If It Can Be Fixed With Money, It’s Not A Problem

I’ve started seeing Gemini Ketamine Man, Charlie, every week. For him, it’s the one selfish treat he allows himself. Not that he’s exactly living a life of ascetic self-denial-- he is the man who lives on a hill in a mid century modern relic with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out to the ocean in a neighborhood a mere five minutes away from the beach. But he takes on the role of caretaker and has trouble receiving care without feeling obligated to reciprocate. For me, he is one of the handful of clients keeping me afloat during these desperate times.

I’ve been comparably lucky. I have steady work, and clients who care about me in complex ways. Matt aka Longshoreman, is searching for a mini guitar for me, so that we can play music together. Lately we’ve been strumming along to songs I wrote back when I was a moody 18-year-old with an acoustic guitar. Matt is relentlessly encouraging, and a capable musician himself. Charlie is looking into a test to see if I have the genetic markers for Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis, which is an autoimmune disease my mother has. He wants to tailor a nutrition and broader health plan to combat the onset of this crippling disease. Marcus sends me lingerie when I’m feeling blue. The neon orange set arrived one day without notice. I’d been eyeing it in my emails, but since quarantine began, I’ve imposed strict austerity measures to assure that my finances remain stable regardless of whether or not my current customers remain able to continue paying me for sessions.

Nothing is certain. For a while, even Hassan was worried he might not have a job come October. Due to mass cuts to public agencies, he was informed his position might be cut if additional funds were not allocated in the city budget. We talked about the possibility that he might need to begin his job search again, and what that period might look like. Thankfully, I have enough savings to keep us afloat for a while, should anything happen. I’m an obsessive saver. Nothing makes me happier than to add money to my savings. I like round numbers. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty thousand. I’ve managed to save during the pandemic, and that is what privilege looks like. I feel very privileged. I know I say this a lot, but I do because I have friends who are homeless. I have friends who need to trick for $20 because that will pay for their food. I’ve done poverty, and it sucked. Not having to worry about bills, affording insurance, having a home, or any other baseline needs is privilege, even if I’m not balling in Gucci living in a beachside mansion.

Speaking of privilege, Charlie invited me over last Saturday.

Charlie: Are you free? Some buddies of mine are going out on a yacht in Marina.

I like Charlie, but knowing Charlie, I knew I would hate to pass the time with his friends. Charlie is unique in his sensitivity, considering his plutocrat status. But he associates with rich white people who go boating and attend secret quarantine brunches.

Me: How many people are going?

Charlie: About four of my friends and their girls, so eight or so.

I didn’t want to meet eight strangers. For one, we are still in the middle of a pandemic. I had no desire to be exposed to any new pathogens, especially from people I probably wouldn’t like. Why would I risk exposure for annoying rich people? Secondly, I am twenty-seven. Charlie is fifty-two. He looks great for his age, but he still clearly looks like he is hiring me, or that I am his mail-order bride getting hitched for personal gains. A day on a yacht, with eight strangers, being a conspicuous sex worker, trapped for an indefinite amount of time was an incredibly unpalatable proposition.

Me: Let’s just get together later. I’m a private person.

Charlie: Totally understand. That’s what I like about you. I am too. I’ll talk to you later!

I was glad Charlie didn’t try to pull a Danny and badger me into joining in the yacht outing. A lot of sex workers love these kinds of perks. I do enjoy getting a taste of the life of the truly wealthy from time to time, but I’m a simple person. The modest Oklahoman in me has little interest in the schmoozy, conspicuous-consumption culture in LA. Visiting Charlie’s house is already enough of an opulent adventure for me. I also don’t like most people. I’m very picky with who I allow to be around me. I don’t have the mental energy for vapid exchanges, and I couldn’t imagine this yacht outing leading anything lasting. Charlie and I decided we would meet in the evening around 8:30, after the festivities came to an end.

I began the forty minute drive to his house at 8, expecting he would be late.

Charlie: If you get there before me, just let yourself in and make yourself at home.

I arrived before him and parked in his driveway. I’ve become such a regular guest at his house, I wondered if his neighbors recognized my car at this point. I walked up to the front door and tried the handle. It was locked, so I walked around the side and found one of the sliding doors was left ajar. Charlie is so trusting, and perhaps with reason. I let myself in and began cueing up music for whenever Charlie arrived. The sun was setting, and the sky was a vibrant combination of orange and purple. I took hurried selfies, expecting him to arrive at any moment.

Taking selfies is a little embarrassing for me. I remember the earlier days of the internet, hashtagging #gpoy, “gratuitous picture of yourself,” which is admittedly a lot clunkier and less cute than “selfie”. I went through a major glow-up since becoming a stripper. I didn’t always look the way I do now. I was a rugged art nerd with a shaved head paired with unshaved body hair. I wore quirky clothes I either made or thrifted to preserve old sewing and knitting traditions. This was before I fixed my skin, teeth, or eyesight. It was a rougher time, and I was a rougher person. I wasn’t pretty when I was growing up. I was awkward and couldn’t afford to be stylish. The only people praised for being beautiful in Oklahoma were white women, and that was one thing I was constantly reminded that I was not. I was somewhat acceptable because I “talked and acted white,” but I was always the other.

Flip forward to now, and I get paid for being conventionally attractive. I don’t think that reality will ever sink in, because for me, beauty is about being savvy. For me, it was figuring out the pieces to the puzzle that somehow, when combined, create the look of someone beautiful. It’s the hair care, extensions, and wigs; knowing how to accentuate my eyes; ways to arch my back; angles and lighting for pictures; noting what kinds of sexiness were rewarded monetarily at the club; and taking the less-than-constructive criticisms of cishet men. It’s a joke, but it’s also the way I pay my bills. Taking selfies still feels silly. Why does anybody want to look at me? Why do I get the most likes for pictures of myself? Why are selfies the key to social media success? Social media algorithms are stupid. I know this. My friends wouldn’t all be shadowbanned if the algorithm had been constructed for good. My recent influx of followers came due to the controversy I initiated calling out FKA Twigs. It feels very base. I’ve said a lot of valuable things prior that got significantly less buzz. It is an intrinsically exploitive tool, and yet it is the one that has given me the platform to reach all of you the way that I do.

I took a few selfies in Charlie’s kitchen, adding to the series of snapshots I’ve taken in intimate spaces with my regulars. They add color to the constellation of stories and details I’ve chronicled through the years. Now you not only know about Charlie’s glamorous life, you also have a picture of his view.

I poured myself a glass of wine and sat, killing time on Instagram.

Charlie: I should be there in 30! See you soon.

Thirty minutes passed. Then an hour. I called Charlie, unsure of what was happening. No answer. I switched from mood music to sewing tutorials. I rang him again, impatient. Then a second time, feeling a little less polite.

Charlie: Hey! Sorry I missed your call. I got into an accident on the way back and now I’m waiting for the tow.

Me: Oh wow. Are you okay? I was getting worried.

Charlie: Aw, I’m sorry. I’m okay, it was just a small bump, but the airbags went off. The guy drove away, didn’t even take my information.

Me: I’m glad you’re okay. That’s wild.

Charlie: I gotta stick around to handle stuff here, but I’ll uber over as soon as I’m done. Just stay where you are. Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge and I’ll be there as soon as I can.

Me: Are you sure?

Charlie: Definitely. I’m gonna need some love after dealing with all of this. I promise I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just stay put.

Me: Okay. Keep me updated.

I opened his fridge and rummaged around. Charlie is living the bachelor lifestyle. His refrigerator was 95% full of beverages: from kombucha, to juices, energy drinks, to alkaline water and chilled white wine. The remaining contents were cheeses and sliced fruits. I wondered for a moment what Charlie ate, if his fridge was reflective of his dietary habits. Was he living off of juice and cheese, or was the reality more that he primarily ate takeout rather than at home meals? He had nothing palatable, and I was quite hungry. We had planned to order in, but that was clearly not happening. My stomach grumbled angrily as I perused his pantry. More nothing. On his counter were a few glass jars filled with candy, then further down sat a variety of Moon Juice powder supplements. Were these the key to Charlie’s vitality, or was it his vigorous fitness routine paired with dips into his cryogenic therapy chamber? There was nothing for me to eat, and I began to feel the hunger throbbing behind my eyes. I drank my wine as if it were food, savoring each sip hoping to fill up with sugar if nothing else, then sank into the couch attempting to veg out and forget my hunger.

Another hour passed. I began wondering what I was still doing there. How had I lasted nearly three hours waiting in limbo for Charlie while my stomach gnawed away at itself? Was he going to try to haggle for a discount? I vented to my sister and an ex who is my insomniac confidant. They were also amazed I’d waited so long.

Alexei: You should go home, and I should go to the grocery store. Let’s make a pact to both do the right thing and take care of ourselves.

Me: I would, buuuuut if I stay I’ll make enough money for all of this to be worth it, and I’ll get to go home at the same time. I mean, in the end I’m doing less work.

Alexei: Do you think he’ll show up?

Me: He says he will. He told me to stay put. The man is ordering an uber to get here. His will to outcall is strong.

Alexei left for the grocery store, leaving me to continue my misery alone. I curled up under a blanket, assessing my options. The headache had snowballed into a migraine and my breath was growing progressively funkier from hunger. Not eating = less saliva = more fertile breeding ground for fragrant nasty bacteria to propagate. I called Charlie again.

Charlie: I’m calling the uber now! I’ll be there in 20, maybe 15.

Me: Okay.

Charlie: Don’t go. I’m on my way.

Me: Okay.

Charlie: Thanks for waiting so long. You’re the best.

Me: Do you have some acetaminophen?

Charlie: Like Advil? There should be some in the bathroom cabinet.

Me: Awesome.

Charlie: Let me know if you have trouble finding it. See you soon.

I rummaged around his daughters’ cabinet, looking for Advil and mouthwash. I didn’t know how I would manage to be chipper entertainment between my throbbing headache and hanger. I downed a cup of water with the pills, then gargled away the hunger stink. It takes a lot to mentally prepare for an outcall. I’m surrendering my body and attention to my customers, listening to every inane thought they decide to voice. I had arrived prepared three hours ago, but now three hours later, I was emotionally tapped.

I heard Charlie’s keys as he unlocked the front door. I was simultaneously annoyed and relieved. I was happy he had finally made it, and wasn’t injured in his accident, but I was starving and salty about it. He wore a fresh button down white shirt and breezy shorts.

Charlie: I’m so sorry. I can’t believe all of this happened.

Me: It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re alright.

Charlie: You’re so good to me. You always care. You’re a really selfless person.

I hugged him. He was rattled, but still very much himself: in the face of shitty circumstances, he chooses to ask what the lesson is and reflect rather than reacting with anger or frustration. I could see he was still processing what had happened.

Charlie: It was crazy. I was driving, and the guy in front of me stopped suddenly, and before I could react, I rear ended him. I was at fault, but he drove off. I had to stay because the airbags went off. I kinda think it’s a sign. This is the third time I’ve gotten into some sort of accident in this Porsche. I think the universe is trying to tell me I need to stay grounded-- get back to my simple roots. I think I’m gonna go back to driving a Range Rover. I really liked my Range Rover. I kinda hope they total the Porsche.

Me: Imagine if he had stayed. It’s lucky he didn’t.

Charlie: I know. It just makes me believe even more that I was put here to do something. I mean, the whole thing was so crazy. The cops came by and waited with me while the tow came. I’d been drinking earlier. Not a lot, but if they’d tested me, I don’t know what would have happened. But somehow they never asked. We chatted the whole time, and they were super friendly, asking me about my lab business and testing stuff. I felt like I kinda had to distract them, but I also think they didn’t try to test me because I wasn’t putting that energy into the universe. I wasn’t even really thinking about it. But imagine if they had. I told my brother about it, because this never happens. Normally they would test you, right? But for some reason they didn’t.

Me: It’s lucky they didn’t. You never know what your levels are. It doesn’t take much to be over.

The situation was practically screaming WHITE PRIVILEGE. An affluent white man spends the day drinking on a yacht, drives home in his Porsche and rear ends someone. He calls the cops and they’re chummy rather than suspicious about the circumstances of the collision. Where was the other car? What led to the collision? He did not have to answer any questions or worry about his safety. He got away scot-free after drinking and driving. I was both incredulous and not surprised at all.

Charlie: Imagine, I mean things could have been so bad.

Me: A DUI would be devastating.

Charlie: I’m grateful nothing worse happened. I always say, “if it can be fixed with money, it isn’t a problem.”

Wow. If only I could relate to that sentiment.

We continued our session in his bed. I held him and inspected his bruises. Charlie is the opposite of me in every way. Sometimes I don’t understand how we’re able to relate, but somehow his emotional intelligence bridges the gap between our disparate worlds.

Charlie: I love how you nurture me. I really need nurturance, and you’re so good at it. I never realized how much I needed it before. I used to think I was fine, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized I need it too. Especially tonight. I don’t think I would have been able to sleep if you hadn’t come over to take care of me.

Me: I’m glad I could help care for you after everything.

Charlie: I’m so happy you’re here right now. You’re the best.

Charlie managed to soothe my irritability with his genuineness. I knew he meant what he said. And if I took away the materials of the moment, I could empathize. Accidents are unnerving, and having someone there to hold you after is incredibly necessary. At my core, I’m a caretaker and at that moment, Charlie needed me. So I stayed, putting my hunger and fatigue aside, and cared for Charlie.