For over 40 hours now I have been wanting to sit down and write about the connections of my childhood and the reason I think men should pay for it.
When I was nine I had a 14 year old slave who would bring me gifts after all the lights went out. He brought me stuffed animals (specifically Pound Puppies), make up, jewelry — mostly junk but once a 14 karat gold chain, at which time my mother told me I had to stop accepting his gifts.
We had a stand off. I was only 9 but I was not going to let her squelch my good thing. And this was a good thing. I had an older boy who brought me presents. Yes, he brought them to my bedroom window at night. I loved it.
He would sneak up to the window and slide things in. I would say “what else did you bring me?” And he would pass yet another thing through the window. I think he even brought me money sometimes.
I would not talk to Raymond unless he brought me these things.
I never went to his house and I never met his family.
I have no idea where he got the things but they were always new things, with tags.
When guys send me email saying “I don’t pay to play” it offends me because at my core I am a whore. I like to receive gifts and money. I am truly turned on by being paid for my sexuality.
There are no two ways about it. As my sexuality was developing I was pounding in the message “take things from him or don’t talk to him tomorrow.” My sensory receptors have been flooded with this message my whole life.
When I was nine I snuck into the bedroom of any adult I could find. I felt like an archeologist on a mission – porn. By some point I was pretty sure every adult had some so I went in search of it.
Adults truly do not appreciate it when little kids go digging around in their bedroom, but no care for me. I lived in an age where adults hit kids as a very last resort, which is to say practically never. What was going to happen? Would we really get caught or would we find the porn and look at it to understand the sexual tension in this big persons world of ours?
Once my cousin told on me. She was a snot and grew up to be a “good person” as opposed to the professional weirdo I am. She is a teacher, I think. Narking me out sort of put a damper on our friendship.
Other than that I don’t think I ever got caught. Most of the time I would sneak into these parents rooms, and if there was a father present in the home, there was definitely porn. I would always start with the bedside table. If I found nothing or something light like Playboy I would look under the bed – bingo! If in the bedside table I found Penthouse or Hustler I knew that was the stash.
And then I started to find the fetish magazines. The women in the tall boots, the one with the big glasses was especially mystifying. She did things that were not specifically thought of as sexy to my little brain, but she was. She would stand there with a slave groveling at her feet, a single tail whip in one hand and her massive glasses on. Stephanie Locke is what the magazines told me her name was.
For the first time I found myself wanting to take a magazine. So instead of replacing it I shoved it in my sock, pulled the leg of my pants around it and walked very carefully out of the house. I stole my first fetish magazine. So began my pornographic data collecting.
I’m sure some people would look at this action and think I would develop an attraction to stealing. I didn’t. Well not stealing in and of itself but stealing porn. I started to take the good stuff, the not so good stuff, the literate porn like penthouse forums, well everything I could find in print. I stashed it in my uncle’s boat.
We lived really close to the docks and I knew I wasn’t supposed to play in the boat, but I did. My mother always got really mad at me for playing in the boat but because my uncle lived way in the hills I was always tipped off before he pulled into the city. The boat was the perfect place to hide my newfound library of porn.
I started picking porn up off the streets, a filthy habit that I sometimes find myself resorting to today when I walk past the LA X Press, a sadly disappointing alternative to the crusty ripped pages of man on man action that I would find in the alleys of San Francisco.
Anything I could find that was meant to be sexually stimulating, I took it to the boat. My friends and I would sneak down there to look at it, compare it, talk about it. We would ponder the popularity of Playboy. “Why would anyone buy this when you could get Hustler?” Our little minds were puzzled.
There was no one there to tell us that their wives might tolerate the Playboy but not the Hustler, should they find it. No one mentioned that maybe everyone has a private collection of the really good stuff, whatever that was for them, maybe every adult male had an uncle’s boat. Why would Playboy be so popular? It wasn’t the articles like they said, they would read the forum for that.
So when guys tell me they don’t pay for it I find myself wondering why. When you pay for it, you are sure to get it. When you pay for it you support the idea that women will continue to look good, for you – you dirty man you. Paying for it keeps the sex industry alive. With all the free porn available in the world right now why don’t men see paying for a real live woman to spend time with them, entertain their sexual fantasy, and swat them on the ass on their way out the door, as an investment? It is an investment in live nude girls, live human interaction, and live sexual stimulus.
Everyone loves a good cam show – I know I do – but we need each other to stay connected to reality. Without another person to indulge in your sexual proclivities what will happen to society as we know it. Will we all become a-sexual? Will we become a nation of scared, frugal, masturbators? Yes, I think so.
So I want to take a minute to thank Raymond for being my first slave. A boy who was not afraid to bring me gifts so I would pay attention to him. I wish more grown men understood the pleasure that women receive when they are paid for it. Being paid for it is a dirty fantasy, a kinky pleasure in and of itself. Being paid for it is wrong and taboo, but it does make all of your fantasies so much more pleasurable to me and my fellow sex workers. We came to be in a business where getting paid for it satisfied something in our beings. Sex work is not all about the money – I could have become a lawyer, a con man, or a Wall Street tycoon if all I cared about was money. No, the sex business is about sex, sexuality, fulfilling fantasies, and money. It s the connection between sexuality and cash flow that turns me on. And yes, it really turns me on.
So all you grown men out there, if you want to find a woman and turn her on, find out what she likes and satisfy her fantasy. If she is in the sex business money is definitetly part of the fantasy, so dig into your wallets and pay a sex worker today. You will be glad you did!