Through The Grapevine

It’s been a very eventful few weeks. I’ve felt fifteen minutes behind and like I’m forgetting something. To be fair, I have been a day or two behind on several deadlines *ahem*, and I have definitely forgotten to add important dates to my iCal. I’m a very busy fae, and usually I enjoy the diversion, but I’ve also been in an emotional rut. I hadn’t had enough time to pick apart what was going on until Friday morning, when I had my second session with a new therapist. It’s the first therapist I’ve seen who I haven’t had to explain the dense cross sections of my identities. They’re a nonbinary person with experience doing online sex work. I didn’t have to explain my pronouns or justify my profession, we could simply start.

I’ve been struggling with body dysmorphia my whole life. It’s much milder than it was when I lived with my mother, who has no self-esteem to speak of. Now, it only flares up when I feel trapped and like my life is out of my control. Logically, I know that there is no control to be had in life. Anything could happen at any moment, be it luck or catastrophy. Typically I take solace in the chaos, but lately I’ve been grappling with a sense of loss. In talking to my therapist, I realized one of the most powerful tools I’d found to develop a love for my body was stripping. While men telling me that I’m hot is great, the most affirming thing about stripping was actually just being naked around other AFABs. I got to see all kinds of bodies: all shapes, sizes, colors, and ages, and I found love for everyone’s bodies. They were all uniquely beautiful, and I could see my body amongst everyone else’s. I could measure myself on a scale instead of sitting alone in my house, scrutinizing every little detail. But now, all I have is the echo chamber of my solitude, and in that void, my mother’s criticisms pops into my head. She never criticized me. She ruthlessly picked apart herself. Every meal she ate was a failure of her will. If she had more self-control, she could survive on air and water. She saw herself as fat, even while she was smaller than me and my sister. When she picked herself apart, she by proxy, picked us apart. I remember when I was a kid, I used to imagine cutting open my belly and scraping away the fat. Even now, in my darker moments, I sometimes return to that morbid image. When I begin thinking this way, it’s hard to breathe. My body gets hot. I suck in my stomach, trying to take up less space. I felt a wave of that old, disordered thinking creeping into me on Sunday, as I went off to meet a new client.

Through a grapevine of whores I trust, I found a man. Normally, I don’t accept people in my Instagram DM’s because they don’t tend to be serious, and because I don’t want to end up in IG jail (or real jail) for soliciting. Additionally, I’m picky. I don’t accept everyone as a client because there is a lot of risk involved, and I have to be marginally attracted to someone to keep them as a long-term customer. I have age limits for outcalls. Typically, I don’t see people over 60, as much as that limits my demographic reach. I know there are lovely daddies who are 60, and to be fair, my very first and most generous sugar daddy was 60. I was twenty three and he was almost triple my age, and that was kinda icky when it came to getting frisky. I drank a lot to make it through those VIP rooms. As a mature whore, I now know that I can discriminate a little. I am narrowing the pool, because the reality is that I don’t need a ton of people to do well. A few dedicated clients is about all I have time for realistically. Anyway, I get a handful of people in my DMs dropping their numbers, asking, or all caps YELLING about buying a session with me. But they’re not serious. Serious buyers send formal inquiries. They drop their name, number, intentions, and ask respectful questions about what I provide and at what price. Sometimes they can’t afford a night with me, in which case we politely part ways. I am aware that I charge above market value. Most escorts seem to charge between $300-$500 for sex, but I price up because I know what I got paid as a stripper for a lot less, and I don’t intend to compromise until I’m eventually screwed by the cruel hand dealt to aging AFABs.

I was contacted by Sita, who was contacted by another sex worker who was looking for someone who might entertain a regular client of theirs. The man was looking for something long-term and ideally once or twice monthly. The sex worker raved about him, saying that he was one of the best customers she’d ever had. She said that he was the kind of client who would get into my alternative pronouns and want to know more. I hoped this would be the case, but you never know with clients.

To start, I didn’t know if he would like me. The woman who was passing him off is white, and I’m not. It’s tricky, passing clients from one racial demographic to another. It doesn’t often work. Men are picky, whether it be about race, education level, accent, height, weight—sex workers aren’t fungible. I’ve tried to pass off regulars of mine to my friends, but it almost never takes. I didn’t know if this man would like me—particularly me as I am now which is the most natural version of me. I’m less Selena now than I’ve ever been. In fact, Selena has become primarily the name of my social media brand, rather than my sex work persona. I wear my hair curly, keep some body hair, and barely maintain any dieting habits. The pandemic has stripped me down to my essential bits, and yet I still have to work. Thankfully, people are less picky with escorts. It’s not as if the customers can choose anybody: they really have only a few choices in people seriously willing to meet them at the time they’re looking to purchase. But still, it’s like I’m losing the protective shell of Selena. I don’t have hair extensions, tall boots, or a rigorous pole fitness routine keeping my body hard. I have no disguises left. I told the woman in my DM’s to send over a few pictures of me to see if he was interested, and dropped my number.

Not long after he texted. I didn’t know what photos she sent, but I hoped they were realistic. We scheduled a FaceTime chat to get to know each other. I wanted to know for sure that he actually wanted to meet me.

I was a few days into my period, and I felt exhausted. I stared at my face in the mirror, noting the dark circles around my eyes and little lines creasing my mouth. I looked fatigued. I threw on some makeup, hoping it would brighten my face a little, or at least add a bit of contrast, then dialed him. My hair wasn’t cooperating. I was not bringing my most confident self to the mix, but I’ve come to realize that I’m not always the best gauge of how I’m perceived.

The man who appeared before me was younger than I expected. His name is Toby. I couldn’t tell exactly how old, but if I had to guess, I’d say somewhere around 40, give or take a few years. He explained his circumstances and why he was seeking my services. He had recently ended a long-term relationship and wanted intimacy without the pressure of commitment. He wasn’t emotionally ready for a relationship, and didn’t want to lead someone on when he wasn’t in that mindset. He didn’t know if he wanted to do anything physical for our first session. He was nervous, and hadn’t had any intimate contact in a little while. We talked prices, and he gave me a tour of his apartment, impressively without my prompting. We tentatively set a meeting date for the following Monday night. By then I would be on the tail end of my period, and should hopefully return to some sense of normalcy.

***

I shared my location with Starr and Cherry before heading over. I was a little grateful that we weren’t planning to have sex or anything because I was feeling bloated and insecure in my body. I was on the verge of showing up in my black, lightning strike sweatsuit, but at the last second put on something basic—an outfit that wouldn’t convey too much personality in case he turned out to be squeamish like GKM.

It was the quickest commute I’d done in ages. Toby lived fifteen minutes away. It was very convenient, however I also lost the bit of mental preparation my longer commutes allow. As I walked over to his house, I inhaled deeply, collecting myself, then knocked on the door. I was greeted by a surprisingly tall man. That’s the thing about Zoom meetings--you can’t tell a person’s height. I entered in a bit of a hurry, partially for discretion, partially jitteriness. I don’t typically have tall clients. There’s nothing wrong with tall people, but it can create some logistical problems since I am solidly 5’1”. I know the whole tall-guy-with-short-fae thing is cute, but I like asserting dominance, and it’s trickier to do when I’m chatting with someone a foot or more taller than me. I hurried up two steps so that I could talk to him at eye level.

Me: Nice to meet you!

Him: Same! Come in.

Toby lives in a cozy, goth-themed apartment with wooden floors and decorative daggers hanging on the walls. A small hatchet served as a paper weight atop a stack of books on his coffee table. Internally I considered being murdered with the hatchet. If he were to kill me, would it be with the daggers or the hatchet, or would there be a third weapon in the mix I wasn’t yet privy to? He went to the kitchen to grab me some water and I leaned over to touch the little ax. The blade was dull. Would be terrible to be chopped up with a dull blade. He didn’t seem like the type, but you really never know.

I felt a shiver of shyness ripple down my back. I had gotten so good at being confident. Stripping taught me to strut about and believe in the goddexx that I am, but without the reinforcement of practice, I've found my confidence intermittently wane. To be fair, Toby was also nervous. I could see it in his body. It had all the trappings of a semi-blind date. And it was in a way. We were two strangers who had been set up with the hope that we might hit it off. It was a first date with a sex worker he may want to continue seeing: part interview, part date.

We spent a while talking. I gave him the list of my prices and what services I provide at each tier. Then we moved into the more personal questions. He asked me about myself and my work. Sometimes it’s easy to give my spiel, but that night I couldn’t for the life of me explain what I did. Part of it was self-preservation. I don’t like to open with the fact that I write about my customers for a living, and that there was a very real chance he would end up in one of those stories. I also didn’t know how he felt about union discussion, or how much he knew about the sex worker rights movement. My work is incredibly niche, and to go down that wormhole is to engage with a number of very polarizing beliefs. I knew we were on a similar spectrum politically, but I didn’t know how much he knew. I also wasn’t in the mood to explain, as much as I probably should have arrived prepared.

Me: I write memoir.

Toby: Oh that’s great! I have a book you might like.

He left the room, and when he returned, he held out a large coffee table reader. I began flipping through the book. It was an interesting hybrid of mediums including essay, screen grabs, and photographs.

Toby: You can keep it if you’d like.

Me: Thank you.

Toby: But before you take it, remind me to shake out the pages. One time, I gave a book to a student and I hadn’t realized I’d left a bunch of receipts tucked into the pages. I worried I’d left something embarrassing in there, like a doctor’s note or something that could be misconstrued. Thankfully it was stuff like parking receipts.

Me: It could have been bad. I’ll remind you.

Toby: Thank you.

He paused for a moment, then looked at me sheepishly.

Toby: It’s been a while since I’ve been around a truly beautiful girl. It’s been hard to be around people with everything going on. I feel my hormones pumping. I know we agreed to the $300, but is there a chance I could upgrade to the $600?

Me: Yeah, of course.

Toby: And to clarify, would that be $600 in addition to the $300, so $900? Or would it be—

Me: It would be $600 in total. So, just $300 more.

Toby: And you’re okay with that?

Me: Of course. Did you want to Venmo me or do cash?

Toby: I have cash. Let me go grab the rest.

While he popped into his room, I went to the bathroom to inspect myself. I couldn’t shake this feeling of insecurity. I wanted to restart my day with better decisions. I would not have had a donut for breakfast. I would have made sure to thoroughly shave my asshole. I assessed my face. I looked pretty, but I didn’t feel pretty, and feeling pretty tends to be more important than actual beauty. Confidence is beguiling. I steadied myself and returned to the living room.

Toby: Would you mind taking down your hair?

Me: Of course.

Toby: Sorry, it’s strange asking that way. I wouldn’t under normal circumstances. I don’t mean to be so demanding.

Me: It’s actually kinda ideal. My goal is for you to be happy, and you communicating what you want is helpful.

Toby: I think in our video chat you had your hair down. I just wanted to see it.

I removed my hair tie and fluffed my hair into place.

Toby: I want to smoke a little bit before we start. You said you smoke weed, right?

Me: Yeah. I vape every day.

Toby: I have vape cartridges if you’d prefer that.

Me: No, I’m down to smoke that marijuana flower with you.

We were breaking the Covid barrier, swapping spit via a shared joint. We took a few puffs, then went to his bedroom.

Toby: Can you take your pants off?

Me: Yep.

I removed my pants and my sweater for good measure. Neurotic freak that I am, I folded them and placed them in a tidy pile on his chair. All I had left was a crop top and panties. I wasn’t in my sexy panties--all I had were my regular degular black undies I wear at the end of my cycle. Again, I wasn’t fully prepared to be getting intimate. I would have worn a thong or something that frames my bottom a little better. I felt small and too “fae next door” for my taste. I missed my 8-inch-high Pleasers. I love towering over men. But that night, he towered over me. He stripped down and stood before me with a girthy, left-leaning erection. I considered making a joke about his politics aligning with his penis curvature, but it wasn’t the time, and I was *shockingly* into it. Part of me was disappointed he hadn’t paid for full service. My absent libido seemed to be making a return. Regardless of the limits of our engagement, I was happy I’d get to play with his dick.

Toby: Wow, oh my god.

He stepped back to look at me. I was worried something was wrong. I hadn’t expected to be looked at so closely, but this was his moment. I would go along with what he wanted.

Toby: Wow. I’m so glad I paid for this. It is definitely worth it.

He said this more to himself than to me. His hands covered his mouth in amazement.

Toby: Your body is incredible.

Normally I’m unphased by compliments, but there was something about the vulnerability of how I was feeling in my skin and the fact that it was our first meeting, that left me feeling bashful.

Toby: Could you stand for me?

Me: Sure.

I stood. I don’t like how I look standing up normally without posing or costuming. I learned to pose to offset my body insecurity. At that moment, there was no posing. It was just me standing naked in front of a stranger. Albeit, a doting stranger who was expressing nothing but love for me. I tried not to allow the insecurity I was feeling to play across my face.

Toby: Do you know how perfect your ass is?

I smiled at him. I didn’t have words.

Toby: It’s perfect. I need to look at it from every angle. Can you turn around for me?

Me: Uh, sure.

As I turned, he came up behind me. I could feel his hard cock, wet with precum pressing against my back. He reached down to caress my hips.

Toby: Do you know how perfect your body is?

At that moment, I couldn’t find a single thing right with my body, as much as I wanted to believe what he believed. Especially because he seemed to be in genuine awe, and the way he articulated his desire was genuinely hot. It was the first taste of body worship that I’d had in a while.

Toby: Would you mind getting naked?

Me: Of course.

I took off my shirt and my panties. I felt a bit more confident fully naked than in my ill fitting panties and last-second top.

Me: Do you mind if we sit down?

Toby: Please do!

I sat on the bed, and posed myself in a way that I felt was somewhat flattering. Toby awkwardly made his way onto the bed beside me. For a moment, neither of us were sure how to proceed. He’d been leading the way up until that point, but I wanted to return to my preferred position as top. I am top. Top is me.

Toby: Can I kiss you?

Me: Yes.

It was the most explicitly consensual sex work engagement I’d had in ages. We both leaned in. My mouth was dry from a combination of weed and nerves. I took solace in the fact that his mouth was probably equally dry. I could hear his shaky breathing as our lips met. My heart was pounding. I pulled away.

Me: I need some water.

Toby: Totally. Do you have some or should I grab some more?

Me: I have some.

I took a few sips and returned to the bed. He leaned back. I figured this would be the perfect opportunity to return to familiar territory.

Me: Do you mind if I sit on you?

It’s one of my favorite questions. I love how many things it implies besides what I am actually suggesting.

Toby: Yeah. Yes.

I moved to straddle him, and as I did, I swear every single one of my joints popped. When stripping, that flourish of withering joint pops is often drowned out by club music, but we were in the intimate space of his bedroom with only quiet music playing in the background. There was no denying what had just happened. I hid my blush as I buried my head in the crook of his shoulder draping myself across his body. I could feel his rapid heartbeat against my chest.

Toby: Your hair smells so nice.

I realized my hair was covering his face. Usually, this is a somewhat seductive thing to do. Many poems have been written about being hidden under a curtain of hair, but because the gesture was unintentional, it further unsettled me. “Get’cha Head In The Game” from High School Musical vaguely played in the back of my head, adding further irony to a situation already rife with ironic turns “gotta get’cha get’cha get’cha get’cha head in the game”.

Seduction felt unattainable for me at that point. I felt like the awkward child I was for so many years. It didn’t matter how I looked or how many affirmations Toby was volunteering without prompting. I traced my fingers across his abdomen and allowed my breasts to graze his chest. I paused for a moment, light headed.

Toby: Could I look at your ass again?

Me: Of course!

I turned around to straddle him again, but with my ass facing him.

Me: Does this work?

Toby: That’s perfect. Absolutely amazing. God, it’s even better up close.

He placed his hands on my hips and gently squeezed.

Toby: Your ass is incredible. Your ass is the kind of ass that makes me wish I was into eating ass. It makes me want to learn to eat ass. Christ. Do you understand how perfect it is?

Facing away, I finally felt like I could relax. I didn’t have to hide my insecure expressions. I could let my face slump or worry; I could let my ass do the work of being beautiful; and I could finally listen to all of the lovely compliments he was giving me.

Toby: You made this ass. I can see how much you’ve worked for your body. You did this!

I almost felt like crying, in a happy way. Internally I was abusing my body, in spite of all the incredible things it can do, and how much I’ve worked to achieve what I have. The fact that he saw the effort touched me. His handsome penis stood erect in front of me as I sat on his chest. I wanted to touch it, and feel what his desire had produced. I teased the slick tip of his head, and poured coconut oil into my hands. Dicks can be annoying, but they can also be delightfully expressive. There’s not much one can do to hide an erection, and I enjoy them. I couldn’t work my job if I didn’t, at least a little bit. I started stroking him, checking in to see the pace and grip style that worked best for him.

Between Toby’s affirming dirty talk and me kinda liking his dick, I found myself getting into it. When I was stripping, I used to occasionally get clients I was attracted to, but since I moved to long term GFE work, I haven’t had much variety. As much as Longshoreman and GKM are my boys, I still crave those moments of spontaneous attraction, especially the ones that creep up on me (admittedly, all of my attractions creep up on me because I’m a demi/pansexual). I felt like I was receiving as much as I was giving to him. The outcall felt more like a fun Tinder hookup than work. But that wasn’t for Toby to know. It was for me to treasure secretly, because I didn’t want to have him say some bullshit like “You should be paying me!” Not that he seemed like the type, but men have a habit of spoiling themselves.

As he came close to finishing, he asked

Toby: Hypothetically, where would you like me to come, if you were into me?

It was a kinda adorable way to ask the question. I had to think for a second, because this was hypothetical. I didn’t know if he was asking it for the purpose of dirty talk or if he was asking for a directive.

Me: Well… Hypothetically, I prefer for people to come inside me.

Toby: Um, well maybe eventually. Are you on birth control?

I laughed.

Me: I am, but that’s not happening.

Toby: Of course. Sorry, what am I saying?

Me: I don’t mind if you come on me, as long as it doesn’t get on my face or in my hair.

Toby: I don’t want to leave you a mess. I can come into a paper towel or something.

Me: It’s fine. I can clean off in the bathroom.

Toby: Are you sure?

Me: Yeah. It’s chill, I’m kinda a cum slut.

Toby: Okay. I’m still gonna grab a paper towel.

He hopped up to grab the paper towel, and I sat, contemplating if I’d made the wrong call. As much of a cum slut as I am, jizz is messy, and depending on his enthusiasm, I realized it may not be easy mitigating its trajectory. I also realized that I was a tiny bit disappointed that our time was coming to an end, pun intended. I was enjoying witnessing Toby’s pleasure.

But all good things eventually reach an end, and as I gripped Toby’s balls, he came onto my stomach. I turned to watch his face, taking a snapshot of the moment. As soon as it happened, he hopped up to clean himself off and handed me a paper towel to attend to myself. The ball of erotic energy popped, and he was back to his awkward, cerebral self.

Toby: I’m sorry. It got all over you. If you need a wipe, I can grab one.

Me: It’s fine. I’ll just rinse off in the bathroom.

Toby: Oh yeah, I don’t know why I forgot that was an option. Also, as a person who has had to clean up a lot of semen in my life, I’ve learned that it’s easier to remove with cold water. Warm water causes it to--

Me: Coagulate?

Toby: Yeah. It clumps together. There’s some science to this, but anyway, my suggestion is to use cold water.

Me: Good to know. Thanks for the tip.

I ran to the bathroom and used cold water to clear away the residue on my belly. Everything had happened so quickly. I was accustomed to long-form GFE dates, but Toby and I had gone through everything over the course of two hours. A large part of this was Toby nudging us along, trying to respect my time. He would intermittently ask me how we were doing on time, and remind me that I could rush him, since he was aware we were on the clock. I know this is the common expectation with escorts, but because I’m something in between, I tend to have a fluid sense of time. I budget around four hours, and leave when it feels appropriate. But this was my first session with Toby, perhaps our only session, so there was no way for him to know. I appreciated the way he respected the value of my time. He didn’t take for granted that I was performing labor, and he never felt entitled to my body.

I stayed for a bit afterwards, laying naked in his bed, chatting about politics. When he left the room to grab more water, I glanced over to his desk. He had shelves and shelves of books all over his house, and plenty more on the desk, behind his computer. While all the books were interesting or provoked certain opinions, there was one that caught my eye. It was a journal that sat open in front of his keyboard. The journal was full of handwritten notes. I leaned in, trying to decipher the handwriting, but in the end, decided I didn’t want to peer too deeply into his private world without invitation. In that moment, I saw a kindred soul (metaphorically, not actually since I don't believe in souls).

I was happy we’d met, and I hoped we would meet again.