I was 6 years old.

 

When I was about 6 or 7 years old, I remember comments being made about my appearance in a sexual way. Anything from the way that I walked, to how I sat and the clothes I wore apparently warranted comments about my future sexual prowess, and how ‘if I was only a bit older’. These came from male and female family members, their friends and even strangers in the street. My parents thought it was hilarious and didn’t discourage it at all, because hey, it was just a harmless throwaway comment, right?

When I was 8 years old I started getting asked questions by my mother’s boyfriend’s adult son; about my virginity, ‘how far’ I’d gone with a boy, and touching my thighs to see if I would flinch (a test of my promiscuity apparently).

When I was 10 years old I was sexually abused by a family friend, someone who my parents trusted and someone who used to babysit my younger sister and I regularly. He was drunk, and I doubt he even remembers. (I remember)

The prevalence of sexual abuse in children is difficult to determine because it is very often not reported, however studies by David Finkelhor, Director of the Crimes Against Children Research Centre, show that 1 in 5 girls and 1 in 20 boys is a victim of child sexual abuse. This includes non-contact abuse such as voyeurism, indecent exposure and child pornography.

Four weeks ago I found out that the child growing in my belly is a girl, and honestly I am terrified.

I have already been confronted with male friends making sexual jokes, teasing my partner with the notion that he is going to have to be protective of boys making sexual advances. My partner is still being inundated with Bill Cosby jokes, and paedophilia jokes.

 (I have never been so horrified and enraged in my entire life)

I don’t think they fully comprehend how right they are, and yet statistically it will likely be one of them who is her abuser.

I could go on about how these jokes alone contribute to rape culture, the normalization of child abuse and the sexualisation of pre-pubescent girls in the media, but I don’t think I have to. I was 6 years old when I first realized that my body was being sexualized, I’m sure it was happening a lot earlier, but that was when I had the capacity to comprehend it. I know I’m not the only one.

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Retirement

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I am coming up to an important anniversary in a few months – 5 years working in the sex industry. What began out of financial necessity has become a passion, and a huge part of my identity. I have fought tooth and nail for it, for bodily autonomy and again for recognition as a human being (because apparently you can’t be both a hooker and a human).

Retirement wasn’t a word that was even in my vocabulary up until a few months ago, I was (and still am) sure that I would be an escort until it was no longer physically possible or financially viable.

Well, something else has come about that also was never on the cards for me, not in a million years.

Motherhood.

*raptor scream*

Yep, apparently ‘infertile’ doesn’t mean what it used to. Or at the very least my body decided that it likes who I’m sharing a bed and a life with these days and has decided that he is worthy enough of parking his DNA in my womb.

This is an identity shift that has bought up a LOT of shit surrounding my own childhood, my fear of raising a human in a shitty world, and even some old body issues that I thought I dealt with. Basically the entire universe shaking me and telling me to sort my shit.

Jerk universe.

At this point in time, I’m still working and marketing myself as a ‘pregnant escort’, which is proving to be challenging at best.

Did I say challenging? I meant weird as shit.

I mean, navigating madonna/whore complexes and coaching men through their shifting beliefs is the main part of what I do in a booking, but I’ve basically amped it up to a million with being upfront about my current parasite-host status.

Cue the influx of emails and messages prying into my personal relationships, chastising me for still working and just generally pushing boundaries left right and centre. On top of that I’m teaching men basic biology as they handle me like glass and bombard me with questions.

To be honest it’s a mind-fuck and I’m not handling it all that well (thanks, sudden influx of hormones, good job). I’m still not sure if it’s because it’s a *very* new thing and it still feels too intimate, or it’s internalised guilt leftover from some weird social conditioning that I should be at home and not working. Brains are weird.

I’m totally not charging enough for this shit.

Brb, burnout.

 

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(Tl;dr – sad girl is back on her bullshit)

Writing this blog has been an ongoing struggle, it hasn’t for a second gotten easier to share my scrambled head-meat emissions with those who care to play along at home. I’ve taken a bit of a break from writing, and retreated back into my hermit-hole for the best part of this year. I can give you a hundred reasons why I haven’t been posting, all of which are total bullshit.
Among the favourites:
1. I don’t have tiiiiimeee *insert whiny voice* (TOTAL BS, I have exactly the same amount of hours in the day as the most successful people in the world.)
3. It’s not ‘fun’ anymore. (AGAIN TOTAL BS, it’s never been about ‘fun’, it’s been a necessary outlet, and the best way for me to make sense of my thoughts.)
4. I don’t want to upset people. (Okay…partly true, a lot of what has been coming up has been relationship stuff and family stuff, but still not a good enough reason)

What it comes down to, what it’s always come down to, is fear. When things change in my life I have this really fun and counterproductive process of retreating and isolating because of fear of rejection. Which isn’t totally unfounded mind you, my life has been periodically littered with examples that back up this belief. However, for the most part, I have created an incredible life for myself in which I am unconditionally loved and accepted, which I have chosen to ignore in favour of sitting in victim-space.

For people who don’t understand what ‘Victim space’ entails, it is a reactive headspace that is the result of past trauma, which may have served a purpose at the time because it involves being self-serving and not dealing with the problem at hand. This is useful when experiencing a crisis, as a means of self-preservation, but when a person has trouble moving out of this once the threat has passed, can cause issues.

I’m not going to lie, I’ve had a rough time mentally over the last few months; my anxiety has been flaring and has brought along its buddy depression to come and join the party. I’ve cried more than I thought humanly possible, my love and I have been under enormous pressure financially and have both been working our asses off and stressed to shit.

But crisis time has passed now, and it’s time to get on with it and actually deal with my shit. So for those playing along at home, thank you for the constant support and encouragement. Every kind word, text message, coffee catch-up, and bits of physical affection has meant the world to me, whether I have told you so or not.

 

From one struggling human to another… let’s take over the world.

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Touring is like living in a pressure cooker for a period of time. You are under a great amount of stress, in unfamiliar surroundings, and are connecting intensely with multiple people per day for weeks on end. You lose yourself in your work, in every sense – scrutinising every part of your hustle like an insect under the microscope, writing and rewriting 10 ads per day just to see snare the interest of as many lustful men as possible. You spend hours in front of the mirror. You know what you look like from every angle, as you put on makeup, as you smear it on the pillows later mid-fuck. You know exactly what faces to pull at what precise moment to get the results that you want. You always get what you want.

I fly into the tropical mining town mid-afternoon, the smoke from the various bush-fires mixing in with the clouds and giving the illusion of the horizon being slightly higher than it should be. I’m suddenly overcome with the feeling of drowning and I can’t seem to shake it off. I love this place, it reminds me of when I was a preppy 18 year old living a bit further down the coast. That was a long time ago now. I checked into the apartment that my best friend and I had rented for the week and we got straight to work, posting ads, booking in clients and taking turns screaming the house down as the other one stifled their giggles in the next room. When we were done and showered, whatever poor sod had booked us booted from the room as soon as their time was up, we reconvened on the balcony, coffee and cigarette in hand. The warm sun feels so good I get goosebumps.

Sometimes we manage to con them into booking us both, and I bind them with rope while she uses them as an ashtray, or flogs their arse with a thick leather strap. I love those sessions, the intensity and perfume of the room, the sound of a grown man squealing and begging like a fat, balding baby. I’m wired from the energy, my pupils large as I seduce my victim into drinking my piss or fucking himself with my strap-on. We stuff our asses into their faces and kiss each other on the mouth, more for our pleasure than theirs.

I use the term ‘lose myself’ because that’s exactly what it feels like. For weeks after I get home and unpack, I can’t seem to recall what it is that I’m supposed to be doing with my time. I walk around my apartment aimlessly, half reading books and spending all day on my computer until I collapse exhausted on my bed. When I am away I become whatever that person needs at the time – girlfriend, confidant, therapist, slut. I do this so often and become so many different people, even my accent and mannerism changes for a time.

That’s not to say that I don’t enjoy it, I enjoy it perhaps too much that I give myself over completely until my mind and body are in such a state that I have to be nursed back to fullness. I still haven’t learned how to balance myself and my work, I’m not even sure that I want to.

Things I wish my doctor had told me about anxiety.

  1. Memory loss is a bitch. Say goodbye to passwords, PIN numbers, names, plotlines of your favorite books and movies, appointments and dates. You had better write that shit down otherwise you’re going to be standing on a street corner in Prahran crying because you don’t know how to get home and can’t remember your PIN number to get into your phone. You’re going to lose wallets, handbags, clothes and really important shit, so have backups for everything.
  2. Sometimes everything will set it off, sometimes nothing will. It’s like that surprise you never wanted and there is no point spending months trying to avoid situations that ‘might’ set it off because SURPRISE you’ll just start having palpitations on your couch watching Netflix instead.
  3. Medication is also a bitch, and doctors hate prescribing benzo’s. You’ll have to go on anti-depressants which SURPRISE makes your anxiety worse and triggers your old eating disorder, which means as a bonus you’ll have to be put on anti-psychotics so you can actually sleep and eat. ALL OF THESE THINGS ARE GOING TO HAVE SHITTY SIDE EFFECTS.
  4. You’re going to be tired. Like, REALLY tired for no good reason and no amount of sleeping will fix that. Oh, you want to go to the shops or out for coffee? LOLLLL you’ll last 5 minutes before you turn into a cranky bitch and need a nap. Take the nap, trust me.
  5. Self care is a very real thing and is going to turn into a full time job. You’re going to have to be realistic about your limits and don’t worry about what anybody else thinks because pushing yourself past what you can handle is going to mean you’re going to have a breakdown a lot sooner.
  6. Say goodbye to your sex drive. Scrunch it up and throw it out the window and replace it with guilt over not being good enough for your partner. There. Much better.
  7. You know how coffee used to be your best friend? Yeah well imagine that best friend slept with your boyfriend, drove a screwdriver into your thigh and stole your car. It hates you now and anything caffeinated is not even close to worth it.
  8. Neurotypical people aren’t going to get it, so just do you and refer to #5 because your health is going to have to come first for a little while. You’ll get through it though, you are a badass and you’ve got this.

 

Clickbait Ethics and Sex workers in the media

If you have picked up a newspaper or flicked through Netflix or even scrolled down your Facebook feed in you will be inundated by photos of disembodied fishnet-clad legs in red high heels, coupled with loaded headlines that make me want to reach through my computer screen and throttle whoever is writing this trash.

We get it, you hate us.
 

So because I’m some kind of emotional masochist, I’ve been keeping track of all of the sex worker stories over the last month just to see if things have gotten better in terms of representation in the media (it hasn’t). This tirade of quality journalism kicked off with a heartwarming, well thought out and articulate… wait, never mind. The Independent published This literal garbage fire, titled “Pregnant women are being legally pimped out for sex – this is the lowest form of capitalism”

 

As a sex worker who works under legalisation, I think I rolled my eyes so hard that they detached from the back of my skull. That one line managed to strip this sub-contractor of her agency and misinform the public on the safety of having penetrative sex while pregnant. I know plenty of pregnant workers, and honestly? They make bank. What I don’t understand is that the article clearly has a bias against how capitalism works, and yet demonises those who have found a way to make the best of a shitty system. What other industry can circumvent class, education and disability like the sex industry?

 

Read the rest of the article here…

Dichotomy of being seen

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Because of how I choose to make the best of my life under capitalism, my mere existence is both utterly invisible and simultaneously hyper-visible.

Invisible in the sense that a large majority of the general population refuse to acknowledge that I am a real person with a wealth of experience and knowledge and varied interests outside of my current profession.

Invisible in the sense that the government, banks, landlords and anyone that I have to deal with on a corporate level refuse to see my labor as valid.

Invisible in the sense that I can’t tell anybody what I do out of fear of judgement or even physical violence.

Invisible in the sense that most people deem my personal relationships as a joke (because nobody could actually love a hooker, right?)

 

And yet…

Depictions of me are the subject of TV shows, movies, books – as either a perpetual victim or some hyper-erotic seductress, usually killed off or used as shock factor.

My peers and I are plastered all over the news at every opportunity as the butt of a joke or scandal.

Fashion trends follow sex worker culture in an attempt to seem ‘edgy’.

The word ‘whore’ is the ultimate insult and is bandied about regularly by most people.

 

So where does that leave me? A caricature of a human, a pair of disembodied legs of the side of an article? A headline ‘hooker left dead in gutter’? Some sob story or punchline used as clickbait? Being laughed at on The Project?

 

It leaves me unable to get a loan or pay my taxes correctly. It leaves me unable to get appropriate medical care or police attention if I need it. It leaves me at the center of attention in social situations like some kind of circus freak because everyone wants to hear stories about my apparently ‘glamorous’ or ‘interesting’ life, but unable to make real connections with people because they oversexualize every aspect of my personality. It leaves me with crippling anxiety because I have to heavily promote myself to get work, but I don’t want to leave the house out of fear of being recognized.

But please, tell me more about how you wish you had my life.

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There is a growing trend among white women, which is kind of pissing me off for a multitude of reasons.

You know the kind.

The 20-something yoga pant wearing, smoothie-bowl and inspirational-quote posting fanatics who talk about nothing except the benefits of coconut oil and living at ‘a higher vibration’.

At first I thought this crowd was my people, because I had a few interactions that were extremely positive and encouraged open discussion around things like masturbation, self-care, mental illness and body image. Which I’m totally down for.

What I wasn’t down for was the eventual slut-shaming when anything other than monogamy was discussed, or even worse the concept of casual sex with multiple partners. What’s that? You ‘let’ your partner watch pornography?? HOW DAMAGING!!!1

Sex is sacred, the body is a temple, blah blah blah. I get it, your pseudo-elitism is based on Christian morality and everyone else is doing it wrong except for you.

So unfortunately my sexuality/relationship coaching business has fallen to the wayside for now, as I am a little disenchanted with the group of people that I thought I would be working with.

Am I just being a brat? Probably.

Do I have a million other ideas that I can chase that won’t make me roll my eyes everytime I hear the word ‘yoni’?

Ugghhhhhh yes.

Moratorium of Self

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Some people pay a higher price for living authentically.

For the last couple of months now, I have been going through an identity crisis of sorts. Redefining what success looks like to me has been a huge part of it, as well as what I want to be doing in moving forward from here. All aspects of my life have come under scrutiny – my career, my relationship, my values and my goals; what I thought I wanted and what makes me happy isn’t quite lining up.

What makes your life…well…yours? Unequivocally, brilliantly yours?

What have you had to compromise in order to get there?

For me, it was barely a choice. The second that I took my life into my own hands instead of letting others lead me like a fucking showpony, most people opted out. Other people wanted to harm me. Yet I persisted because it gave me the joy and freedom that I had been searching for.

Now I look at the career plan that I have been working on for the majority of this year and I have reservations. What are my motivations? Security? Ego? Compassion? Yes it ticks all of the boxes, but it doesn’t excite me. But maybe I’ve grown so attached to my core identity that I am feeling challenged in evolving and expanding.

Maybe.

Or maybe I just feel like I’m slowly losing grip of the freedoms that I fought so hard for.