel a little hemmed in by the work and the thinking about work and the sense of anxiety that I feel alot of the time about the unreliability of the work etc.  I have all of these grandiose plans and then things change, I don’t see the same client again, who I thought was a sure thing, (as in a regular) and the next minute someone is attempting to haggle with me over my rates.

I wonder sometimes if I am feeling a little jaded about this? I love my work, and usually enjoy myself immensely, but I’m getting so tired of waiting around for the phone on the weekends, or worse, being interrupted mid-bath with a booking and having to do it because I know I should put in the effort so that I can have a holiday over Xmas.

It’s the intermittent, trickling nature of it. The un-reliability of the private clients. The ones who cancel the night before the booking because something  else has come up. Then the flood of phone calls for no apparent reason. It’s like judging what the weather is really going to be like in Melbourne. Grr.

God. I sound exactly like a “poor me” hard-done-by girlfriend or something. Well, I’m not.Though I’m sometimes the other woman in a round-about way… I love it, don’t get me wrong. I just feel frustrated at the moment because i want to be able to control the flow of work, and I have absolutely NO control, aside from knocking clients back, which is a bad move unless they are dodgy or something.

Soon I am getting involved in a group of other working ladies, sort of like a support group (for want of a better term) I’m hoping that this will allow me more of a positive outlook on it all, as I think part of the reason I am so moody at the moment about all of this is because I haven’t been really talking to anyone about it.

Ah, I knew it would get less glamorous. Oh well, it’s still a bunch of fun, as long as they have my number!

x x x Marmalade.

“Call girl” does not mean phone sex, moron.

I recently had an interaction over the phone with a man while I was taking a short break from work with friends in Noosa. It left me feeling incredibly pissed off and evoked some angry and resentful feelings towards time-wasting men that I have since been unable to shake.

Basically, I made several poor choices during the interaction which put me in an uncomfortable situation. The first mistake I made was having my work phone switched on while I was on holiday. The second was replying to a text message which had none of the requisite information that would point to this inquiry being a genuine interest in my services.

NOTE to any potential clients of any sex-worker: If you are interested in leaving a message in regards to a booking with an escort, this information is vital; your first name, the desired time of your booking, your approx location, your return phone number.

Anyway, most of the time I ignore these kind of voicemail messages, experience has taught me that at least 50% of the calls I get are men who are either attempting to have phone sex with you – (Yes, seriously, do you think I can’t tell, you morons?) – Or bored and lonely and scared of actually making a booking, or wanting me to send them my photos because obviously the plethora of porn on the internet is not enough and they want (creepily) to see some tasteful, and slightly risque photos of an escort with her face blurred instead.

ANYWAY.

This interaction was different to all of the others. He was young, naive and he basically asked me out on a date. I misconstrued the meaning of his text message, and thought that he was making a booking with me. Eventually, after the fifth time he sent me “What would be your ideal date?” I clicked onto what was happening.

I told him that “I was not going to see him on my own time, sorry, but that’s not the way it works.”

In response I received a message saying: ” But I really like you and you seem like such a nice person, and I just wanted to see you without thinking of you in “that” way.” By “that way” he meant, “as a prostitute.”

What. The. Fuck. This young man called me, after finding my number on a website clearly advertising escort services, and called me to ask me on a date. Are there not dating websites offering something more akin to his liking? Why choose me, and waste my time, only to end the interaction with a bullshit comment like “I thought you were different from all of the others”.

God, I am a compassionate person, I am not too much of a bitch, most of the time, but what is this kid’s caper? Is he trawling the underground sex-scene to find a girlfriend who he obviously would not get, but if he did would resent because he “doesn’t want to think of her in “that way” – ie: the knowledge of her occupation, as a prostitute.

People such as this guy absolutely astound me. Are they gluttons for punishment? Do they have a social learning disability? I have one guy, whose number comes up as “DO NOT ANSWER” on my mobile at least once a day for three weeks, who is adamant that i will one day come around to the idea of seeing him for 25% of my NON-NEGOTIABLE  hourly fee, in the backseat of his CAR in an park in Melbourne. Yes, I have passed his number on to the cops.

These idiots ruin it for the nice, respectful men who call and provide me with the relevant information and who I see.

You might wonder why the phone thing creates such anxiety and frustration for me. Let me tell you, speaking to a man over the phone who you are potentially going to have sex with in a couple of hours has to be one of the most challenging social interactions I have ever encountered.

From experience, someone who sounds uptight and brusque may turn out to be a gentle and friendly man, nothing but manners and warmth, however, the friendly and confident sounding guy, could be a picky, rude control freak. I attempt to glean what I can from the conversation when I can, without asking too many questions, after all they are the ones with the questions.
I am so so tired of people wasting my time, because this is not why I do this work. I wish that there was some kind of way of figuring out what who exactly these idiots are so that i could block their numbers.

Enough of my tirade. Promise the next post will be less bitchy and more interesting.

Kisses, Marmalade. x

Keeping the real Marmalade safe.

I wonder about something, having encountered in the short time I have been doing this: the young men, young, young men who are so afraid and so shy and so insecure that they call me, offering money that is surely not in excess for them, in exchange for my company and… something else I am unable to give them. Approval?

I have spent some time with a few of these boys – that is kind of what they are… They are so young, and over the phone, their voices break, laden with the pent up unasked questions they wanted so much to ask the girls in their high school classes; to be close to a woman and learn how to be what they think the other boys are, “Do you like me – my body? can I be witty for you if you allow me a little more time to speak before your line of sight passes over me?; Can I practice with you?; can you show me how to not blush and falter, how to be a man?”

I have seen a couple of these clients, knowing it’s not best for either me or them, I am too close in age, the emotions that they are dealing with are too raw, and I feel too much for them. Maybe, I give them false hopes about the way women are, and the way they are, false hopes, like it’s okay to be scared, and it’s alright to not speak for a while because you can’t think of the ideal thing to say.

I’ve been to several of them, in student apartments, replete with clothes strewn floors and battered couches and empty beer bottles lining the kitchen window, knowing before I arrive that this is the way it will be, and kicking myself that I couldn’t say no because how would he feel being knocked back again – but this time: by a sex worker?

These clients are the most complicated, and I have recently made the decision not to see them. It breaks my heart to have them tell me things about their lives, the one girlfriend in year 10 who kissed another boy, the quiet life they lead mostly in front of their laptop, and the fears and shame they muddle into email to me later that night about how great it was, and how they want to see me again and “Was I OK, I mean, average at least?”

They need an older woman, a woman with experience in placating their anxiety and turning their needs into a desire: a fantasy.

I am capable, comfortable with the clients who have more life experience than me, who have traveled to more places, taken more lovers, tasted more wines, the one who has worked hard and bought the ease and convenience and pleasure and luxury of my company because he has chosen me as his indulgence.

These men are not complex within the dynamic of a booking, they want to experience pleasure and impress me, and I reciprocate. They are older, understand at least the reason why they are taking a lover in exchange for cash.

With my favorite clients, the sex becomes an extension of the champagne, the understated opulence of the hotel, the faint scent of French cologne, affection is not forced, but expected and enjoyed, they are men who know how to love, and while they may not love me, I appreciate their compliments, and sighs and cute promises because each endearment and giggle, and gentle touch adds more respect and meaning to the encounter, for both them and I.

It’s funny, I never realised just how deliciously normal this work could be – how close, on the third or fourth visit to a client, how similar this could be to a series of mini relationships, well, a sort of psuedo-relationship, as the economy of giving and taking exists financially, emotionally, physically and mentally, except it’s just like the beginning stages of meeting someone special: the excitement, the anticipation, the wanting to please and looking your best and the burgeoning knowledge of another person as you enter into their life (albeit – in a very a small way).

That is why I don’t think I will detail my clients and their quirks, nor allude to their lives in any but a general and non-threatening way in this blog. Out of respect of course, for them, but also because, as you can see I am fond of them, and I respect them.

I didn’t think it would be like this when I began.

I pictured high-powered men with balding pates and expensive European cars, spending their time with me fucking and complaining about work. I did not realise that sometimes I would be taking more than I offered.

Like: being paid for a full two hour booking, and sipping wine while I received a massage for the entire time. Or enjoying the company of a client so much on a platonic level that I stayed long after the allotted time to order room service and watch a movie.

It’s not all like that, no, sometimes it is hard and I feel the tension creeping into my neck and shoulders as I zone out with the fiftieth question about “So, why are you doing this?”, I want to laugh and ask them if, if they were given half the chance would they?

There are myriad reasons I love this work, and I love writing about it too. But there are things I have missed, and failed to convey in my musings so far. Not about the kink or the complications or the bad attitudes, but about the difficulty in always being on guard, and the amount of mental power it takes me to always, always have a part of me which I keep out of my work.

That might sound odd, you are undoubtedly thinking, “But you do, don’t you?” Yes, I have a persona for work, my name, upbringing, school, suburb, degree, gym and interests are all changed a little to protect both my privacy and myself.

However, when I leave a booking, step through the foyer of a fine Melbourne hotel and hit the street with a wad of cash and a smile, the persona I have created and the real me do not simply disentangle. I am still Maramlade and “X” all rolled into one.

Working girls do not simply “switch off” their working lives when they get home. Well, I cannot imagine that they can unless they have some denial mechanism that blocks it out. I catch scents, experience tastes, hear snippets of songs which take me back to the previous night, or week’s booking. Like any other date, or one-nighter or relationship, there are simple reminders in my everyday life which take me back to my not-so-ordinary life.

This crossing over, the innate ability of the body to remember things in physical terms is complicated for me sometimes. It is a part of myself that I cannot control, and it leaves me breathless.

I am able to separate so many things when I need to: the money I buy my groceries with feels different from the money I spend on a Gucci clutch, even if all the notes are from the same man’s pocket. I have separate lingerie for work – shoes, perfume, dresses, I wouldn’t think to wear the same thing to meet a friend for a drink, because it has to be distinctly separate.

Why?

Because, while I am so proud of myself for achieving a successful business, and financial freedom and all of the interesting and challenging experiences I have achieved as a private escort in the last 6 months, I am not allowed to be publicly exuberant about my line of work. I am still living a taboo, one which will affect my relationships, social life, and potential careers in the most complex of ways if it became known that I was doing this.

If you have read all of my posts you will know that I am proud of what I do, that I respect myself and my clients and hopefully you may have had a little insight into my world. But what I find difficult to convey, is implicit in my act of writing this blog:

I need to have an outlet, a place for allowing the two parts of myself that I strive to keep separate – the working girl and the real Marmalade – to converge. Since I became a sex worker, the parallel lives I lead have begun to stress me out, I don’t like lying, but now sometimes I have to, I don’t like withholding parts of myself, but now I do.

It’s a dangerous sense of self that is created in the space in between who you are and who you pretend to be, and writing this is my way of figuring them out, compiling, filing, arranging the experiences and feelings I have, like the clothes and the money, into separate places for separate occasions.

I am strong and careful and confident in what I do. I am discreet, in control and I feel as though I have myself sorted out. But sometimes, the fine line I walk becomes blurred. My brother wants to take me to a restaurant tonight for my birthday, the same restaurant I visited with a client two nights ago. Blurred. My closest friend begins expecting me to pay for everything because she knows how much money I made over Cup week. Blurred. I see a client in a bar while I am catching up with a friend yesterday. Blurred.

I try to shield a part of myself from the confusion that other people in my life create when I let them into my secret, I wish no-one knew but me and my clients, one day: the next, I want to shout it from the rooftops.

This is the difficulty, not the sex, or the social taboos, or the inexplicable faux pas, it’s the deceit that eats away at a small part of me. I can’t be wholly her, and I can’t be wholly me, so I find ways, like this to remember, that in 2 months or three years or in decades, this will be a chapter, not a drama.

Amendment to “marmalade gets fat”

In retrospect, having read over my last post, I thought I should add a little more about the weight issue.

Prior to working in the sex-industry, I had a reasonably average attitude towards my body, actually, make that poor. I viewed my body as a vessel which could be tamed, tortured and tempted by all types of things. Tamed by restrictive eating and attempts to fit into the smaller sizes, tortured by too much or too little exercise, tempted by nice looking boys and girls and champagne and other things…

In all, I had less respect for my body than I should have.

One thing I have learned through working as an escort, is that there is no way to hide an unhealthy body, mind or attitude, yours or your client’s.

After watching the series Satisfaction (a TV drama, a fictional cross-section of the lives of 6 working girls in Melbourne – a great show, fairly accurate) – I was astounded by the constant appearance of glasses of champagne or red in their hands. Do you think that that much consumption of alcohol makes for clear skin, and more importantly, a clear head? I think not.

I drink a little, socially, and sometimes with a client I trust will have a glass or two. But I don’t drink half as much as I used to. A good thing. The partying lifestyle may work for some in the industry, but personally, I think that those girls might be the ones who will burn out quickly.

I live a fairly wholesome life: yoga, regular gym sessions, days off work, lots of mental stimulation, good food, and at least 5 alcohol free days a week. (Well, OK, I have been getting a bit pudgy from all of the nice cheeses, and European wines I bought over the last few weeks… Yes).

Basically what I am getting at is this:

Prior to working as an escort I didn’t appreciate my health as much as I do now. Before, I could trash myself, lose 3 kgs in a  week, wake up hungover and head down to the nice cafe on the corner of my street for a BLT. Now, I try not to get too messy in case I have to work the next day,  and I treat my body with the respect it deserves, not only because it’s my livelihood, but because I feel better than I ever have.

Postscript:

I actually like the fact that I have put on weight, there is nothing better than having a little bit more boob without having to pay for it. He he he he he. I’ve amended my ads from size 8 to size 10, and bumped up the cup size. I’m sure that the guy I am seeing tonight won’t mind a little bit more bounce.

Kisses, Marmalade. x

Marmalade gets fat.

Well, I’ve been busy… It’s been ages since I actually even looked at my blog, but I feel like contributing a little more tangent-y musings to the big wide world of cyberspace, so here goes…

Remember in my last blog how I mentioned Pont L’eveque???

Well, I’ve been splashing out on a little too much of it lately, and a less frequent gym classes and snuck up aa few kilos on the scales.

God, I hope this isn’t the most shallow thing you are ever going to read, trust me it is leading somewhere… Read on:

So, the old weight gain. How am I (and my clients -) dealing with this rude shock? He he. Well my lovely regulars, like the gentlemen that they are, have politely failed to mention the appearance of a slightly curvier Marmalade (perhaps the appearance of D cups shoved into a C cup lace pleasure state bra has diverted their attention away from the little muffin-tops above the size 8 knickers, that should really be a 10. Well, lets hope they don’t notice…

However, for me the weight gain, (4 kgs on a previously 55kg, 5′4″ frame) has posed several problems.

Thursday: A double with my beautiful co-working lady, the client a young man who I had seen on my own previously several months ago. A nice, cute guy, around my age.

I have this cheeky theory that men who become my clients aged 35+ are less likely to have sexual relations with women in their early 20’s and so more likely to be appreciative of a firm, youthful bod. However, men under 35, may be picking up women my age and be a little less in awe of a younger figure. That is silly I know, as men appreciate all kinds and have varied taste, etc, but I always feel a little more nervous when I am visiting someone close to my age… Anyway, enough of my asides…

So: back to Thursday. I go to get ready, and realise my two favourite work dresses are still at the drycleaner’s. Great. Oh well seeing as it is a sneaky lunchtime booking in the CBD, I will go dressed sexy-corporate. I had previously bought several rather nice skirts and suits for bookings such as these (good multi-purpose investments, including for the good old secretary role-play, he he). I locate the outfit, iron it, hastily jump in the shower, put on my lingerie, make-up, blow dry hair, and duck into the courtyard for a super-quick coffee and cigarette in my bathrobe with 10 minutes to spare before my driver arrives.

Pull on the skirt. Attempt to zip it up. Fuck. No way. Too small. Blouse too. Boobs falling out all over the place and a ugly stretched button holes around the waist. AHH. Emergency!

You can see my dilemma. It was funny, looking back, especially considering I managed a quick call to my co-worker to change into casual, so that I could wear something that FIT ME.

Luckily our lovely friend awaiting us in his mid-workday suit was excited to watch two women arrive in “what they had worn to uni”. Somehow this realtes to the school-girl fantasy, though I can’t actually understand how, well – whatever makes our job easier.

However, in a week or so, I have a VIP client, a promising and very affluent man who I have been corresponding with via several different international locations (him, not me) for the past three months. We have finally arranged a mutually appropriate date, Melbourne Cup in fact, and we are spending two days together.

For the last few days I have been scouring Melbourne for a dress. None of the trust cocktail numbers will suffice, seeing as I can’t zip them up (And no I am not having these altered…) It is killing me. Yes, I like shopping, but no, I do not like having spent several thousand dollars on 4 dresses bought in hasty panicked confusion in the midst of three days of brain-killing store-hopping. I now have innate knowledge of basically every return policy in existence, and I still don’t have a dress.

So, the weight gain does pose a rather expensive and time-consuming problem. More clothes (which aren’t really necessary, and which I resent having to shop for).

Some of you might be shaking your heads at this Paris Hilton-esque little ramble. Sorry. It’s funny though, I am actually not an obsessive fashionista in fact I am rarely in a dress aside from work etc. Shoes are a different story however.

At the beginning of my foray into working as a private escort, a financial adviser recommended by another working girl, told me “you will blow the first year’s cash on lots of silly things, jewellery, clothes, holidays etc – don’t worry about saving for a house, yet.”

I laughed it off, as I could not imagine spending more than say, $100 a week on clothes etc. I was wrong. For example, every job I have requires a new, ladder-less pair of stockings. I spend about $200 a month on those. For every bra or corset I buy I buy at least two pairs of the knickers that match. (Yep, wear and tear, he he.) Do you know how bizarrely expensive knickers are? I can never wear the same thing twice to a client, and I have spent thousands on beauty products, nails, pedicures, hair stylists and the like.

Conspicuous consumption. It’s ridiculous and it makes me feel guilty. Just as I don’t like buying coca cola and Mc Donalds for ethical (as well as health) reasons, I feel uncomfortable spending a lot of money on big name brands just to fit the mould with my clients.

I take money from rich men, buy expensive clothes and shoes so that I look the part thus giving the money back to the upper echelons of the economy. Does it work that way?

I wonder often, how the karmic part of my spending works… Because I feel a little empty having written this, and thinking about it too. It reminds me of a great pun I heard recently:

“Trustafarians” as in kids with a trust fund posing as Rastafarian hippy types. Y’know the ones. I hope I am not sounding like I belong to this school. He he he.

Anyway: Your comments so far have been appreciated, and feedback is welcome, especially on this slighty self-conscious issue.

Kisses, Marmalade. x

The beginning:Waitress or whore?

Four months ago, a lazily discussed idea, post watching Pretty Woman* became a reality.

I, Marmalade, and a close friend discussed the possibility of working as call girls sometime, somewhere in the future.

“Where could we do it without being seen by someone we know?” I laugh, giddyily high on the cheekiness of out conspiratorial idea.

“Western Australia?” She suggests.

The mines.

We talk about working in a parlour up there, a brothel. I picture the sun-faded red chenille bedspreads, the hotel issue soaps, the smell of latex. We toss the idea around. I list the merits:

“We’d never run into anyone we knew” – being the main one. “The big salaries, (our imagined) lack of female action up there, the buff tradesman bods… he he.”

Yeah, the big salaries seemed a clincher. Both the miners, and potentially our big salaries. We wonder how much you can make. Excited, we laughed off the idea, and had another glass of sauv blanc.

The next day, I still I couldn’t shake the possibility of earning so much money, and living such a wild idea.

I’d looked into stripping before, knew a few girls who had done it. It looked fun, and you’d get pretty fit. But the websites offering “recruitment, all training provided” had a seedy element, seemed intimidating. But maybe that was just my own fear. I’d be on display. God, it’s obvious anyway, but it seemed, well, scary to picture myself gyrating. Hmmm.

I weigh up the pros and cons. The bottom line seems to be that prostitution makes you more money than stripping, by the hour, and several men a week see you, not thousands.

I find it difficult to shake the thought that I am onto something, and I find it less difficult to shake the idea that I am completely OK with the idea of doing it. Is this wrong?

I’m not afraid, and I’m not desperate for money or in debt or on drugs, I’m just excited.

An aside: Me, Marmalade, I love sex. I love men. I love the world and life of the working lady. I have always been drawn towards the biographies and films and blogs which smack of this Clarke Kent-esque secret life. I am addicted to learning about this idea, the hidden life, a secret persona. Think: a blog of closeted drag queen, or the musings of a woman with a secret lover half her age. The clandestine life is titillating. It’s the stuff of a good novel, with few twists and turns. Anyway, enough. Back to my research…

Early the next morning, I took my laptop into the courtyard and began to research.

I google “Melbourne escorts”. Working my way down the list, smoking, drinking my coffee, the idea becomes cemented. I feel nervous and exhilarated as I encounter a new type of language, a sexy, fast-paced big-money economy:

The websites of the private escorts, the grand promises, glamorous photos of oiled thighs, and lace covered breasts, acronyms for a sexual repertoire , BBBJ, Reverse Cowgirl, DFK, French, T-girls…

The “rates”. The younger blonder Sydney girls with their nature defeating busts and tiny bottoms charge a small fortune. $800 or more for the hour, some of them. The older ladies, and their niche market “what, is that possible? Oh wow.” Fantastic. The selection. The possibilities. You could look like anything, do anything, tattoos, anal, trannies, rub and tug, “big beautiful woman (BBW)”. Clients found for everything. It’s amazing.

My mind ticks over the possibilities, which as you can imagine are grandiose and dreamy. I feel I am on some kind of high. I think, “I could do that, not that, maybe that, charge that, maybe a little more than her, less than her. Oh my god, this is amazing.” I think:

“I have lived on less than what these girls make in one hour, for a fortnight sometimes.” The dwindling student allowance covering little more than rent, cigarettes and library fines.

I think: “Chanel makeup, a fucking gigantic library and new built-in bookcase, Sass and Bide jeans, a holiday in Noosa this time 5 star, an Audi (God, can you tell my thoughts were a little shallow at this point? he he) an endless supply of Vueve Cliquot, dining in all of those places I can’t afford since I began studying again…”

and realistically, “my own fucking business” (Excuse the pun) “no more financial woes – financial security, fast tracked savings for a house, weekly pedicures… Ah… now I’m getting silly again.”

I think: “I have to do this.”

Now, four months later, I have some, but not all of these material things. It’s great, but I’ve realised that the money is a perk and that I have to put a shitload of effort into the last few months to make this happen.

I own my own business and I am 24. I never thought I would be in this position. It has more perks than a lot of jobs but there is a side to it that is complicated and difficult.

I have had to register as a sex worker. I pay a phenomenal amount of tax. I risk my family and friends coming across an ad which (despite the anonymity of my features thanks to photoshop) may still look a little bit like me. I risk the increased chance of violence, rape, or worse. I have opted out chances to enter into romantic relationship due to the obvious emotional crap my trade would create. I worry about the health risks of my job, despite my exceedingly high level of safe practices. There are risks, massive ones, but other things sometimes outweigh my fears of even those:

Like visiting your two best mates and knowing that while one of them will be cool with your choice, the other wouldn’t be able to deal, and it’s something you have to hide for ever. And not just from him, from everyone, obviously. But not just the fact that you are sleeping with men for money. You have to hide the money too, and the clothes, and your movements half the time.

For example:

What exactly do you say to your new housemate, as you come home from work, in the early hours when he inquires about your night. I say: “I’ve been to stay with a old girlfriend from school” – then 5 minutes later he busts into the bathroom whilst you are still struggling out of a breath-restricting La Perla corset with matching teal lace trimmed knickers and stockings? Girlfriend from school, my arse. Unless he holds tight to the College girls gone wild! school of thought, you’re in for some curious sideways glances, and your own paranoid thoughts late at night about the whole world finding out…

God, if I had it my way the whole world would know, and respect it too. This is part of the reason I began this blog today, my two cents, venting, my own perspective on an age-old trade. Geez, I know I’m not setting the world on fire, but I like the idea of having POV when alot of workers voices are stifled by puritans and bigots. ANYWAY.

So… The old secret life thing comes at a cost. It requires sometimes imaginative excuses, a pinch of deceit and a daily memo to self to cover your tracks. So far, no one has burst my bubble, so to speak.

Close calls though…

1.

Housemate (Laughing innocently): “Why are there 15 g-strings on the line? I thought you wore Bonds.”

Marmalade (me): “Sale at Siren Doll, 75% off. I wash everything before I wear it.”

2.

Dad: “Where the hell did you get the money to buy your mother something from Tiffany’s on Centerlink?!

Me: “I won a scratchie, Dad. (I seriously said that, fuck).

3.

Receptionist at swish Melbourne hotel: “Can I help you?”

Stiletto-clad Marmalade: ” No thank you, I’m just heading back to my room.” Said as I glide into… the service lift used by staff for laundry and the room-service trolley. Suave.

Oh well, it’s all character building ain’t it? He he.

The positive side is that I have earned a lot of cash in a small amount of time, matured and gained perspective on and access to a different lifestyle and a different world. When I compare sex work to, say, my former job as a waitress in a upmarket restaurant, comparatively, I find sex more rewarding. Why?

1. … Financially of course, I earn the wage I made in a stunning Melbourne restaurant in a 50 hour week in around two hours now.

2. ….Independence. I own my own business, and it has been empowering to suddenly be in charge of my own (so grown up – he he) life. No more rosters, no more weekend work if I don’t want it, just a work phone and a laptop and a pretty hefty cab charge card.

3. Men. Now this is where I have had my little old misconceptions shattered. I thought I would meet the biggest jerks as an escort. I was wrong. I might still, but I haven’t yet. Compared to some of the guys I’ve dealt with as a waitress for $18.70 an hour, the punters are amazingly lovely.

Here’s an example:

How many times did I experience the following scenario? A table of businessmen on a Friday lunch, perving at my arse, and snickering between themselves about wanting to “tap that”, getting progressively more lewd and sozzled on some lovely full-bodied reds, while I act the servile (fuming) professional, offering port and cheese, while they blatantly stare at my tits? Only to leave an hour later, with food flecked ties and a drunken wink or two across the room in my direction.

Oh, but that’s to be expected. We looked after these types as best we could and laughed off their half-attempts to pull us. They are allowed to be drunk and puerile and chauvinistic over a long business lunch. Provided they left a handsome tip, it was all part and parcel.

See what I’m getting at? Do you think, even one of these businessman would have been willing to pay me $1000 to spend a couple of hours in the sack with him now? Maybe one out of twenty, but hey, now it’s my livelihood, and this is why it’s better than pouring wine and clearing plates:

Imagine: I arrive at his hotel door, dressed to the nines, hair blow-waved, lips pouted, little black dress covering the white silk and lace that cost me a small fortune. I’m there to serve him, yeah sure in a much more intimate way than in the restaurant, but you think the dynamic would be the same, no? The entree and aperitifs, the main course, enjoyed with enthusiasm…

Yeah. Similar, one thing being different.

The power dynamic.

As a waitress, I’m providing a service that is entirely based on professional demands, upholding the restaurant’s reputation, a cog in a machine which provides and experience similar to what the customer had last time, thus pleasing the customer. I run around, fetch, placate, pour wine, describe way the beef is aged, blah blah.

As a private companion, a sex worker, I am providing a service that is based purely on personal demands of the client, discussed or alluded to beforehand, tailored to his desires, yet guided by my own professional boundries. So, he likes kissing for a while, dirty talk, suspenders, you get the picture. I am not a cog in a machine, I am the experience. The product. This is more of an empowering thing than you think.

At least now I’m being paid to be objectified.

What people don’t seem to realise is that once I walk through that hotel doorway, I hold the weight of power in my hands. We play by my rules, and this is a business transaction. This man is paying me for sex, and good, upmarket sex, at that. Why? Because he is ugly or fat or depraved. God, no. Well not really in my experience.

He might be too busy to pick up in a bar, lonely on a business trip, craving affection, living a fantasy, whatever. But it doesn’t matter, it’s not about that on their side, it’s about my professionalism and their lust and how it all melds together into a happy picture of two willing parties.

Punters, men, such as the business men I described in restaurant deal in an economy of business, when they book you, they respect that you are trading something, that this is a transaction, and truly, I have never been treated as poorly in the bedroom with one of these men, as I was when I worked in that restaurant.

The pack-mentality he might have had with his pissed collegues in the restaurant has vanished, the man in front of you has transformed into a grateful, polite and, yes very hungry gentleman. A man like this, a powerful affluent man, the broker of many a deal, he might be afraid to touch you, to begin the transaction…

Now, unlike when I was waitressing or doing data entry, or working at a call centre, to get through my education, I don’t leave work feeling shit and too worn out to study.

Now, I might leave work having drunk half a bottle of Moet, with 10 crisp green notes in my purse, having met a polite, busy, wealthy man for 30 minutes of OK/good/great/amazing sex, and an hour and a half of chatting and generally flirting.

Instead of sitting in a cubicle, trying to sell electricity plans over the phone to busy and hassled householders, I might have learned a little today about the pressures of working in finance, and the best place to stay in Ko Samui, and of course, the perfect way to seduce a stockbrocker with penchant for the reserve view of a tanned backside.

I might hail a taxi in front of the Park Hyatt, stopping at David Jones food hall to buy a Alsatian Pinot Gris and a hefty piece of Pont L’evuque on his recommendation. I might arrive home and take off the stilettos, put the outfit aside for dry-cleaning. I’ll definitely put on Morcheeba and open the wine and chat to my housemate about the coming week. We’ll go to the gym and work off the amazing cheese we are about to indulge in, hopefully catching a few Melbourne rays, maybe going to see Augie March if we are both free.

I think about the freedom this line of work provides me with, the money means I am more secure financially than I could hope to be even with my degree finished in a year. I think about the amazing ignorance of so many people I know, that the money isn’t worth it, that only girls with low-self esteem or “issues” do it.

That prostitution is degrading.

Ha.

Degrading?

Sure, if someone wanted to shit on your chest, and you let them because you were coerced into doing stuff you didn’t want to by a pushy agent. That’s degrading, though some people’s cup of tea, and yes, I respect the variety, though it’s not for me.

I make my rules for the bedroom. They are clear. I partake in vanilla sex, good, erotic fun without kink.

The fantasy my clients pay for is clear-cut. I am an attractive, young woman with a healthy appetite for pleasing men sexually in exchange for money. I am a hooker. A well dressed, polished, articulate, intelligent whore. Some men like that. That’s why they pay.

I often wonder what exactly the degrading part of sex work is, to the general public?

Is it the money, or is it the sex?

Personally, I believe if I took away the money, then I might become confused about with why I am having sex with all of these strange men. But I get paid, and I know why I have chosen this path. Do you think would do it without the cash?

Take away the money, and I’ve got myself a one night stand, without the Louis Vuitton, overseas holidays and five year business plan. Just a one night stand.

And how many of us have done one of those for free?

The bottom line is sex is in our face everywhere. But y’know, I still can’t get my head around why there is more offence mustered at mention of the sex work taboo subject of sex work when the good ol’ Aussie lifestyle, beer swilling and pub crawls and bucks and hens nights produces the schlock that is Big Brother Up Late. I spin out about people freaking about people like me, then sitting down to enjoy a good dose of the televisual rubbish that mainstreamed the term “turkeyslap”.

I’m not offended by much, I am by that.

The message sex invokes in the public sphere may be controversial: as confronting as Bill Henson, or as insipidly provocative as Sam Newman’s verbal diarrhoea. But it’s there, as I said in our faces, I just like to think that maybe this little musing thing I’m creating might give someone a bit of insight into the bizarre, lovely and scary world that no-one really seems to talk about.

I am a sex worker. I am educated, switched on and I promote positive attitudes about my line of work in my personal and professional life. Sex is all around me, yeah, but somehow since I began doing this, the way I see sex, and all it entails has shifted, and to me a one night stand has taken on a whole different meaning.

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*Yes, I know sorry for the tacky reference. As an aside, though few and far between, the Richard Gere-esque clients do exist. Of course, not in terms of combined physical appearance and financial status, he he, but in terms of falling for the working lady. It’s an interesting, dangerous, dynamic, something which has not happened to me, but I have heard many a story about a working girl, a black AMEX, and head-to-toe Oscar De La Renta. I wish. Fingers crossed.