After more than a dozen years of doing sex work, my income mostly comes from regulars, and I only see around four new clients a month. This means I now rarely walk into situations with no idea of how they’ll unfold—my work is more predictable and hopefully safer than it used to be.
During this past year, I’ve only had three bookings, out of well over 100, that made me uncomfortable, where I decided I wouldn’t see that client again. One was an affluent property developer who was so coked up he was difficult to deal with, disrespectful and reluctant to pay. The other two weren’t necessarily bad clients, but I felt discomforted from my experience with them; one was a direct and vivid reminder of how people fall through the gaps in state support systems, which I will write about at another point, and the other was a couple that left me incredibly rattled.
It was the woman who made the booking. She had contacted me asking if I would join them that evening, and after explaining on the phone that I wouldn’t partake in their cocaine session, I agreed to see them. She was very nice, but he was so coked up that he couldn’t get hard and was chasing his lost erection. Increasingly frustrated that he couldn’t get there even with the stimulation of porn on the huge TV and two women having sex in front of him, he was uncommunicative and not remotely amenable.
There was a weird vibe, but I put it down to the fact they were both high and I wasn’t. After three hours, I said I was too exhausted and had to leave; after begging me to stay longer, the woman walked me out of the apartment complex.
On the street she broke down in tears; turns out, it was an abusive “freak-off” situation, where he insisted on having long, drug-induced sex sessions and she agreed, to please him, even though the demands were insane. He had been awake for 24 hours at this point and had refused to let her stop or sleep. She was terrified to go back upstairs and be alone with him because he blamed her for not being able to get hard. She told me he wouldn’t let it end until he had finally come (impossible, given he had already taken multiple Viagra and was sleep deprived and high on cocaine). I tried to convince her not go back, and to leave him, but she said she loved him and needed to keep trying—that night and with the relationship in general.
It felt wrong to leave: I was knowingly condemning her to be alone with him, when she said my presence made it easier for her, and I was leaving her for my peaceful home and girlfriend. Despite my sense of guilt, though, staying wasn’t an option—not only would I have felt complicit in her abuse but making money off it would’ve felt exploitative (especially as she was the one paying to try to satiate him). On top of that, it was also upsetting for me to be there, as a witness to his aggression towards and degradation of her.
She has stayed on my mind since, and I have thought a lot about whether there is a way to help her without crossing professional and personal boundaries. None of this woman’s friends or family knew about this side of her relationship, and I suppose she felt able to confide in me because I had been exposed to some of it. I can only hope the conversation will be a turning point for her.
So many people live secret lives that we have no idea about, and some of those lives are very sad. My job gives me a window into other people’s worlds, and occasionally what I witness is incredibly bleak. Here was a peek behind the curtain I wish I hadn’t seen. I am unable to change this woman‘s situation for her, and knowing about it made me dwell on all the other women facing domestic violence behind closed doors.
