The Pearl Necklace

I spent a month going back and forth, attempting to reclaim my Tryst account after it was hacked. The irony was that it was hacked not even a day after it was released from the account approval process. I’d sent in a picture of myself holding a piece of paper with my account details and a simple “I affirm that this information is true.” That picture was rejected because my arms were not entirely visible. It was essential to verify that someone else was not holding up the page in front of me because trafficking is real. Tryst is based out of Australia, a country where full service sex work is legalized. What I like about the site is how specific you can get with your services and pricing. You can list how much you charge for various incall services, outcall services, and digital/phone sex services. It is a very honest, straightforward site that is explicitly about selling sex work, as opposed to pages like What’s Your Price, where people can accidentally hop on expecting to find true love or some other bullshit.

The flow of traffic on Tryst is not what I expected. Unlike the strip club, which is busiest on weekends, Tryst’s peak days are midweek. Wednesdays are particularly popping. Between clients on business trips looking for a night of companionship or locals using excuses like “pulling a late night at work,” I’ve found midweek to be optimum for finding clients.

I took my second client one damp evening after a series of failed exchanges. I’d been texting three different potential candidates. One man ghosted shortly before our date. Another man ghosted as soon as I mentioned a deposit. This client had come to me with a peculiar proposition.

“I know this is unorthodox, but I was wondering if you would ever provide services for a trade? My family owns a pearl business. ______ is our name, just so you know that I’m being real. I’m not sure what your hourly rate is, but I could pay you in jewelry worth whatever price you would normally get paid.”

I looked up the business. Sure enough, there was a tiny storefront in the jewelry district. I browsed the website–taken by the glossy images of ornate pearl earrings, necklaces, rings and bracelets. A white and gold pearl necklace immediately caught my eye. The price: $3,775.

“I’m interested. I’ve never bartered for sex before lol.”

“Me neither! But I figured I’d give it a shot. I’m moving to Tahiti in a few weeks and I wanted to go out in a big way.”

I sent him an image of the white and gold pearl necklace.

“Could you make a necklace like this into a choker?”

“Definitely.”

Money has been harder to come by lately. Perhaps I’m contributing. I have been reluctant to take on new clients as of late. Between my divorce-like separation from my ex and my departure from the club I called home for over four years, I’ve felt adrift in unfamiliar waters. Who am I becoming? Do I want to be a stripper anymore? In a recent interview I was asked if I’d become jaded about dancing. The interviewer had noticed an increasingly critical lean to my content. It was difficult to hear that that was how she had perceived my work. I have become more critical, but not for lack of love of dancing, and not because of shit customers. My angst came from mistreatment at the hands of strip club management. It’s one thing to face the steady stream of customer “no’s” with the background support of attentive club staff, it’s another to face those “no’s” while also experiencing harassment and intimidation from management. I realized I needed an indefinite break from the dog-eat-dog hustle of the literal grind economy, and whoring, while high-impact, wasn’t the worst interim option.

I had taken my first client a few weeks prior and the experience had been generally pleasant. I caught him for my screening call while he was driving. He held his phone in one hand while he drove to the hotel. While I couldn’t see much of his face, I could tell that he was youngish, likely only a bit older than me. He wore his thin dark hair in a ponytail, which revealed a feather earring dangling from one ear. He didn’t give off “undercover cop” vibes, which was my primary requisite, and he sent me a deposit without a fuss.

“If I pay you $2,500, how much longer would you stay?”

I spent my customary four hours with him, during which time we only spent thirty minutes actually getting freaky. The rest of the outcall consisted of talking politics and the complexity of untangling “real fascism” in countries with actual fascist parties from the infant fascism creeping into US politics. The experience felt gentle and easy, compared to the fraught strip club environment. I knew how much money I was getting. I knew that my services were wanted. I wouldn’t have to spend hours twiddling my thumbs, hoping to make a few hundred bucks. I left feeling resolved in my decision to change lanes.

While most of the potential clients contacting me via Tryst have not worked out due to scheduling conflicts or my general lack of interest in working short gigs, I have been pleasantly surprised by the demographics of those contacting me. Most of the clients have been relatively young: late twenties to mid forties. They have come from a diverse set of ethnic backgrounds, and generally tended to be well-off yuppies. While a few potentials have balked at my prices, the majority of respondents have not attempted to haggle. A number of people have offered more than I requested.

***

I called Pearl Papi shortly before leaving for the Airbnb he had booked for our interlude. A younger man than I expected answered the video chat request.

“Hey!” I said, warmly.

“Hi. What’s up?” he asked, gruffly.

He peered at me with a look I couldn’t decipher. I’ve gotten plenty of looks from potential customers. Most soften when they see me, grateful that I’m not a catfish. Some get flustered, not expecting to be seen. Pearl Papi looked as if I’d interrupted him. Maybe it was a neurodivergent moment.

“Just wanted to say “hi” and see who I’m meeting.”

“Hi. Do you need anything?”

“Nope. I can’t think of anything, just happy to see your face.”

“I got the Topo Chico and snacks you asked for.”

“Great.”

He scratched his mustache and gave me a tight-lipped smile. Mustaches are suspect. It’s hard not to associate this particular bit of facial hair with cops, but I put that concern aside. Cops didn’t usually barter. The money exchange seemed like too crucial a component, as evidenced by the numerous cop-based procedurals I’ve watched through the years.

“So, I should get to you in about forty minutes, depending on traffic.”

“Cool. Let me know your ETA when you’re on the way.”

“Will do.”

I eyed him one last time. I couldn’t tell if he was attractive or if the video quality was shitty enough to filter away blemishes.

“Okay, well. See ya in a few.”

“Great.”

“Oh wait, one last thing. What’s your name again?”

He laughed, “I’m glad you forgot my fake name. I told you “Richie,” but my name is Rick. It’s like I put on a trenchcoat and sunglasses and hoped you wouldn’t find me out.”

“That’s too funny,” I laughed.

The Pearl Prince met me in front of a tall, wooden gate. He was a bit scraggly in person, but warm. He gave me a hug and led me down steep stairs to our hidden Airbnb. The main draw was a cedar hottub which overlooked the city. I poured us two tequila sodas and we settled into our fragile intimacy.

Rick was Israeli. In spite of being in his late twenties, he had managed to purchase a house not too far from LA. He worked for his family’s lucrative jewelry business, making enough to afford his mortgage and a Tesla. In his freetime he played around in a little art studio he rented downtown. I sipped my drink faster than I wanted to, taking it like medicine, hoping it would take the edge off.

I wasn’t scared of Rick. He was polite. He said the right things. When I arrived, he presented my gift and asked me to check over the pearls to make sure it was what I wanted. He said he thought it was silly that sex work is illegal. He voiced a few additional leftist thoughts, which gave me a sense that we were on the same team, but still. It is not easy going in cold to fuck someone, at least for me. I know gay culture is all about anonymous hookups, but I’m not cut from that cloth. I’ve been assaulted too many times to be trusting that way, and besides, I wasn’t hooking up with Rick out of horniness. This was a transaction. I wasn’t filtering based on attraction–I was filtering to avoid predators.

After twenty minutes of soaking, I felt like I was cooking in my own soup. I needed a break from the heat of the hottub, so we adjourned to the bedroom. Rick had taken on the chivalrous task of purchasing condoms and lubricant. The combination of fear and hottub had dried me out, so I was grateful for the help, and Rick wasn’t afraid of using lube. He poured it liberally. We took lubricant breaks. It was one of the most lube-positive experiences I’ve had in my years of full service work.

Rick wanted to get as much bang for his buck as possible, and after a while, it felt like we were both working.

“We could take a break and continue later,” I suggested, “We have time. Let’s just take it easy and have fun.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

I felt the alcohol giving me a headache. I made a beeline to the crudites tray and ate all of the baby carrots, trying not to think too deeply about the effect ranch dressing would have on my breath. Rick wanted me to stay the night. He had gotten a two bedroom so that we could each sleep in our own room. I didn’t know if he expected me to actually stay, or if it would be fine for me to slip away in the wee hours of the morning. There was no substantial food to speak of, and I didn’t have my assortment of sleep aids and earplugs that normally tuck me in at night. As we watched TV, I began plotting my escape.

Sure, he may have bartered the equivalent of an overnight fee, but it was still barter and not cash. Even if it had been cash, I couldn’t imagine actually spending the night with a client. I hardly like sleeping in my partners’ houses, let alone at an unfamiliar Airbnb with a stranger. Was he wanting a morning sex experience? Unlike Cardi B, I hate morning sex. There’s nothing less appealing than waking up with morning breath, my hair a mess, no coffee to fuel me, and being expected to be intimate. With a stranger??? There was no way I would be able to sleep under these conditions, let alone rally for morning sex. Plus, my boy Rick was a 6 a.m. riser. I would sooner die than wake up at 6 a.m. to fuck.

“I’m thinking we should use the hottub some more, maybe,” Rick said sheepishly.

“Okay.”

I was fading. As we sat watching the city lights flicker in the distance, I internally debated my rates. Should overnights even be listed under my services? It felt like such a slog entertaining a person for as long as I’d been entertaining Rick. I’d been contacted by a man who inquired about taking me on a vacation to the Bahamas. He wanted to hang out for five consecutive nights, and asked me what that would cost. I gave him an estimate, expecting him to balk at the number. He continued talking to me, asking about logistics and expectations. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to do it, even if the trip would pay for half of my next quarter of tuition. I could be trafficked. Who knew what might happen between the airport and the all-inclusive resort? Was I about to be the tragic sex worker in the next season of White Lotus? When I spoke to him, he had seemed like a normal guy, but you can never be sure. Even if he was a good person, what would it be like waking up in a strange place with a stranger? Would either of us enjoy the experience?

Rick and I ran through the same sequence of events as earlier: hottub chat, sex, pillow talk. I leaned against him, listening to his rapid heartbeat. I could tell he wasn’t settled either. It felt like an uncomfortable standoff.

“How long do you think it will take you to get home?” He asked.

“Oh, probably like twenty minutes at this time,” I sighed gratefully, “No traffic and all.”

“I forget it’s so much faster without traffic. I know it’s already pretty late for you. I won’t keep you any longer.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“You really are a pro. You’re so good at sex, and I’m not. I’m not very coordinated or anything, but you make it seem easy.”

It was a sweet note to end upon. Rick walked me to my car. I opened the jewelry box and gazed at my stunning pearl necklace. It was something I would never buy for myself, but having it now, I knew it was worth it.