He hired me to do A smoking session

* make us famous

I was sitting in the computer lab at school, nervously toggling between my work email and a paper. I didn’t know what a smoking session would be exactly, but I smoked at bars. I worried that my fingers weren’t long and slender enough.

He looked like a San Francisco leather daddy when he opened the door, so I immediately felt safe. Squat and muscular, clipped bald. He asked if I wanted water. I played with his chocolate lab. The dog was excitable but well trained. There was no feeling of sex at all.

We went in the other room. I put on bright red lipstick that he provided. I smoked and gave him head. The idea was for the lipstick to get all over his dick and for the smoke to get involved somehow. He was direct and clear in his requests, which I appreciated, but I didn’t feel that I understood the goal. I focused too tightly on spreading the lipstick. I don’t think I was very sexy.

When I got involved in the sex economy I had no idea what I wanted, but kept making what seemed like insane decisions. In retrospect they were exactly what I needed to do. Perhaps that’s always how your past looks if you’re content.

I put up another ad months later and he responded again. I explained that he had already met me, and was surprised when he asked me to come anyway.

He paid me a little more. Same dog, same water. In the other room he had me strip to my underwear and put on a pair of pink patent leather high heels. I was surprised that they fit me as I have enormous feet. I wondered if he was a drag queen, if he was gay. I put on a lot of lipstick and he told me to look in the mirror and pay attention to what a filthy whore I was as he did various things. I waited for this to upset me. It didn’t. On the contrary, unlike any other work experience I had had up to that point, I was turned on. In the end he held my throat in his hand and demanded that I look into his eyes as he came on my face.

I felt overwhelmed as I was cleaning up, shakingly vulnerable, and cried a couple stinging tears. Most sex work is something you observe; it’s either interesting or obnoxious, or you’re thinking about something else, much like other jobs. I think this is one of the things that leads to younger sex workers feeling poisonous hate. If one feels contempt for the client’s desire, getting turned on is terrifying, because it implicates you. I wrote it up as hot, and as an exception.