Dear John

You hadn’t seen your kids in three weeks, and you missed their last phone call. It isn’t that you didn’t want to see them, you did, you always do. You made an effort to be home when she said they’d call, but she changed the time without telling you. You miss your dog and your hot water pressure and the way the kids lit up when you got home from work. Your love life is loveless and non existent, you only have the memories to sustain you and you wonder if you imagined it all. But you didn’t imagine them, and the way they look a bit like your father and speak just like you did, when you still had faith in the world and love wasn’t yet a question. 

You look for the little things in life to sustain you, and that’s when I met you. I had no idea the pain you feel in your life because it’s masked behind the kindness that you show to me. You display a deep concern for me, not in the paternalistic way that I’d hate, but just in the way that you care for a friend. You ask me how my day was, even when you just found out your child was flunking school since the separation. I don’t know the guilt, anguish and the hint of anger that you wake up with every day because you feel that you failed them. I don’t know that you still roll over to stroke her hair at 6am only to remember she isn’t there and she never will be again. You wonder behind your kind eyes if the pillow beside yours is just a cruel reminder that you may end up alone, without the scent of floral shampoo to comfort you.

You bring me wine and you treat me as you wish you still could a lover, and I still can’t sense the pain as you walk away from me, unable to return until the lawyers settle things with her and you have cashflow again. I don’t know what you’re going through and you spare me the load because for a moment you just want to forget that your life has a different meaning than before. You shower me with the affection you long for and you spoil me with the gifts you no longer can give to a stranger you once loved. 

We dine together and you ask me questions and learn about me, to deflect from yourself and to escape for a moment the memory of the meals you once shared with your family. We feed and we fuck and we fool around, to take you back to the time before. When life was still fun and love didn’t become loss and nothing felt too heavy to carry.

I’m here for you John when you need me. You’ll never tell me, because you respect me and want to keep our affair fun and flirty and light. You will never tell me because you want to escape and to forget. You wish I understood but the words do not come and you don’t think that they should - not here. But I know John, not in what you say and not in what you do, but because pain is buried in the eyes and I see you. I’ll be here on my little island in rough seas, when you are tired of swimming, float my way and for a time, we won’t hear the waves or the cries of all those we left behind.

PETRA FOX

Twitter: @foxandthefeline

Instagram: @foxandthefeline

Web: petrafox.com.au

Champagne Casanova

 I knew you were trouble by the look on your face when you popped the bottle open, the sideways grin and the way you look up without moving your head. 

Last week I had a scheduled ‘sex appointment’ with my regular fuck buddy but they've become unreliable lately. Funny how people are willing to pay us yet our free cum appointments take us for granted. I really should just stop that.

But this promised to be fun. Whatever happens next, I get paid and am happy, there’s never guilt, mixed feelings or resentment. So I don’t worry. But, if I am indulged sexually, it’s a nice bonus, isn’t it?

Wine relaxes me. I’m glad you brought Champagne, it’s a naughty little treat that adds to the mood. The first sip fizzles on my tongue and I haven’t much to say, I just let the moment happen and savour the taste. You start the conversation, but, I can’t recall what you said. I watched your lips, soft for a man, play a dance, and I shut you up by going for them.

You can tell a lot about a person by the way they kiss. Some people kiss like their lips are fingers trying to grip. Dry, hard, possessive. But then others, like you, you know to keep them relaxed. You know how to anticipate the next move. You’re clean shaven, no stubble so there’s only silken flesh touching my lips, just a hint of tongue, tasting like the very best dry Champagne, softly caressing mine. 

I wonder if it feels the same for a man, when your body is excited and anticipates sex. I wonder if the throb, the flutter feels the same. When all the blood gushes into the genitals and begs to be satiated. That’s what you did to me. Your tongue and your lips and the hand on the back of my head made me feel faint, bloodflow to my head, limited, and my breathing, suddenly quick and in time with yours.

It only makes me feel more helpless as we put down our wines, that you pull my head back by my hair and run your lips down my neck, savouring my spicy perfume, then nibbling along my collarbone. I hear a moan escape the depths of your throat and I’m finished. My legs instinctually part and I’m ready, almost begging for what you do next.

My work requires a strong, assertive nature and thick skin. But I submit to you. To let go, just for a moment, feels freeing and devine. To be taken, to be wanted, to let someone else take the reins. And it's you - you’re not beautiful, you’re not perfect, but you’re perfectly good at seducing me, and tonight I’m all yours. All it took was the way you looked at me over a bottle of champagne.

PETRA FOX

Twitter: @foxandthefeline

Instagram: @foxandthefeline

Web: petrafox.com.au

Seeing Red

Recently, there has been a campaign by the Red Cross Blood Service appealing for blood - you may have seen or heard about it. They are, as usual, in desperate need for more blood and donors. As someone who received multiple transfusions as a child, I think blood donation is essential and I thank every person who gives their time and blood to save the lives of others. The blood service is so necessary and everything should be done to keep them in good supply, so that little munchkins like me can survive bleeding incidents when getting their tonsils taken out.

So it is both hurtful and harmful to know that the ‘system’ believes I am too much of a ‘risk’ to donate blood myself. Even in a time of blood shortage, they’d rather go without than take mine. Sex workers unfortunately are still falsely viewed as disease ridden and unsavoury by the Red Cross, or those pulling their strings. I’ve known for some time that as a sex worker (someone who has a lot of PROTECTED sex), I am ineligible to give blood. I’d love to give back what I took from the bank when I was young, even though I hate needles, but I’ve accepted it. It nags me, but I live with it. It has been a long time since I have thought much about it. Until this week.

This week, a former lover of mine went to the blood drive to give blood, but was denied as he admitted sleeping with a sex worker. It seems that not only am I considered a ‘risk’ for donation, but so is every one I have bedded. I always use condoms, both in my private and professional life, as I care very much for my health and my sex work career. I am tested every 8 weeks and I only date equally careful people. My clients all must use condoms. I have much more sex than the average person, however I am considerably more careful. I have to be.

This is true for my peers. Not only are we more careful, but we are more educated on safe sex and are more frequently and thoroughly tested. We have been subjects of studies that show this to be the case, and yet we are subjected to antiquated and discriminatory exclusions. We regularly find ourselves knowing more than our own doctors and nurses about what and how to screen properly, yet still we are tarred as the uneducated, unclean underbelly of society.

The Red Cross is so desperately in need of blood, and yet the web of those they exclude from donating, is far reaching and nonsensical. We know also that they do not allow those who have indulged in gay sex within the last 12 months to donate either. (EDIT: as of Jan 2021, gay men are permitted to donate if they've been celibate for three + months). It’s a deeply homophobic and outdated stance to be taking in this day and age. We know they test the blood they collect and we know that the risk is no greater - and yet, we are still treated as dirty.

We can put aside the facts for a moment, to talk about how it feels to realise that I’m considered so risky by our society that everyone I’ve touched can’t donate either. It sucks - it’s really, really hurtful. My former lover was told that for the next 12 months, he will be unable to give blood. We can’t sleep together again if he wants to get those free cookies they give you in a year’s time. Apparently they’re good cookies. So that’s twice as long as if he’d had a tattoo or traveled through a malaria risk country - they only need a 6 month wait. That’s quite a statement they’re taking there against my community, and it’s both infuriating and flawed. Regular donators of rare blood may now think twice before bedding me or my peers, or have to choose to lie to medical professionals when giving blood, which is both illegal and unethical. In their eyes, I have tainted and will continue to taint everyone in my bed. That’s a LOT of you.

So why not lie? Is lying so bad? It is a temporary solution. Yes it is illegal, and it is unethical and I don’t like to do that. One could argue it’s for the greater good if you know you aren’t participating in risky sex, and the blood is definitely needed. It is literally life saving. My former lover was honest because firstly it’s the right/legal thing to do, but also he naively thought that surely they wouldn’t be that ignorant. His honesty ultimately cost him free cookies and the blood bank some juicy life saving blood. But I just don’t think that lying is the solution. Nothing changes if nothing changes, right? If we don’t bring awareness about arbitrary and discriminatory practises in the medical field, nothing will ever change. The medical profession often acts as if it’s a law unto itself, but it isn’t. One could argue that this practise goes against local anti-discrimination laws too, that were put there to stop people like me, feeling like this. They have no *recent* research to back their claim so besides out dated stereotypes and false beliefs, they have no legitimate reason for blanket banning sexworkers and everyone they touch.

It also makes no sense if sexual promiscuity is the core issue they take with people like me. In the Tinder age, how can they justify that my clients or lovers are more at risk of infection than those using Tinder? I’ve used Tinder, and most of the males I met ended up on the receiving end of a lecture by me about the importance of condoms. Unprotected sex is prevalent, and it’s not amongst sex workers. We have something to lose, whereas civilians think chlamydia is a shruggable easy fix and that HIV is a problem for ‘the gays’. It isn’t me or my peers participating in risky sex, it’s the average Joe who thinks that mitigating risk means using the withdrawal method. Frankly, they’re stupid. And what about the wives? You know, the ones who our clients go home to and have unprotected sex with? By this web of association logic, shouldn’t they be denied donating too? Monogamy is a veil of lies, and really is quite risky. And what about sugar babies and sugar daddies? Where are they on the sex work scale of risk? Especially when you consider the rate of condom use in those situations is much less. Is it the money? Does money make it dirty?

No, it all boils down to stigma and fear. In the 80’s we had the AIDS crisis where sadly many people died, some of who received infected blood transfusions. The health profession had every right to panic. They had every right to be picky and selective about where the blood was coming from that haemophiliacs, accident victims and the sick desperately needed. Making them sicker is not the goal. It is no wonder there is fear - I read April Fools, it’s horrific. Obviously they don’t want to repeat history. The sick don’t deserve to die as much as the homosexuals and the prostitutes, in their eyes.

But it isn’t the 80’s any more. It is 2018. We have better testing in place, we are more educated, and more careful. My profession is legal where I live and in most Australian states and NZ, my former home. And yet still, archaic and discriminatory barriers to donation are costing lives here, not saving them. There appears to be no training in place for their staff in handling these situations either, with reports of nurses turning up their noses at denied donators in this situation and saying that they’d ‘pray for them’, which is grossly inappropriate. I feel proud that my lover was confident enough to educate the staff member involved, even in a somewhat awkward circumstance.

Sex workers are not diseased and unsavoury, we are just your neighbours, who contribute to society and want to do our bit. We practise and educate on safer sex. We have lower rates of infection than the general population, and we offer a much cleaner alternative to affairs in the world of adultery and casual sex. We keep those around us safe and informed, we don’t riddle them with disease. We send people home in better condition than we found them. We are not, Red Cross, more infectious than Malaria. We do so much good for our community that goes unthanked and unspoken, don’t hold us back from doing more. Between sex workers, our lovers, our clients and our gay friends - we are an enormous segment of the population. You need us.

PETRA FOX

Twitter: @foxandthefeline

Instagram: @foxandthefeline

Web: petrafox.com.au

Value for Money

 I REMEMBER THAT BILLY JOEL’S ‘ALWAYS A WOMAN’ HAD COME ONTO MY PLAYLIST.

We were lying there, unable to speak, I could hear the gaps in your sighs as you tried to think of something to say, but there was nothing. I'm okay with that, I think there’s a beauty in silence - post coital clouds of empty words linger and drift away in their own natural time. A tear rolled down my cheek, but it wasn’t sadness, just an overwhelming sense of euphoric satisfaction. I was overcome. It was taking me some time for my mind to return down to the soft, dishevelled bed, and my breath some time to settle into a rested rhythm.

I hadn’t looked at you yet, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to. The expression across my face, I couldn’t control it, and I wasn’t sure if the intensity was mutual yet - though, I knew you were satiated. If nothing else, I’d done my job. 

I close my eyes and just draw out the moment. It may have been a few seconds, or 10 minutes, I was happy to drown in it for a fraction longer. Then arrives that tender, newly familiar feeling of your lips on mine, and my eyes are open again. You’re there, over me again, kissing me. I guess there are no words for what just happened. I can feel the heat down my back, like leftover burns from the electricity that took over me, only minutes ago. I moan as you kiss me, softer than before, and my pussy remembers every little detail of the fucking that ensued. The puddle on the bed and the sweat in my hair are remnants of our electrocution. You slip a hand under the curve of my spine and pull me up into your embrace and spiralling down into the madness of lust once again.

There are no words in this space we find ourselves in, that’s why we fuck. There’s only pleasure and longing for the chemistry we had thrown between us. We’re spent but in awe of it, and after a momentary stumble for  latex, I feel you push back into me again, like you’re paying homage to my body and all it offers you. We fuck slowly and intuitively this time. Our hunger satiated but like a craving for dessert on a full stomach. My legs naturally close around you and entrap us both into a moment we will forever find hard to let go of.

It’s here, in this moment that we find each other, as a means of finding within ourselves the depths of our desires. It’s beyond a service list, it’s not kink and yet it’s so much more than vanilla. This is the very core of ourselves unfolding in a sequence of collision and epiphany, You could call it value for money, but there just isn’t words to call it anything at all.

PETRA FOX

Twitter: @foxandthefeline

Instagram: @foxandthefeline

Web: petrafox.com.au

Ghost

 I was stoked when you text me. I could really see that you had considered how a lady would like to be approached. 

You were articulate, you introduced yourself and knew what you wanted. You told me everything I needed to know, without too much over-familiarity or fluff. You seemed genuine, funny even, and I was excited to meet you.

The day came around, and I did my usual reconfirmation text, for which you promptly replied that we were on for today, and you were excited to meet me. The feeling was mutual. I sent you my address details. I knew how today was going to happen, my financial projection was on track and I started my routine.

After the gym, I didn't have a great deal of time, because it's hair wash day, so after I quickly throw together some scrambled eggs and scoff it, I'm off to the shower. 45minutes later I emerge (yes, it takes a long time to shave these long legs and wash this mop of thick hair), I begin the race about, with a towel wrapped around my head. Deodorant first, because it takes ages to dry, full body moisturiser and then my 4 step facial routine. Stand in front of the AC for a bit to let all my creams dry (I'm going to feel silky smooth for you!) and then, a light blow-dry of the hair. Now my makeup. I'm an expert at this now, but I relish the routine of it. I lovingly apply my makeup and transform into someone worthy of my profession, and then do about half an hour of hair - finishing blow-dry, straightening, then oiling it. It's high maintenance this hair business you know….

Next I pick out an outfit - you made no requests but I want to look nice for you. I pull out my most delicate lacey contraption and my tightest dress and squeeze myself into them. Looking great if I do say so myself, I really hope you like it. I live for the look on a man’s face when he walks in and finally sees what is on the menu.

Then, I look around at my house. Ah shit, I had better hide some dishes… I do a quick vacuum because my hair went everywhere, light some candles and the oil burner and finally, over a couple of hours later, I'm ready for you. 

The butterflies set in. You sound lovely, I wonder what you look like? I wonder if you're as charming in person? What will you think of me?
The time is here. I usually hear from people by now. Anticipation makes people routinely, and often annoyingly, early.
5mins past… it's only five minutes but…. my fingers start to tap and the worry starts.
20mins late. You aren't coming - I haven't heard from you. I txt you 'how far away are you please?'. Nothing. You have ghosted me.

I sit here, an image put together just for you, and a little tear rolls down my cheek. I for a moment try and make excuses for you but there are none. And I start to fret because the bond on my new house is due and the debit for the ridiculous power bill just left my account. My professional manicure is looking faded and now, so am I.

I don't send you abuse, I would have when I was 21, with more fire behind my eyes... But now I just sink back, block your number and try to breathe over the rejection, the inconvenience and the sadness. I take off the bra, the underwire is digging, and slink back into my pyjamas. I go to twitter and look for those little hearts on my pictures and tell myself, 'it's not me'. And I try to believe it.

PETRA FOX

Twitter: @foxandthefeline

Instagram: @foxandthefeline

Web: petrafox.com.au

Michael and Me

 I hadn’t been working independently very long, and I was still getting into the groove of everything away from brothel life. I’d chopped all my hair off into a Victoria Beckham bob in an act of defiance, and I was in a less-than-elegant fluoro knicker phase. For the first time I was working from a lovely, bright share-apartment that I was actually proud of. I was feelin’ myself.

Michael* sort of hit me by surprise. I’m not usually surprised by much, but even if I’d only seen him the once, I’d still remember him vividly. He wasn’t nervous so much but definitely shy, a little fidgety and seemed to avoid eye contact. He was courteous though, and followed my instructions to shower. He took his sweet time about it, and then eventually he came back to the room - redressed as he’d arrived - with wet hair dripping down his face. I’m not going to lie to you, I was physically attracted to him. He had a definite Ezra Miller/Brian Molko vibe - dark and effeminate - intoxicating as heck.

We didn’t fuck though. We tore at each others clothes, kissed passionately and touched each other hungrily. He was sensually domineering and he flipped me over and kissed all over my back and my neck which drove me to the edge of heavenly despair. Michael was the one who discovered a couple of my sweet spots, and in those first few times we had together there was a raw desperation in the way he kissed and pawed at me that awoke new parts of me. Even just the way he would gaze at me - I’d never felt so desired. I was a wet mess in his presence but I was growing so frustrated about how he wouldn’t have sex with me. The orgasms would flow but I’d stay empty and wanting. It took 5 sessions - I saw him every fortnight - for me to get him to talk about it. It turns out, he was just waiting for me to ask him nicely. Whoops - I clearly hadn’t learned the art of begging.

From then on, the needy fucking just added to the intensity of our sessions together. All my girlfriends from the share house came to know who he was, I moved heaven and earth to make sure I was available to see him when he wanted. He was a young student and I had no idea how he was paying for it, but it wasn’t my business. 

Michael sort of ended up everywhere I was. He was in the same city I was touring in once, I can’t remember what he was there for, but it had been nearly a year I’d been seeing him at that point. I blocked out the whole evening for him, even though he always only booked an hour, because I had been so busy and I had wanted to relax with someone familiar and feel myself for a moment. Of course, relaxing was not something we did. The chemistry ruled every aspect of us, and we made a royal mess of that apartment. And then, stupidly, I cried. I was married, monogamously so. And even though compartmentalising is a skill I’ve always been proud of, it was failing, and this level of enjoyment had started to feel like cheating.

The thing with Michael was, he had some issues. Not long before we met, he had tried to take his own life. He suffered from chronic depression, and he really couldn’t deal with what I had just unloaded on him. He wasn’t emotionally equipped to handle it, and it was of course absurdly unprofessional on my part. So when I saw him again, back at home, I started to back off. But then, the more I pushed that tortured soul of his away, the more he would pull me back, in his own ways. He always held my hands so tight, cupped my face, he worshipped every little part of me like no one ever had. He never wanted me to give him any selfish pleasure, he never took, he just wanted to be with me, as close as possible, in a way that never felt creepy at all, but as if it was his only way of communicating.

I never altered the boundaries with him, we respected time, it was always paid upfront and I never saw him out of work. I did my best to respect the boundaries of my marriage at that time and of my job. But it’s funny how things work out. When I moved to Auckland, he happened to move there at the same time for further study. We didn’t realise at the time, but we both ended up studying at the same school. It made sense, our skillsets were in a similar field (but he was insanely talented and an over-achiever) and we began to see each other about. It was exciting actually, passing each other by with a knowing smile, nothing else, just this rapid heartbeat and an overacted casualness. Time passes, and we have continued to fall into bed with each other every fortnight for a few years. All the life changes we had in that time, all the big shifts, there he was - there we were. 

He’d been through some medication changes in this time. One time, in the middle of one of our crazy, passionate sessions, he abruptly started crying. Embarrassed, he got up and he left. Then I cried, as I didn’t know what was wrong, if I had done anything… and the guilt of crying over a client when I was monogamously married made me cry even more (in hindsight perhaps monogamy was never really for me). I was sad for Michael, and also scared for us. I could feel that he was in pain but felt totally helpless. The next time I saw him, he came with smiles and an assurance it was just an issue with his medication. I knew it went deeper, but I respected the mood he wanted to bring to our time. It didn’t happen again.

Years of this, and we’re definitely emotionally attached and enjoying a choreographed dance of all the fucking we love on a regular basis. In many ways, we have really been through a lot together. I know all the ins and outs of him, beneath and above his skin. We talk movies, post-earthquake trauma, games, music, tattoos. We talk school, and we talk about dreams and we also talk about each other. He always tells me what he likes about me, and I always tell him what I like about him. He never believes me - he always says it’s my job to flatter him. I really mean it though.

Then, my marriage imploded. I had to leave Auckland and the sex industry for a while, chasing a dead relationship, and I left everything that wasn’t part of that pitiful quest behind me. I raced back to a city I hate, chasing a man I didn’t love as much as I should, and spent the next 6 months spiralling down a black hole that if I’m honest, nearly completely swallowed me. Honestly, my own depression consumed a lot of this time and I hardly remember it. By the time I emerged from the depths of that hell, separated, and now living in Australia, Michael was on my mind. I hadn’t heard from him in all this time, a little weird especially as I was advertising again and easy to find with my new number, but he was always so good at boundaries, so I put it down to him respecting my space.

When I’d left the industry, I had (un)ceremoniously destroyed my work phone, it’s contacts included. I wasn’t really sure how to contact him now. I didn’t know what I was hoping to achieve anyway, after all I was in another country now, and I knew that Michael's capability for romantic relationships was minimal due to the far reaches of his depression. I just wanted, I think, to reach out and see what blossomed, as now that I could breathe again and the depression fog was lifting, I missed him a lot. I figured he'd be easy enough to find with our common circles, so I decided to be a creep and look him up. I knew he wouldn’t mind, we didn’t have any secrets, we knew each other’s real names and I expected he’d be happy to hear from me. So I hit up Google.

___

Michael’s obituary didn’t say much. In fact, it was the fact it didn’t say much that said everything. He had died around the time of my departure from Auckland, ‘tragically’ it said. It hit me so hard that the air escaped my lungs and didn’t come back for what felt like eternity. My heart hit the floor and stayed there. I had spent the last 6 months of my life trying to stitch together the pieces of my broken heart and now, the thread unravels again. I didn’t know who to talk to. How does anyone understand what it means when a client dies? We are not supposed to feel the way that I was feeling. But this was MICHAEL. And now, waves of incredible guilt wash over me, that I had left him, and that I had only now found out, because I had been too wrapped up in myself to even notice his silence. I grieved, and still grieve, and it’s even now hard to explain who and what he was to me. 

It seemed irrational but I wanted to talk to someone who knew him. The only people who knew ABOUT him were a few SW friends, who felt my pain when I told them, they knew to some extent what he was to me. But it wasn’t the same. There were family members listed on the obituary, and I figured as we were similar ages, I figured I could pass myself off easily enough as a friend from our school. So I looked up his Mother, Layla* on Facebook, and I sent her a message.

Immediately, she knew who I was. Michael's phone couldn’t be unlocked when he had passed - no-one knew the password, and so she wasn’t able to contact me to let me know he had taken his life. She felt bad about that, but it’s not her fault. It’s technology these days. You see, it turns out, Layla had encouraged him to see me. She had helped with the finances, because she came to see what a difference I made in his life. If nothing else, she saw that I gave him something to look forward to. He had once even seen me (with my ex husband, eep!) at a supermarket and pointed me out to her, and she said I’d seemed lovely. Layla only had positive things to say about me, and about the impact my work had on his life. She’d been aware of the complications between us, and it comforted her to know that someone had really cared for her son. Michael wasn’t exactly sociable, a ‘people suck’ kind of guy, so he, by choice, didn’t have friends. He had his mother, brother, his cat, and me. And that’s how he wanted it.

It has been really hard not to blame myself, and I know it’s arrogant for me to think it could in any way, have had anything to do with me leaving. I do feel though, that I abandoned him, but ongoing conversation with Layla has reassured me that it is noone’s fault. I haven't asked his method of suicide, it feels disrespectful and I don't think I want to know. I figure depression as his ultimate cause of death.

You see, Michael had chronic depression. It wasn’t curable, it was only manageable, and even then, only sometimes. He had tried to commit suicide previously, I knew that, and Layla tells me that every extra day she had with him after that was a blessing. He was never going to make it out of depression alive, and we were lucky to have him as long as we did. Michael was in a lot of pain, and in many ways, it would have been selfish to keep him. And I get it. I’ve been invited to join the family in scattering Michael’s ashes in a place he loves, but for me, to go back to where it all began, and where my marriage ended, it’s still too hard for me. And I do wonder if it’s too much, as theres little solace I can offer for a Mothers grief other than to say again how deeply I cared for her son and that I miss him dreadfully. I hope if anything, there may be some comfort for us in his peace. 

There's nothing I wouldn't do to see you
Walk through my door
Put your money on the table and kiss me hello
Book me once more

 

*Names have been changed.

PETRA FOX

Twitter: @foxandthefeline

Instagram: @foxandthefeline

Web: petrafox.com.au

Carrots

 I love this work. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that I’m where I’m meant to be and I have every intention of being a sexworker for a long time to come. I have been a sexworker for exactly 8 years this Sunday. Eight years of incredible experiences in many different cities, some experiences I’ll remember forever, and others not so great. I’ve made many connections and had a vast number of peers and friends. Over eight years, I’ve watched these peers come and go - often leaving due to hurt and burnout.

The biggest cause of burnout from all I’ve witnessed, is clients who demand more from the worker than they pay for. Making them jump through emotional hoops to get their pay, making them pander and put in excessive emotional labour to get their pay packet. I call this dangling a carrot. Dangling a carrot in this industry is the most manipulative thing clients can do. Dangling a carrot and saying - well here’s a big booking, you might get it if you’ll entertain me and kiss my ass incessantly through social media or emails etc, in order to earn the booking itself. That’s alot of energy and work before the booking even takes place. This may work for sugar arrangements, where the lady has only you to cater to - however in the sex industry our attention and energy is spread thinner - we have many men approaching us the right way that we must also look after.

So, I have learned in my eight years, not to engage these clients, because I have seen the hurt it causes when the carrot gets dangled further and further away and someone has to give more and more of themselves to someone to get paid. I have seen how the resentment towards clients builds and how the energy and spirit drains away from people I care about, when the industry demands so much more from them than is possible for any single person to maintain. When the emotional labour breaks someone because they have no energy left for themselves, and even very big ticket bookings are no longer worth the money. It becomes self-sacrifice.

I adore simplicity. I love that each time my phone goes off, someone is ready and waiting to see me - not stringing me along. I like that my men leave happy but without any false romantic ideas. I love that I have emotional freedom. I end each day uplifted, not drained. That is how I am still very happy in my work, how I will continue to be happy, and subsequently can start each day afresh and looking forward to the clients I see. Each and every man I see respects my time outside of our booking, and as a result I treat them well and there is no drama. I have definitely lost some clients because I won’t dance for my dinner, but I knew in the long run - it would hurt me so much more than it could offer me. My health, happiness and peace of mind are much more important to me than anyone's money.

It’s my belief that most men turn to this industry because it saves them the drama of pursuing casual relationships that could get messy and often aren’t as much fun as they’d like. So it perplexes me that a few men instil drama into the simplicity of paid sex for their own entertainment. This strikes me as narcissistic and for that reason, I cannot accept bookings from these people. My energy is required for the men that I see who are kind, and ultimately respectful of my time. Energy reserved for the best men is always returned - and that is so imperative to me to be able to continue providing the best experience for everyone. Energy and spirit is something I am very conscious and aware of, so I can protect my sanity and ability to enjoy this work and be able to give and receive freely. One cannot pour from an empty cup.

I am not naive enough to believe that clients of mine don’t occasionally feel attachment or love for me. I understand the nuances of human emotion and when you make love to someone enough times, feelings can arise. But as someone who practises compassionate detachment, I am able to give and receive from these men with kindness, while being able to manage the intricacies of feelings with a balanced degree of ‘head’ and ‘heart’. And still, these lovely men understand and respect my boundaries - because that is true love and kindness. To try and possess and demand more of someone than is offered, is not a form of love but a form of ownership, which in this industry serves no place at all and ultimately causes more pain and hurt than love itself ever could. Possessiveness and manipulation hold no place in this industry if you are to hold simplicity and enjoyment as its core values. 

So I ask you, as you write another essay long email to an escort, or you slide into her DM’s with inane chatter, or call her just because you are lonely, to rethink your motives and put yourself in her shoes. You are one person, of many, many adoring men - what gives you the right to command her attention right now? Could you say it all when you book her next instead? Are you refilling her cup or are you taking from it? 

I ask you kindly to put away that carrot, to stop demanding that women you claim to respect crawl over broken glass to claim it. Just flick her a txt (or call or email - read her bio) and give it to her the fun way.

PETRA FOX

Twitter: @foxandthefeline

Instagram: @foxandthefeline

Web: petrafox.com.au