A journal of Covid and Cumming

 The only reason I finally get up is because the cat has taken to chewing my hair when I don’t feed him promptly enough. When I eventually see my hairdresser, no doubt she’ll remark on my split ends and I’ll know exactly who to blame. The cat and my refusal to brush my hair. What’s the point.

It’s another day, I’m not sure which one because it doesn’t really matter does it. It’s Covid-19 haze - a blur of days and weeks of quiet abnormality. I’m in full ISO because I’m ‘saving myself’ to see my lover who has a chronic illness. I’m self conscious at the pure thirstiness of stopping life to see a lover, but we all need a little something to look forward to, don’t we. It tickles my inner submissive to be so restrained for them, but I haven’t told them that yet. 

I’m masturbating incessantly, out of boredom, and procrastination. There are things I could do. There are things I could write and there’s a shit-tonne of study that I need to do, and yet my mind wanders to my lovers, who, through their memories I am lost in a fog of depression-fuelled frantic self-fucking. I’ve shut off the work room and the toys now live permanently next to my own bed. 

After my religious routine of coffee and eggs, that even Covid can’t break, I fall back to bed to continue the book I’m reading. I’m appreciating the artful tome - it’s fat and deliciously more-ish. I can’t concentrate on anything productive right now, but the book is holding my attention longer than Netflix can with my covid-affected internet connection. I can get lost in the sordid world of it, somehow bettering my own. Maybe I’ll walk today, do a little home exercise, or maybe I’ll stay here all day, trapped in a book, taking breaks only for sencha tea, to refresh twitter and to cum. 

Now that my work is restricted to online, each cum is stolen from the camera. If I have a sneaky one now, will it ruin it for later? Is my appearance too washed-up to film this time? I find it so hard to cum on camera, my mind doesn’t wander the same and simultaneously I’m not quite present enough. I worry about how I contort, how I sound, how much of a double chin I have at a particular angle and whether my orgasm looks convincing enough, as a non-squirter. People expect a lot from a pleasure that is supposedly ours.

This time, I can’t be bothered. Most times, to be honest. This is for me. I Skyped with my lover last night. We don’t fuck virtually, it doesn’t feel secure enough and honestly the thought of it feels awkward to me. So I hang onto little things that are said, which stir something in me. Simple things, like how they mentioned their hands on my hips, remind me of the last time we fucked. Nothing unusual, but equally very beautiful, sitting atop of them, their hands firmly on my hips, grinding into me so urgently and hungrily that I wish I could pause that moment and bottle it. It’s so primal and pure. The thought of them cumming makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Sometimes when they laugh, their pitch sounds so similar to the exasperated, tumbling sound they make when they cum. Isolation is making me very sentimental, you see.

As my wand loudly humms, numbing my outer labia, all the while still slowly getting me off, I pull out my favourite, comfortable dong and fill my self with it, remembering the last time my lover filled me that way. Last night they talked about how they’d love to kiss me, and as I fuck myself I recall how they kissed me so deeply the last time we played together. They kept kissing me, even when they felt me fall over the edge, again and again at the mercy of their hand - for which they are truly the most capable I’ve met. Just talking to them floated to the surface memories of so many moments, that I clutch to now, using both hands and specific equipment to (somewhat violently) bring myself to a sticky, strong orgasm. 

I throw them aside, now satisfied and sad. It’s been so long since I basked in the afterglow of feelings and lust and multiple orgasms that don’t leave me sore. Doing it solo doesn’t fill the void of a person. I roll over, touching the spare side of the bed and imagine for a moment that I’m not alone in this. The cat jumps up and bats my hair, bringing me back to reality. I grab him for a cuddle and he swipes me, and I laugh, because my cat is the most consistent and normal part of this time and I’m grateful for his company, bratty as he may be.

I shower, imagining their arms around me, helping me scrub, and it brings a smile to my face that lasts from the walk from the shower, back to bed, where I stay today. I cum many, many more times, between chapters, so much that I can’t even feel myself pee due to the self abuse, and I long for the numbness to spread. There’s a light at the end of my tunnel - people looking forward to seeing me, and I count my blessings - competing closely with orgasms. The sun goes down and comes up and goes down again, each meaning one less day until I see my love, one less day of empty.

PETRA FOX

Twitter: @foxandthefeline

Instagram: @foxandthefeline

Web: petrafox.com.au

That Man

 I throw him off me, using all my strength and a sudden sense of gratitude to myself for working out so much lately. This fucker can go to hell, I’m not putting up with this one moment longer. He lunges back for me and I hit him, holding back more than I should because I really don’t want the legal he said/she said if he leaves here with injuries. He just won’t take no for an answer, he apologises, but only as he keeps coming back to paw at me more, which I’ve screamed No at him about at least a dozen times already. He doesn’t relent going for me until I threaten the police - apparently the only kind of authority he has any kind of respect for. When he’s gone I cry, not even because this man was violating my consent, but because having to get physical with someone, having to defend myself, it scares me. I know I’m strong, but I always hope to never have to find out just what I’m capable of. At least I know I can keep myself safe, clearly I can’t rely on them to do that.

I had a client booked in after, and I knew he was excited to see me. I still needed the money and I really didn’t want to be that person who cancels because of drama at such short notice. So I open the door with a smile, and thankfully he is totally lovely. I can put the assault behind me for a little bit and remember that clients are usually great. He texts me after to tell me that he had a great time, and I know I’ve done my job well - I put my shit in a box for a moment and I delivered. 

But shit never stays in a box for long. I had booked a massage for that evening with a voucher I had been given, and it seemed a great idea to still go, do the self care thing. I earned it today. But two hours of pampering gave me way too much silence and time in my own head. It didn’t help anything other than my achey muscles. I rant to my friends, who all understand as we have all lived these experiences, sadly enough. They make my feelings about the event feel valid. There’s pressure to go to the police, which annoys me as surely we all also understood that lack of evidence was a factor, and the justice system is hopeless and retraumatising (I know from experience). But mostly I feel better. 

The rest of the week goes really well. People I’ve never met gift me, I had some absolute sweetheart clients. A booking I was excited about cancelled, which was sad but they paid my full fee into my account with an apology. Online stuff is positive, work is positive, and I remember that I love the job, the work isn’t the issue, it’s just that man. That man who couldn’t take no for an answer, who assaulted me and wouldn’t stop. 

And I’m reminded why we appreciate gifts and good clients so much. There is always a group, usually men on review boards, who hate the way sex workers ask to be treated well, or that we get gifts and tips. It really isn’t about any entitlement, but about the fact that there must be a silver lining that keeps us here, even when clients assault us or treat us poorly. We need the benefits, we need the displays of kindness, because it’s those amazing clients, even generous fans with the bonus extras, that help us heal when something goes terribly wrong. It is an unfortunate fact that bad men sometimes seek out escorts as prey - thinking they can buy consent and do whatever they want. And if most clients weren’t good, and some people weren’t generous - our spirit would not survive long being here. Nurturing good clients and fostering a culture of generosity and rewards, means that we can take a little time off to be okay after a bad event, we can have our faith renewed, and continue to be enthusiastic service providers, because we can be conditioned to know that everything will get better. 

I’m sorry this wasn’t the most upbeat post, but I think it’s important for people to know it isn’t always rainbows and orgasms. There is a dark side to this work, and if you’re a person who brings a little light with you to a session, thankfully the majority, know that you are appreciated and the reason that I still get up each day excited to be in this lifestyle. Your adoration and generosity does not go unnoticed, in fact it’s why after 10 years, I am still here fucking and writing, and always opening the door with a smile.

PETRA FOX

Twitter: @foxandthefeline

Instagram: @foxandthefeline

Web: petrafox.com.au

To a lost regular

 You were so sweet to me. You were one of the people that really kept me holding it together when the timewasters and the industry noise started to get me down for a while. You gave me more than I asked, you were kind and attentive. You made me feel like I was the only woman in the world you wanted to listen to. 

We’d talk a lot, we’d fuck and you pleased me in the most unselfish of ways. You gifted me, and I never knew why or even quite how to thank you. You gave me things more thoughtful than any man has, without barely knowing me at all.

Maybe the right words weren’t said, or at the right time. Maybe you’d seen enough of me, explored me beyond discovery. Maybe I should have given you more extra time, or chased you more often. Because you left.

I see you floating around online. I watch you chasing other beauties around like butterflies. I don’t feel jealousy, I don’t really know how, but I feel a disappointment, in myself. 

I wonder if I didn’t repay you enough for your kindness. I wonder what it is that you expected when you showered me with your adoration and presents. Did I open up a little too much? Did my flaws that you said you like blemish your care for me? Was this all supposed to go somewhere? Was I supposed to love you? Did you care too much and me too little? Or the reverse? Does my demeanour mean I play things too cool? 

Was I a fleeting fantasy? Now fulfilled and passed. Did you prefer the idea of me over the real thing?

I miss you, I admit. The short-lived, perhaps meaningless but extraordinary way you made me feel. I miss your adoration, your custom, and your own little quirks. I miss adding meaning to a life you said you disliked. I miss being the centre of your attention, a weakness for me I admit. My ego is bruised and feels longing. 

I do hope you’re well and healthy and happy. I hope I helped you gain the confidence you said you lacked, enough to explore further afield. Maybe you found love, maybe you didn’t,  but I hope all the same your journey was helped and not hindered by being in my world a little while. I hope spoiling me made you feel as good as it felt for me. I hope the glint in my eye at least plays in your memory from time to time. Along with other things.

I struggle with words, at times. You know, you’ve seen me stutter and fluster, and you didn’t make me feel bad for it. I have oddities and quirks and I fundamentally fuck things up sometimes. I wish I could filter it better to say the right kind of Thankyou’s, maybe then you’d still be in my bed, the new one that you helped me buy. 

I appreciated you. I appreciate everything you’ve done and it was more than enough. I guess I just wonder why, in the end, I wasn’t. 

**disclaimer. I write based on a collection of true events or experiences over time but not usually one specific event or individual.

PETRA FOX

Twitter: @foxandthefeline

Instagram: @foxandthefeline

Web: petrafox.com.au

Thankyou for seeing me, asshole

 Thankyou for seeing me, asshole. Thankyou for taking time out of your day to put money in my pocket, just to be an asshole.

Thankyou for seeing me, asshole. Thanks to your money and your putrid attitude, I decided to take time out of my day to take care of myself. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be enjoying my new mani-pedi. I wouldn’t have got that shoulder and neck massage that I really needed.

Thankyou for seeing me, asshole. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have had the inspiration I needed to hit the gym just that bit harder than usual. My figure thanks you.

Thankyou for seeing me, asshole. Your funds took my best friend and I out for dinner, so we could have a good bitch about you and others like you. The food was delicious, thanks for that.

Thankyou for seeing me, asshole. Thanks to your disgusting behaviour, it made me feel especially grateful that 99% of my clients are better than you - though it isn’t hard. I’m feeling deep gratitude now for how wonderful, literally everyone else is, compared to you.

Thankyou for seeing me, asshole. You fattened my pockets, only to waste your time being a terrible human. I walk away richer, you walk away the same fucking idiot you were when you walked in. 

Thankyou for seeing me, asshole. I bitched about you to my lover and he came over and fucked me with a tenderness you can only dream of. I came 5 times and slept like a baby. I bet you sleep alone tonight.

Thankyou for seeing me, asshole. You inspired me to write a little snippet for my blog, an excellent marketing tool.

And you, you achieved nothing other than shifting your capital to somewhere more worthy.
So I thank you for seeing me, asshole.

PETRA FOX

Twitter: @foxandthefeline

Instagram: @foxandthefeline

Web: petrafox.com.au

The Spell

 There was ‘something about her’, you can ask anyone. A youthful Shirley Manson lookalike, she was quietly mysterious and captivating.

Working with her was hard sometimes - I’d lose clients to her who were bewitched by her unique but striking features, and her encompassing darkness. I resented it but equally understood it. I loved her. It was so hard not to fall under her spell. It certainly wasn’t the things she said - they were few and far between. But you felt her enter a room, and suck out the air as she left. There really was just, ‘something about her’.

Did I mention she could fuck? I mean, she really knew how to fuck. Confused in my sexuality before, but confirmed bi/pansexual ever since, the highlights of my career were the doubles I spent with her. I remember in intricate detail the way she smelt when sweat met her cheap and sweet perfume, the way her eyes lit up after the first bottle of wine, and dimmed again after the second. I remember the first time she squirted, the whimpers when she came, and the funny looks we exchanged when we just weren’t that into him. We had our own language in that bedroom, she barely spoke a word but I could translate her expressions in a heartbeat.

We fucked on an almost daily basis in those days - we were a popular team. The svelte brunettes - me, the worldly serious one, and her - the captivating, mysterious star of the two. I would eat nearly as much pussy in those days as dick, almost always champagne flavoured, and for someone who can usually compartmentalise like a pro - I tripped and fell head first in love with that girl. Which is funny, given that even after years, I barely knew her.

We shared an apartment, we shared orgasms, more than a few bottles of champagne, clients, cash and a love of animals. We were as close as I felt she was capable, and yet it was her spell I loved, for I couldn’t tell you a thing about who she was or where she came from. She imprisoned clients with her allure too. She had many clients, many who were certainly in love with her, some of which were obsessed. I found myself as her protector more than a couple of times, the police gave no fucks, and I often felt helpless to see her being worn down by stalker after stalker. She consumed more wine with time, her smile faded - hungover and wary, and her orgasms grew quieter and trimmed with sadness.

One day, I came into our incall, had a busy day, and she never appeared. Days came and went - she was gone. I worried. One of her stalkers had been escalating in his behaviours - I’d had to get physical with him as he tried to force his way into our place - had he done something? No-one knew where she was, why would they? She’d kept enough mystery about her that no-one really knew much about her outside of the bedroom. She vanished from my life with as much force as she’d entered.

I finished up the lease on that place alone, which hurt my pocket, but it wasn’t my wallet that needed the most nursing. My heart was broken. I knew it made no sense to love an apparition, and yet that’s exactly what I’d done. She broke many a heart the day she disappeared, and disappear she did. I thought of her often, with a deep ache, and finally came to terms with my sexuality, though it'd be some time before I felt safe sharing it.

Years later, she reappears on the scene, a ghost in the sunlight, as if nothing has happened, and I hear nothing. We fuck with degrees of separation, knowing we are riding the same dicks, the same highs, yet unable to touch her. My pride stops me reaching out, and a sense of self-protection keeps me at bay. I leave - it’s my turn to disappear. I try to look behind me, hoping for a last glimpse - a momentary glimmer of hope, but there's none. She’s just a part of my imagination now, but there’s still fucking something about her.

PETRA FOX

Twitter: @foxandthefeline

Instagram: @foxandthefeline

Web: petrafox.com.au

The moments before

 My next client just txt to say he is here.

He couldn’t have timed it worse - he’s 10 minutes early and I thought I had just a few more minutes to breathe through my sobs and dry the tears falling down my face. My liquid eyeliner has made my face into a disturbing water colour, and my eyes are bloodshot and swollen. I was doing so well, playing upbeat music, getting in the mood, but still, a thought entered my mind and my walls fell just for a moment. I broke up with my love last night, not an adequate reason not to work today, besides the water bill arrived and it won’t pay itself. I txt my client ‘5 mins please, you’re a little early’ and hurriedly put a couple of eyedrops in and fix up my foundation. I try to block out the constant image in my head of him walking out on me, I listen to Dolly one more time, and send through a ‘come on up’. I bet my client has been looking forward to this, at least someone wants me today. I open the door with a big grin, my well practised ‘smile with the eyes’ and give him a big hug. He has no idea my heart is breaking.

—

Val doesn’t have much time, she has to get to the hospital after this, her Dad is hanging on but it won’t be much longer. The rent is past due and the mobile company won’t stop ringing. She took the booking even though the red flags were there, he kept calling her ‘babe’, but she’s looking past it. Anything to get these damn bills paid so she can go back to the hospital. She lost her Mum without so much as a goodbye, she’s not going to go through that again. She takes a deep breath and sweeps her hair up into a ponytail. Her cheekbones pop and she knows this is her best look. She’s gonna give this guy everything and hope he extends. The extra 100 or so on top would really help today. Her mind wanders to her Dad but she blocks it out. She needs to give her best performance. The clock ticks past time and she wonders if he’s running late. It keeps ticking, 20 minutes gone. Her client has ghosted and her hopes for a small reprieve are dashed. She sits against the bed all done up, hugs her knees and weeps.

Priya rushes in the shower, desperate to get the smell of baby vomit and cheap air freshener off herself. She was so lucky to get a babysitter at such short notice tonight, these last minute bookings can make such a difference to her groceries next week. The baby was up all night and she pushes at the bags under her eyes in the mirror, before patting them with a little foundation. She loved this bit, turning from exhausted Mama into desirable escort. She revels in it, it’s transformative. She wonders if she’s the only one that gets excited for her bookings, her other life outside of the daily grind. She connects her phone to bluetooth to get the music going and at the same time receives a txt from her sitter. It’s a picture of baby smiling, satisfied after a feed. There’s a pang of guilt but she pushes it to the side. The extra money is worth it, it has to be. She checks her hair again one more time as there’s a knock on the door. The butterflies go, she’s out of practise, but she opens the door with a genuine smile.

Lila has another sip of her wine. The dread has kicked in. Last time he was here, he stayed overtime and went on and on about what she should be doing with her life. Not him, is what she thinks. But he pays good money and he’s reliable, yet every time she knows he’s coming, dread arrives and a bottle of wine cools in the fridge. It’s needed. She should be grateful, she thinks. Regulars are so important in this business and you have to look after them. But this one is just such a drag. Thinks he knows everything, talks down to her like she’s 12. She has a bloody degree, she has options, she’s lived more life than this man has in his little finger, and yet he is always trying to make her feel small and stupid. Ugh she hates it so much. She’s getting mad just thinking about it. She probably should be finishing off her cover letter for the day job she wants, but her mind is too busy and the wine is making concentration foggy. ‘Just think, in 3 hours I’ll be free again, and this money will see me through another week and I wont need to rely on any last minute bookings’. She breathes deeply, takes another sip and checks her work phone. ‘I’m almost there Li’, can’t wait to eat that tasty pussy of yours’. UGgggghhh, the wine doesn’t go down smoothly that time. She texts her best work friend ‘my pussy has never been drier’, takes a swig of mouthwash and waits patiently by the door - she can do this. Just 3 hours and then she’s free.

Jada is running late. So, so late. Fuck. She txt him to let him know she’s delayed by half an hour and he sounded displeased but there isn’t much she can do about it. He will wait. Her job at the bank is running into the 60hour mark again, and she is NOT getting paid nearly enough for it. Her boss kept her later than her bus, again, because of someone else’s bullshit mistake. She’s doing three people’s jobs because there were layoffs and guess who is picking up the slack? No extra pay for appreciation, she’s really beginning to become jaded in this job. She wishes she could quit, maybe give sex work a proper, full-time go, but last time she did that the business was so unpredictable, and now Jason has had his hours slashed, she needs the stable income to keep them out of bankruptcy. If they lose the house, this has all been for nothing. Fuck she wishes he would find another job, she is burning the candle at both ends. She shouldn’t have taken this booking, the client is well outside her usual outcall zone and Jason has the car. It’s gonna take two buses to get there, unless she gets an Uber… maybe she should treat herself… but can they really spare the extra $70 from this booking? She hopes he has a decent shower. She did a fast change at work but the pantyhose she’s worn all day has left her feeling sweaty and itchy. She could kill for a long hot shower, it’s hard to feel sexy right now. No time to fret about it, next bus is arriving and she’s already well past due. God, hope he has some wine waiting too. She lugs her two large tote bags onto the last bus and breathes deeply. Please, please, she wills to the hoe goddess, let him be an easy client.

—

He doesn’t see the sadness in my eyes, he’s receptive to the way I hug him, he needs intimacy too. He’s a great client, I find myself distracted most of the time. Nothing twinges as we kiss and we hug, my brain is busy pleasing the man before me, who seems very receptive and appreciative of me - which feels nice. Healing even. I don’t skip a beat and I don’t think of my love, until we’re in doggy. It goes on a little longer than I’d like and my mind wanders. As I receive each thrust, I start to imagine it was him, and it both hurts me and turns me on. I roll with it, my actions more performative now, and I come, harder than normal, and it feels like a betrayal, and I whimper. Eventually my client finishes and we lay there in a soft silence, and I pray time is up as my walls are lowering and the pain is setting in again. It is time, I send him home without a tear having fallen, proud of myself in that moment to have kept it together. I fall into the dishevelled bed, finally free to cry. I make myself cum until I hurt and I fall asleep, bills paid and now free to just be broken for a while.

PETRA FOX

Twitter: @foxandthefeline

Instagram: @foxandthefeline

Web: petrafox.com.au

On Their Knees

 Hassan* wasn’t exactly well regarded at our brothel. He haggled, was pretty rude and also quite smelly, so when he phoned in asking for our cheapest services with whoever was on, everyone in the lady’s lounge said a big firm ‘NOPE!’ and was passed on to whoever needed the extra booking the most, or perhaps the unsuspecting new girl who knew no better. One day it was my turn to take one for the team.

He was in fact a bit of a dick to be honest. He haggled, was pushy, expressionless and his hygiene really could have been better. But, even though I was new at the brothel, I’d had worse, and I was fast adjusting to smiling through displeasure and just trying to appease clients the best I could to get through bookings easily. It wasn’t a bad tactic, and I was a natural at it. 

Hassan started returning regularly to the brothel, specifically requesting me. I wasn’t overly pleased about it, but it was regular money - money that no-one else wanted to make. Maybe the third or fourth time I saw him, he finally started opening up to me. He said to me ‘no-one else is nice to me. They hate me because I’m Muslim’. I looked him deadpan in the eyes and said ‘that’s not why they hate you - you aren't an easy client to see’. He seemed wounded, and I realised that perhaps he had been a little misunderstood, but I wasn't shy in telling him that if his personal hygiene was better, maybe he’d be given more of a chance by others. I’ve never been afraid to say what needs to be said.

Next time I see Hassan, he smells great. He tells me he got a professional dental clean and bought some cologne, just for me. Clearly, he saw me worthy of making an impression. And he did, from that day on, we had kind of an understanding. I was patient with him, and he listened to my requests in the room. His guard lowered, and his behaviour towards me improved. He saw his time with me as lessons in how to treat women, and he was a good student. I saw Hassan every week for about 6 months, much to the amazement of my colleagues who had written him off. I guess he just needed some stern guidance and understanding.

His faith specifically never came up, but he would tell me if he had just come from prayers, and he would talk about the community and his friends at the mosque, and how they sponsored his visa with a good job, and how much they were like his family. He says that New Zealanders are so lucky to have so much freedom, and that his family back home were devout and strict, and that seeing sex workers would see him killed in his country (known for it’s turmoil), and I too would suffer the same. I could tell Hassan was enjoying his freedom in New Zealand, after all, much of his spare money was spent in a brothel, on me, more specifically.

One day I didn’t come in for my shift and Hassan turned up at the brothel without an appointment (a big no-no for our establishment), begging to see me. He was hysterical, and the workers on shift were going to call the police. A crazed man turning up looking for a specific girl is pretty alarming to anyone. He left, but came back the next day to see me when I was there. Hassan was beside himself - one of his friends from the mosque had seen his car parked outside the brothel and started surveilling him, monitoring his comings and goings from our place. They dobbed in his activities to his community with pictures as evidence, becoming the subject of much scandal. He lost his job, subsequently the visa sponsorship, and was likely to be deported. The community was organising to have him sent home to his family, who were esteemed by his community as they were pious. He got on his knees and begged me to marry him and keep him in the country (it doesn’t quite work that way), because he insisted his uncles back home would certainly murder him on his return. 

Hassan came back every day, exhausting the last of his funds on booking me, to beg me to help him stay. I couldn’t help him, but I would comfort him, and we would fuck ’til he wept, and then he would leave. 

Finally I came into work and there was no booking from him, but he had left a letter in the brothel’s mail box for me, telling me he was returning to his home country and would likely meet his death, but that he’d always remember everything I’d done for him. I never heard from Hassan again, but he was often on my mind.

I recently found myself thinking of him again, as his local Muslim community in Christchurch was attacked by a terrorist, many of them killed. I thought to myself that perhaps safety for him in NZ had been an illusion after all, and hoped that he had been wrong about his fate back home. I guess I will never know.

Religion does have a way of reappearing in my work life. 

A few years later, I met John*, a middle aged devout Christian who didn’t believe in sex before marriage. However life hadn’t quite worked out how he had hoped, and had been researching sex workers for about a year, to finally lose his virginity. I was working independently by then, and John sent me a lengthy text message, letting me know that he didn’t morally approve of my work (uhhh thanks), but he would like to give it a try. Ok I guess, I took his booking because I try not to take the self stigma of others personally. And we had a fun time. John was lovely, we didn’t talk much about God or anything of that nature, and I brushed off some of his judgmental comments, but all together it went swimmingly. John had a spring in his step when he left, and I felt I had given him something of significance. So much so, that he left me a glowing review on the NZ forums singing my praises. Excellent, I thought.

Until a couple of weeks later. I guess John had a crisis of faith, or some such thing. Because my lovely testimonial was suddenly rewritten, by John, saying that I was a sinner and going to hell, and that all those who visit me are also going to hell and must repent. I mean, to be honest, I was pretty shitty, because I had been more than understanding and accomodating for him. We definitely didn’t do anything that he hadn’t wanted, after all, he had contacted me for my services, I certainly didn’t go out of my way to solicit his business cold. It hurt I think, to have been so intimate with someone, and to have really tried to make allowances for their sensitivities and faith, to be so reassuring to a grown adult about what feels to me, a natural activity, only for them to turn around and say really quite hateful things about me. But I had to let it go, remembering of course, that it wasn’t my internal struggle, but his. 

But I certainly learned a few things from these experiences, that clients too, have their own battles that they deal with, in terms of sexuality, judgement and self acceptance. Only recently I was asked to perform a Muslim ‘marriage’ ritual to allow the client to engage in sexual activity, without fear of the consequences of his faith. It was new to me, honestly it was pretty interesting, but I was really very happy to do what was necessary for my client to feel safe and comfortable in regard to sex and his faith. 

I have very limited background experience in regard to religion. I’m agnostic/ spiritual with interests in religious philosophy, and the stories that religion preserves and teaches, but I am not of one singular faith, nor was I brought up with any. My parents are atheists and very cynical of organised religion and as such I really can’t pretend to understand what it is like to have any kind of restrictions on my life based on faith or it’s ascribed morality. But the people I meet through sex work, continually teach me and expand my knowledge on these things, and I try to be respectful of faith, as best I can without putting myself in the line of fire. 

Even outside of clients, it is still around the industry, and underlies the feelings many people have about being a sex worker. A close sex worker friend and I had our friendship dissolve after she refound God and Jesus Christ, and I can’t say that it didn’t hurt, to have someone I care about suddenly decide that our job, was intrinsically bad. In the end it just wasn’t possible to maintain a friendship with someone who now thought so badly of me, for the job that we had once done together. To have her staying in my home, paid for by my job, while she said such awful things about it, just didn’t sit right with me, as much as I cared for her. And so again I experience the consequences of my life choices in regard to religion, still so foreign to me.

Sex work has exposed me to many different cultures and people, that I just otherwise never would have. And it can be a really good thing, definitely opening up my mind to the experiences and plight of others. I have met people from many different backgrounds - refugees, celebrities, criminal mischief makers and CEOs of global enterprises, and yet still, I find myself from time to time, in situations unfamiliar to me, and people who have so much to teach me. Sometimes those lessons are hard, perhaps they don’t put me in good favour, particularly in regards to religion, but many times it is rewarding. I hope that I bring to people’s lives more than self flagellation and religious regret, but hopefully a taste of something much more that they will remember fondly, even if those memories evoke questions within them that I can’t answer.

* Names changed

PETRA FOX

Twitter: @foxandthefeline

Instagram: @foxandthefeline

Web: petrafox.com.au

Deposits

 Blogs on deposits are nothing new. It’s a big topic we discuss, and a topic I often float around because I haven’t always felt compelled to take them. 

But I’m overdue to talk about it, because of some attitudes I have faced recently regarding them. As I am about to embark on the touring circuit again, it’s really important that I talk about it so clients know what to expect of me.

Just this morning, I received a raft of emails and texts from a man who is my ‘biggest fan’, who wanted me to come to Sydney. I do have a tour scheduled for in a couple of months which he failed to notice even though he sent me emails from the contact form on the same page. But when I told him when I was coming, he deemed it ‘too far away’ and proceeded to try and tempt me to come to Sydney earlier than that tour. I have bookings and flights already locked in for my Sydney tour so he was expecting me to organise yet another tour before this, just for him.

His offering? A one hour GFE booking. Now, I love my work, but it isn’t the kind of ‘work’ that I do for free, or a financial loss.

Tour costs? Flights - Usually around $350 - 400 return (I am NOT flying Tiger, ok?) alone. Accommodation? Well especially for central Sydney - $250 - 400 a night. Then there’s the time it takes to get from Brisbane to Sydney, it does essentially take half a day each way, so that’s a whole lost day all up just to get there. Remember the saying ‘time is money’?. Then there’s the Ubers or other transport to and from the airport, and the cost of my petsitter, around $60 a day.  

So would I fly to Sydney to see someone for $400? No, I wouldn’t. Not because I think $400 is a small amount of money, but because it would not be $400 profit, it would be, in fact, a massive loss.

And the kicker? When I offered him a time on my already scheduled tour, he refused to pay a deposit. So, this person, my ‘biggest fan’, seems to be quite happy for me to run at a loss for him without him even making the commitment to show up. 

There is this attitude that sex workers make tonnes of money and that there is no responsibility on the client to commit, because the money just rolls in and we can replace anyone who doesn’t show up. Let me assure you, my business is not like that at all.

I work 40-60 hour weeks, and only a few of those hours pay me any money, that’s why our fees are what they are. The hours I spend marketing, social media, admin, preparation time, communications etc, far, far outweigh the hours I spend with clients. That’s the cost of independent work. We surrender our time, in exchange for full control of our business. But it’s hard work - we don’t make our money lying back thinking of England. It takes considerable dedication and effort to get people in the door to start with, before blowing their socks off. I don’t earn hundreds of thousands of dollars, many of my clients earn more than I do, as do some of my friends. I won’t get rich as a hooker, I’ll make a comfortable life hopefully, with the freedom of not having a boss, blogging from my couch, and getting to be sexy and lead an interesting life.

The thing is, I do not have ‘mass appeal’. I’m a unique individual that doesn’t appeal to everyone. I’m okay with that, the people who see me aren’t just after a ‘root’, they’re interested in seeing me specifically. Which means the time we have together is so much more rewarding for both of us. But it does mean I have to work a lot harder to promote myself, and I am reliant on those people showing up. I cannot spread my expenses over dozens of men every tour - there’s just not the numbers (plus I’d be exhausted!). I tour with the commitment and dedication of a few lovely clients willing to pay deposits. So I can cover my flights, my accommodation, pet sitters and stuff without fear that I’ll be doing my 60 hour week without profit, or at worst, a loss. I love my work, but it is work, not community service.

The deposit issue goes beyond tours though, because even though I wasn’t always taking them for local bookings in Brisbane, I have been punished for not doing so, particularly when recently someone was targeting me with fake bookings. It’s incredibly hard and hurtful to be repeatedly stood up. The ability to project income is so important for any business, and this was being robbed from me. How do you budget on income you can’t predict? You can’t. Money lenders can see that too. Even asides from that, it really hurts to spend so much time getting ready and excited for work that isn’t coming. So now, increasingly I ask for deposits. And why shouldn’t I? I pay deposits in other industries so regularly. Tattoos, fitness classes, photographers, hotels… these are other industries who suffer from non-committal dreamers, who navigate this by imposing deposits. I am a sole operator, with no other people or branches to float me on bad weeks - I have to be able to manage my clients in a way that ensures that they will follow through.

Nothing is perfect, I’ve still had a few deposit payers cancel, and it is still really bothersome. But at least I got a little something for the trouble. Believe me, I’d rather have the actual work and the full amount, but the taste left in my mouth is less sour, and I’m more likely to reschedule them than a non-deposit payer.

So what is my deposit policy?

I usually take 50-100 per booked hour as a deposit, with the remainder to be paid on the day in cash. This isn’t a huge chunk, usually around 20%, not enough to make any kind of profit, or even really to cover any costs, but it is a display of commitment from you to our encounter. It’s the acknowledgment that you’re taking me seriously. My deposits are non refundable, but if you cancel with plenty of notice, I’ll apply it to a future date. If you cancel within 48 hours however, it’s gone. It’s virtually impossible for me to replace work at such short notice. If I cancel, your deposit will be returned. I rarely cancel, I’m a pretty healthy person, and frankly I don’t have the privilege of deciding not to get paid without great consideration.

I accept that there are clients in the industry that have a ‘moral’ issue with paying deposits to sex workers. I’d argue that these are people who still don’t recognise sex work as real work, and that we are running legitimate businesses. Whether that’s based on prejudice, our whether they’ve had bad experiences, I don’t know. All I can say is that I take this seriously. Pleasure to me is serious business, and I’m grateful for those who recognise my business and behave and support me accordingly, and there has never been any complaints!

PETRA FOX

Twitter: @foxandthefeline

Instagram: @foxandthefeline

Web: petrafox.com.au

The Silent Goodbye

 It struck me that she was beautiful, my client’s widow as she cried on TV. An upstanding member of society, he left a hole in his family, his circle of friends and the community who loved him. I didn’t breathe, the air held stale in my lungs as I realised in the same moment that my regular client had died, and that he was important enough for his passing to be newsworthy. Much unlike me, really.

This isn’t the first client I’ve lost, but the first time I was confronted with seeing a spouse, and the emotions it stirred in me were new and unusual. I disconnect myself from my client’s personal life when I’m with him. I assume many are partnered or married, but I don’t think about it. I see the ring and think nothing. My rational brain understands the complications of monogamy and relationships, I’ve been there myself. I don’t ask and I never tell. I just don’t think about it.

I notice that I look nothing like her. I watch her, poised with a sad beauty about her, an Emma Thompson lookalike and I wonder what the hell he was thinking, seeing a wretch like me. She clearly loved him, and he had beautiful young children who look just like him. He had everything a man, or I, could dream of.

I know, that the carnal desires of the flesh run deep and ultimately that is what drives men to see me. But, we had so much more than that, the sex part of our time together was minimal and he cared for me deeply, I know. And I know most importantly, it is none my business, what his marriage did or didn’t entail. That was his other life. But I grapple with what void I was filling, nonetheless.

I watch her, mesmerised at this secret part of my clients life, public and on show. I am the real secret of course, kept at a distance, watching grief from the outside, unable to tell anyone, unable to confide. I am terribly sad in this moment, to lose a client is such an unusual feeling. There’s grief, even if we only perhaps saw a small side of them that they chose to present, there’s loss of income, and also a sense of helplessness and isolation. We are irrelevant and silent in their passing. The range of emotions we feel wash over us and we swallow them like wine, unable to reach out, offer condolences or to cry with those who knew him.

I turn off the TV, feeling too much like I’m prying, and I pour a glass of red, just how he liked and I toast to him. Grateful for what we shared, the ways he supported me, and that he shared with me a part of himself so different to the News. He’d have liked this Shiraz - a passing thought tinged with sadness. I choke back the tears as my work phone goes off. Another married man wants a secret.

PETRA FOX

Twitter: @foxandthefeline

Instagram: @foxandthefeline

Web: petrafox.com.au

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