Hex Work Burnout / Four Hour Fuck Fest pt 1

It has been quite a week. This entry is going to be continued later this week, because I’m very behind on my other work. I’m pitching an article about the effects of SESTA / FOSTA on the development of sex work community to a tech magazine; preparing for a panel discussion with the Criterion Collection; conditioning my body to teach pole tutorials for X-Pole; hosting a Strippers United general meeting; and many other things this week. Part 2 will arrive later, I promise. Thank you all for your patience.

After my little vacation, I took a break from sex work for another week because I couldn’t for the life of me force myself to dial a single client. The idea of returning to work after such a happy break was absolutely unpalatable. I didn’t want to be touched. I didn’t want to entertain anybody. A few of my customers particularly repulsed me on a sensory level--just imagining their cologne was enough to make me nauseous. For the first time in a while, I felt dread. I talked to my partners about it, and they each suggested I might enjoy returning to the club more. But, as I’ve mentioned in previous posts, the club is not what it was pre covid. Many people are still waiting to return, and from what I’ve heard, the money is spotty at best. The majority of ~whales~ as we call them, are in their mid forties to later sixties, and the majority of regulars in that bracket that I’ve spoken to are following CDC guidelines, social distancing and restricting how many people they see in person. If I had to estimate when clubs will be reasonably lucrative again, I’d say by the end of May. And while I miss a lot of the club life, including the sexual encounters with strangers, I worry about the amount of work it will be to return, and more concerningly, how much it will wear on my body. To armor up, I’m getting special inner earplugs, and looking into cute knee pads, but I’m not in the same shape I was a year ago. When I pole dance now, I get winded and bruised more easily, or maybe I simply managed to forget how battered my body was once upon a time. My relationship to sex work has changed, and I’ve changed my practice. What was once something I looked upon with wistful desire, is now something I’m weary considering. I realized the combination of fatigue and dread I felt considering returning to work were signs of Sex Work Burnout.

It happens. We all get burned out working to live under the punishing realities of late stage capitalism. It has been grueling to work nonstop during the pandemic. I haven’t given myself many breaks, and I’ve relaxed my boundaries to retain economic stability, which takes a toll on my mental health at times. Having sex that isn’t particularly gratifying requires a lot of emotional energy, and sometimes I am a champ at balancing my emotions and communicating my expectations, but other times, I’m a fucking human and struggling to get by during this unprecedented moment. Plus, I work five jobs. If I was just fucking people for money, I would probably have an easier time coping and creating mental space for my needs, but being a whore is just what I do for money. I work plenty of other jobs for free or for intermittent small payouts, and the combination of it all is a lot for me to handle.

I spent my pause in outcalls last week recalibrating to the many responsibilities I once again had to attend to. By the end of the week, I was once again anxious about finances. I felt I needed to work, so I began texting regulars to see who was around and wanted to get together. The reality is that I don’t have any major income concerns at this point. When I worry about my finances, it comes from a place of fear that I internalized as a child growing up in poverty. That bit of me hasn’t matured, or accepted that my circumstances have changed, and I have relative economic security. I could have taken more time away, but I want to hit my savings goal this year, and the only way to do that is to forget about my needs and grind (somewhat joking).

I started the week working on music with Longshoreman; then caught GKM Thursday night after his return from a trip to Texas; then a semi new customer sent me money, apologizing that he wouldn’t be able to see me for a time, since he was back on dating apps and had met someone he might like. While it was stressful to consider losing a good client, I was simultaneously happy for him. He’s one of my kindest clients, and at the end of the day, if he found love, I would be happy for him. Plus, receiving his tip for the inconvenience lessened the blow of possibly losing him. It was a very kind gesture, and I appreciated his thoughtfulness. I rounded out the weekend with a date with with Mr. Robinson.

Mr. Robinson and I had tried to get together multiple times over the last few months, but our schedules seemed to never quite mesh. He likes weekends, and to hit me up on the day he wants to get together. I have purposefully removed my weekends as an option for outcalls to make sure that I attend to myself and my partners. He had texted me while I was on my period, and again while I was on vacation. It was as if the stars were intentionally aligned against us. Finally, he hit me up on Friday, proposing a Saturday get together, and I caved. I didn’t want to work the weekend, particularly this weekend, the Persian New Year, which is one of my favorite holidays. All I wanted to do was get fat on gormeh sabzi and take a nap, but Mr. Robinson was persistent, and because he wanted another threesome, the amount he was offering was too much to refuse. As much as it pained me, I rushed through my Persian feast. I didn’t go for seconds or thirds or load up on Turkish delights. I didn’t want to feel constipated while taking Mr. Robinson’s big white cock.

Mr. Robinson’s daughter had taken over their shared condo for a night in, drinking with a few of her college buddies. While their debauchery went on there, Mr. Robinson, Valeska, and I were to engage in our own, likely much more sordid engagements. Valeska had agreed to host us in her apartment in Beverly Hills. I took a Lyft out to meet them, to avoid the clusterfuck of parking in that part of town. I was tired. Mr. Robinson had made it clear that he was paying to fuck me for four hours, and we were all going to fuck for four hours. Fatigue be damned. They buzzed me in, and I found my way up to Valeska’s apartment, letting myself in through the ajar door. Valeska and Mr. Robinson were standing in the little kitchenette, holding glasses of champagne. Valeska was in a lacy black teddy and cheetah print silk robe. Mr. Robinson was in a t-shirt and jeans, looking a bit awkward.

Me: Good to see you!

Valeska and Mr. Robinson took turns hugging me. I removed my shoes, then began rummaging through my bag.

Me: I brought the molly. It’s in crystal form, so you shouldn’t get as jittery as you might with other stuff.

Mr. Robinson: I don’t want to take too much. I think I’m just going to have a little, otherwise I’ll end up sleeping all day tomorrow.

I broke off a small piece of pink crystal for Mr. Robinson, which he promptly swallowed and chased with champagne.

Mr. Robinson: Are you gonna have any?

Valeska: None for me, all I need is champagne.

I scooped the bit of residue the crystals had left off of the counter and put the remaining molly back in my container. I wasn’t going to have any. I’ve been trying to detox after doing too many drugs to get through the pandemic. While molly might have been a fun treat, I didn’t want to deal with a serotonin tank with a busy week ahead of me.

Mr. Robinson: I got the wine you asked for.

Valeska: I have a bottle of champagne if you want. It’s very good. You’ll like it.

I inspected the bottle of red wine Mr. Robinson had gotten for me. I had requested natural wine, something sulfate free, and he had managed to find one after consulting a store clerk at BevMo.

Me: This looks great. I think I’ll stick with the red. I like Moet champagne, but it gives me a headache because of the sulfites.

Valeska: Are you sure? This kind is very good quality.

Me: I wish, but I don’t want to chance it.

We all took a seat on a little futon in the living room. Mr. Robinson half crossed his arms over his chest, looking uncharacteristically sheepish.

Mr. Robinson: How are you? It’s been a while.

Valeska: Since January? Was it a little after Christmas?

Me: I think so. It has been a while. I’m doing well. How have you been?

Mr. Robinson: Oh, you know me. I’m amazing. How’s the website going?

It was sweet that he remembered. I didn’t expect him to retain many details about me.

Me: Well, there are two websites I’m working on right now. There’s the social media platform, and then there is my organization’s website. They are separate, yet equally complicated beasts.

Valeska got up to fetch a frozen strawberry for her champagne glass, leaving Mr. Robinson and I alone for a moment.

Me: Are you okay? Your posture is very closed.

Mr. Robinson: Is it? I guess it’s just been a while. But it’s good to see you.

He smiled broadly, in a way that seemed intended to mask his nervousness.

Mr. Robinson: I hope you don’t mind, but I fell off the wagon a little and started smoking cigarettes again. But I promise to use mouthwash in between.

Valeska: It doesn’t really help though.

Valeska added as she returned to the couch. It was cute seeing them together. While their relationship seemed to be a bit superficial, I liked them for each other. Mr. Robinson is a bit bullheaded, but can be surprisingly deep if pulled into a conversation that peeks his interest. Valeska is a strong woman with a wild spirit and similarly unexpected intellect and depth. If Mr. Robinson could wrap his head around commitment, they would be well suited beyond their robust sexual chemistry.

During my drives to and from outcalls, I often chat with Evan on the phone, venting about this or that, or shooting the shit before I have to go into Selena mode. We’d spoken earlier in the week during a drive to see GKM about Mr. Robinson and Valeska, musing about what I bring to their still budding relationship.

Me: I mean, hiring an escort for a threesome is probably the best way to have a threesome. You don’t have to worry about feelings getting involved; the escort consents ahead to everything going on; you can be selfish and that’s totally fair game; and at the end, everybody is happy. Plus you don’t have to go searching for a unicorn.

Evan: That’s true, they don’t have to worry about you coming in between them.

Me: I wonder if they fantasize together about me-- if they say like “remember the time with that escort” or whatever.

Evan: How could they not?