The Sleazes

 I should have known it was going to be a terrible idea to come on this cruise alone.

It’s my Dad’s birthday and everyone decided a cruise was the best idea due to it’s accessibility and the fact they were throwing cruise packages away like they were Christmas hams in a raffle. I’m the only one in the whole extended family here that’s not coupled up. The one and only distinct advantage being that I had a cabin all to myself, but it’s become a boring daily routine to wonder where everyone is and to ‘accidentally’ be left off land excursion activity lists because someone decided they want some romantic time without a third wheel (me). I should’ve hunted Tinder for some poor fool to bring with me just for something/someone to do. 

Another day, 3pm, and I’m at the bar entertaining myself. It’s become routine now - everyone is in their rooms fucking or napping or arguing or whatever it is that couples do these days. At this point in time, I’ve largely forgotten. A sun-pink gentleman in a short sleeved button up shirt shuffles over to me, he’s misread the vacant look on my face as vacancy, and encroaches my space, filling it with the smell of Jack n Coke and horny desperation. I’m far too good looking to be drinking alone, he informs me, without me asking. Perhaps I’d like some company, his wife is far too busy gas-bagging with her mate to care what he’s up to, he snarls. A ‘no thank you’ is laughed off, and he asks the bemused bartender to fetch me another of what I’m having. Ok, I preferred my newly-divorced day-drunk pit of despair to this, but thanks.

I look over his shoulder, to work out which his wife was, which he notices. I ask, are you trying to pick up for the both of you? Nah, he says, she’s not interested in sex anymore! Huh! Don’t ever get married! He says to me, the recently divorced singleton on a cheap cruise with her parents… He nods towards the brunette, and it’s immediately obvious to me that she’s far too hot for him. Shame, I say. He shuffles a little closer, too close, and leers at me. Take a hike, I say meaningfully - the sleaze dripped from him like lard from a pork chop. Fucking snob, who do ya think y’are! And he waves at the bartender as if to cancel his generous order. Away he trots, and I wink at the bartender who puts down my Prosecco and promises to charge it to his room. Good lad.

But I’m still noticing Sleaze’s wife. She’s older, sure. Maybe mid - late 40s. And her hair is a little too curly to be entirely natural and her leopard print sarong suits her far too well for her to be wearing it ironically. She looks at home on this cruise, with it’s loud carpet and gaudy chandeliers that cast unfathomably poor light. But she has these cheek bones, not highlighted or contoured with makeup, just elegantly carving her face. Her hair is thick with a hint of auburn, flowing down her back, mostly covering a fading butterfly tattoo on her shoulder. She’s striking really, I forgive her shouty outfit and wrong hue of lipstick when I watch her face dance as she loses herself in animated conversation with her friend. Looks nice to have company. Her friend leaves and I see Sleaze’s wife quickly glance around the bar for her missing husband, sinking relaxed into the couch when she notices him gone. Should I?

I take my Prosecco and approach the couch, can I join? Sure! She has a friendly inviting smile, a certain kind of purity to it. I wonder, am I this bitch? Sure, today I am. Your husband was just hitting on me at the bar, are you swingers? (Knowing of course that they aren’t). Shocked, she rebuts a little too quickly, definitely not! Her husband is just trouble you know, but he’s all talk. Her shock isn’t hurt, I think she’s more taken aback by my candidness. It’s a shame I say, because truly, you’re beautiful. There’s a blush, and she doesn’t know what to say. I ask more questions, have they tried swinging before? Did they know swinging happened a lot on cruises? Is she bicurious?

Look, I’m a bottle in and I’m not really proud of my behaviour, but she isn’t shying away from me. She tells me that her husband has strayed, or at least tried to, but you know, that’s just how he is. They have a nice life together and maybe it’s easier this way. I tell her she doesn’t need to tolerate his poor behaviour, she’s beautiful, she can have anyone. She laughs amusingly, that her husband thought he could have a shot with a beautiful young woman like me. So, I say, you think I’m beautiful?

Next thing you know I’m leading her by the hand out of the bar. I notice the bartender watching us, he’s going to have questions for me tomorrow. We pass Mr Sleaze in the hall near the exit to the pool, and his jaw drops. No words come out. I catch a glimpse of her face, giving a cheeky shrug to him but she never lets go of my hand. She’s almost skipping. I unlock my room, thank god I have a room to myself, and I give her a flirty push inside and shut the door.

I don’t know if I’d be as attracted to her in another situation. I wanted to have what he had, I wanted him to know. Am I proud of this? I don’t know, I know that in this moment I don’t care. I unwrap her sarong with haste and take my time tracing my fingers along her collarbone and the side of her striking face, while I try to figure out the inner workings of her over-complicated hot pink swimsuit. I’ve never been with a woman before, she says, and I assure her that that’s about to change. Her swimsuit now sits bunched on her hips, baring her exquisite chest, nipples like icicles and the unmistakable tiger stripes of motherhood on her belly. She’s a deer in headlights as I pull my dress unceremoniously over my head, quickly snap off my bikini and push her onto the bed. She’s much, much too hot for Mr Pork Chop.

..

For a second time, she quivers, cumming and pushing my head further into her untrimmed pussy, howling like an injured animal. There’s just no way my cabin neighbours don’t hear. I can’t tell if it annoys me or strokes my ego, or both. I’m drunk and uncertain if I’m horny or if I’ve just been craving a good time. This is certainly the kind of good time I wasn’t inclined to have with the lad behind the bar or any of the sleazes I met while nursing my lonely bubbles. Mrs Sleaze has discovered female breasts today and won’t leave mine alone, it’s cute really. When I tire of it I flip her over, fuck her with my fingers the way she likes it, and lick her chlorine tasting ass. She moans and writhes, and I hold her in place with my other arm so she doesn’t injure me with all that bucking about. I feel powerful in this moment, exposing her to the pleasures of women, pleasuring her in ways her husband doesn’t, and enjoying a little revenge. I love making her cum, we go at it for a couple of hours. She tries really hard to make me cum, but either the mojitos I watched her down or just inexperience make her a little clumsy. And that’s okay, I enjoy pulling her up by the hair to sit her on my face again, looking up to see those icicle nipples shiver and shake as her world shifts on it’s axis, possibly forever.

Knocks never come, though I expected them. He knows where we are, he watched us skip down the hall and disappear through my door, but he never comes. His wife does though, many times. Hah. Eventually we lie there, tongue-tied and spent and there’s nothing for us to say but goodbye. I kiss her open-mouthed as I open the door, to her husband sat on the floor against the wall, red-eyed, to greet her. Not my problem I think, and I shut the door before a word is said. That was an excellent way to pass the afternoon I think, turn on the TV and drift into a short doze before I go to meet the family for another buffet dinner.

..

It’s 3pm again, my favourite family members are romantically swimming with turtles while I order another Prosecco from the bartender, fast becoming my closest friend in this gaudy outdated ship that smells of stale Chanel No 5 and yesterday’s vomit. I look across the bar and spot the Sleazes, canoodling on the couch. Maybe I am an asshole, a drunk depressed asshole, but I think I might have unintentionally saved their marriage. Pity about my own I think, and gesture to the bartender - another bottle please. They catch my gaze and raise their glasses to me, so I raise my nearly empty bubbles in their direction and nod. Good for them. Charge this to their room, I say, I earned it.

PETRA FOX

Twitter: @foxandthefeline

Instagram: @foxandthefeline

Web: petrafox.com.au

Do you love your job?

 We lie there in the afterglow of the fuckfest that just ensued, and we start to talk about other things.

It’s often my favourite part of a booking, our guards are down and the conversation usually evolves past the niceties and the ‘what are you doing at the weekend’s. We talk a little about my blog, she knows writing, and she appreciates my blog and confesses it is part of why she booked me. It’s nice to receive the feedback, a little market research if you will. So I know she’s coming from a good place when she suddenly asks me, ‘so do you love your job?’.

It strikes me as an interesting way to phrase the question. Few people want to know if I love my job, the question is usually centred around if I like my clients or if I ever have bad experiences - questions that make me squirm (I’ll never understand why people ask me to relive potential trauma for their amusement). We are lying in the sweaty remnants of a threesome that was fun and a perfect ménage à trois by any standard. In this moment I’m thinking, ‘fuck yeah I love my job’. I can feel the question has come from a place of care and curiosity, so I take a moment to really think about it.

Do I love my job? I think it’s a layered and complex question, more so than they realise. I’d love to just answer yes, and it be true without any ‘but’s. Moments like this? Hell, I think I have the best damn job in the world. Very few, if any jobs on the planet can offer the kind of highs I get with clients. Sure, there’s the obvious fun bits - orgasms, nudity and the physical type things that most (usually male) clients think are the most important. That’s really just the surface layer of things I love about the work. But it’s rewarding professionally in ways outside of sexual pleasure. If you’re a person who enjoys work in personal service - say nursing, caregiving, childcare, you’ll understand the kind of job satisfaction that I also feel when it comes to looking after people and taking care of their needs. They might be very different needs, but all the same, the nurturing aspect to it is there and there is very real job satisfaction in taking care of clients. A happy client makes me happy, and that’s part of why I always strive to be good at my job, it’s not so much about reputation and return business, though those things are important, it’s just that it feels good to make people feel good. That job satisfaction is highly rewarding.

But it’s more than that too. And this doesn’t apply to every booking - hobbyists who book frequently, as often as some of us order Uber Eats - this doesn’t really apply to them (and that’s fine, they’re fine clients and we all usually see quite a lot of them). It’s the clients for whom we know we are a little more than that, that really give us a sense of purpose. There’s a deep sense of ‘calling’ that happens for me when I see clients for whom our time together is special. Sometimes it’s a client who is very inexperienced in sex and wants a little guidance from someone more experienced or at least, kind enough to accept a little fumbling. Sometimes it’s a person who is exploring or affirming their sexuality. Sometimes it’s a person with a disability who hasn’t been touched in a long time. Sometimes it’s a couple indulging in their first fantasy. Sometimes it’s someone who is in a sexless marriage who feels unsexy and just wants to feel alive again. Sometimes it’s just that I’m someone’s first sex worker, or just anyone that craves and truly appreciates the intimate level of service I provide. 

These people make my job amazing. It’s knowing that I’m giving someone a little of something special. Nothing reaffirms my place in this industry more than receiving a message from someone telling me how much our time together meant to them. In times when maybe I’ve had some shitty clients, or just clients who probably forget me in a week because they shag half of Brisbane, these clients keep my fire burning. Making people deeply happy is the best feeling a person can have.

But even in those moments, it’s hard for me to outright say ‘yes, I love this job’. Because I think, it overlooks so much. I am quite afraid to let people know, hey, yeah I love this job, because I never want to gloss over some of the things we endure to exist. I don’t want people to think it’s all glamour and fucking and cash. Loving the work still has a cost. People always assume the cost is the risk of violence - which yes, obviously exists. Being a woman, I live with risk every day regardless of sex work or not. Domestic violence rates in this country are genuinely scary, and yet we don’t assume all of our friends are victims of violence, even if statistically they possibly could be. Sex work can come with risk, for the reason that we deal with men on a regular basis, not because the work is inherently violent. 

Some of the biggest prices we pay to be in this work are outside of the actual in-person parts of the job. For example, I can’t put this job on my CV. And that doesn’t sound like a big deal on the surface, but from every other career you can usually continue or further your career after 10 years in any job, except for this one. Coming back to the civilian world from sex work with a big hole in your CV is hard, when none of the skills you’ve acquired as a business person are easily accounted for or explained. You can apply for a minimum wage job and find you’re too old or overqualified or you can aim too high where they’ll screen you beyond where your lies can realistically take you. Even if you’ve studied, or had children, or travelled, that gaping hole will still limit your employability. Quite simply, putting your mouth on genitals for a business, even if legal, will not be accepted as relevant job experience and most likely will see you culled immediately, probably as the office joke for the day.

Beyond employment challenges, there’s the real world stigma of being a sex worker. From my own experiences, even under New Zealand decriminalisation, I had my bank accounts shut down after a lifetime of being a customer, because they deemed my job too ‘high risk’. All I’d wanted to do was shut down a joint bank account after my painful separation and ended up with a small office swarming with men leering at me, telling me basically that I was a hassle and they shut my accounts on the spot, when I had no other bank accounts anywhere else active. It’s almost like they didn’t want me to be legitimate in my business even though they claim that was their main concern. They didn’t decline a loan, I wasn’t asking for money, they just shut down my day-to-day banking because of my job. And legally, they could do that as businesses are allowed to make their own choices about the risk they deem customers to be, even if it’s discriminatory. Hotels and AirBNBs will also turf you out and even ban you for life for similar reasons. I lost a very close friend after her partner basically banned her from hanging out with me, I can’t get insurances, I have family members who won’t speak to me (they aren’t the ones I care about thankfully), I have to lie on rental applications, and every time I tell someone what I do, it’s a ‘coming out’, because there’s always a risk that I kill that friendship or that they have a big mouth and it kills other friendships or opportunities in my life. I’ve had significantly less blowback in my life talking about my polyamory and sexuality than I have being a sex worker. Feminist circles are divided, which means many people in otherwise progressive pockets of the world either hate me or rule me unable to speak for myself. The online world is a minefield of hate and misogyny, and that’s where I have to advertise and find clients. My daily life involves wearing blinkers, whether online where people spew hate about me or people like me, or out in the world where people sometimes creepily stare at me out of recognition.

So I guess, I have to love my job. Because if I didn’t have these moments, resting my head on these (really quite lovely) boobs, with a man half asleep on my thigh, I can’t say it’d be worth it. I don’t know if I could mentally endure the prices I pay if I didn’t have great clients, and these perfect little moments. The reward of the work, the feelings of service, the joy of nudity and free-spirited loving and all that glittery happy stuff really needs to be there. I hear all the time, clients and spectators and even naïve partners saying they’re jealous of my work, and it does get to me, even if they’re right in seeing my joy for the work. Because the degree of resilience, street smarts and emotional labour that goes into living through the shit stuff and turning up with a smile on your face to these moments, is beyond what most people really are capable of, which is why being a sex worker is a talent, worthy of it’s hourly rate (and more), and no-one should expect anything less for us, than to have a fucking good time doing the job we sacrifice so much to do.

I hear myself, nearly a bottle of Moët down, starting to deep dive down this convoluted rabbit hole and I stop myself. This is their fantasy, their moment, and even from a place of care and curiosity I’m overwhelmed by the words it would take to make someone fully comprehend, post-coitally, the complicated love I have for this work. I nuzzle into her breasts a little more and bring myself back to this moment, one I want to savour, and I say, genuinely - ‘of course I do, look where I am’.

PETRA FOX

Twitter: @foxandthefeline

Instagram: @foxandthefeline

Web: petrafox.com.au

Not all Light and Love

 TW - sexual assault

It’s not exactly the kind of memory I like to hang on to, but it lingers. Sometimes it’s at the forefront of my mind when I’m beginning new networks in the industry and meeting new peers. Sometimes you just don’t know what corners of the community are for you or against you.

If you’ve read my stuff before, then you’ll know that the sex work community is a big part of my love for the industry - there was and always has been a sense of ‘being amongst my people’ that I simply haven’t felt anywhere else. We’re a bunch of odd misfits and we celebrate that. But my relationship with the sex work community is exactly that - a relationship. Sometimes our relationship is healthier than others. I have unbreakable ties to this community but the relationship has varied from synergetic and uplifting, to toxic and damaging. 

I’m thinking about this now as I’m coming off the back of reading a couple of books about online trolling, of note being Troll Hunting by Ginger Gorman, and I’ve been thinking a lot about some of the stuff I’ve endured as a sex worker in an age of intense and increasing public presence. 

The online aspect of sex work has been present for me since day one. My very first day working at the high volume ‘agency’ I started in, a decade ago, was the same day I was reviewed, so I quickly discovered the existence of review boards. It was a very rude awakening - I started sex work under the guise of it being built on a culture of discretion and yet, it appears clients could talk about every aspect of us and what they did with us. Disgust was my first reaction, then fear, and then morbid curiosity. 

The New Zealand forums work a little differently to how they do in Australia - for a start there’s a lot more escort input so ‘hobbyists’ and sex workers mingle and talk together a lot more in discussion. It gets heated, it’s not a particularly nice place a lot of the time but it’s arguably a lot nicer than the cesspits that are the known Aussie boards. So it worked out that I joined up on my very first day to read what was said about me, and curiosity drew me in plus an instinctive ‘keep the enemy close’. 

I was pretty active on the review boards then, it’s where I spun off into blogging (this by the way is not the first, second or third blog I’ve had over the years, I’ve well and truly done the sex work blog gig by now) and I built up a reputation with my words well before Twitter became important. I didn’t get along with everyone, and I suppose that included some workers - being (especially back then, I’ve definitely mellowed with age) the passionate, outspoken and at times angry feminist that I was - heated words happened from time to time. But I also made good friends, even mentors on there and I definitely acquired a lot of clients who appreciated a little spunk in their sexual endeavours. 

I was already unfortunately well aware of the dark side of the Internet, having been stalked and harassed by my abusive ex for years. I learnt quickly that the internet was something that could be exploited by people to cause harm, but up until my time in sex work I just never appreciated the size of the problem or just how venomous people could be, that you didn’t even know.

Fast forward a few years and I’m touring in Wellington. I have an honestly awful tour, an anonymous person made a fake booking and then reported me to my hotel reception for ‘dodgy activity’ and I had my room raided by staff. Believe it or not, this stuff still happens under decriminalisation - hotels are allowed to refuse us working there. But also, I was sexually assaulted by a client. Now at that time I was in a huff with the review boards and wasn’t using them, and I was alone on tour unsure who to talk to or how to deal with myself. I wrote a blog about what happened to me, I guess writing has just always been an outlet, and published it and it was put on the review board. At the time my ex husband didn’t know how to respond, and I wasn’t out yet to my family - I didn’t know who to talk to, I hoped my community would hear me and be the family for me that I needed.

It just didn’t really work out that way. People in the forums questioned why I wrote it, people doubted my story, people thought I was attention seeking and worst of all, people blamed me for what happened. I won’t get into the details of the assault, I don’t want to, it’s not necessary and it’s behind me, but the actions out of my own community shocked me. It is unsurprising that the type of people who hang around on review boards are often misogynists and some of the things that were said were grotty but nonetheless unsurprising. But some of my own peers were doubting me, blaming me, and even started trolling me about it. Now there was support, I’m grateful to a lovely friend who came to my aid and others who were involved and there was love and care there. But in the end it came to feel overshadowed, in particular by one individual - a sex worker - who thought it would be a lot of fun to spend the next year or so trolling me and making fun of my sexual assault. It involved abusive name-calling and harassment, usually timed for when I was touring, when they knew I’d be alone again and sensitive. I think I’ve struggled to deal with the fact that this was permitted by the forums, but also because the establishment they worked from who claimed to be progressive in their sex worker rights and ethics, did nothing about it. For some reason this person, who didn’t know me, thought sexual assault of a peer was a lol-worthy event and with the full support of her own fanboys, seemingly their workplace and the forum itself, proceeded to try and get as many ‘lulz’ as possible out of my trauma.

I’m a much stronger individual now than I was then, I couldn’t really give two hoots what some immature little brat wants to say about me now - but things were raw then. I was younger and without the strong support network I have today. Back then I was the one comforting my own husband about my rape, I couldn’t call my family to talk about it or talk to any of my uni friends. I was alone, and where the forums had at times provided a sense of community and a safe place for discussion, I felt really betrayed by how quickly that turned really toxic for me. 

And people say when online interactions turn sour, well, why don’t you just turn it off? But how can you turn off the only thing that gives you a sense of connection to the only people who are like you? The world is very online now - it’s how we market, stay in touch, it’s how we work and how we live. You can’t just turn it off. And it’s so much more complex when you live a life that you can’t be completely open about in ‘real life’. It takes courage and a degree of risk to talk to people outside the sex work community about our job. I’ve lost so much personally and had to keep secrets to prevent it affecting the lives of my loved ones too. Sex workers take a lot of risks to be here, and so having a community in sex work can be so important for when there’s either no-one else to talk to, or just no-one who really ‘gets it’. It isn’t so simple to turn off the only place where your job isn’t the one thing you’re judged on. 

But since that experience, while the sex work community is in so many ways my family - it is definitely a dysfunctional one and one that I have never been able to fully lean on since. The organisations that rely on community do so much good work, and I’m grateful every time I see a client knowing I can do that legally, and I feel guilty at times that I never involve myself as much as I should. But every time I dip my toes in I feel just how deep that goes and everything I risk by jumping in. I want to bring positive attention to the community for all the good it has done and all the good it will do for others, but I feel at times that I gloss over some harsher realities by trying to be all ‘light and love’ for the benefit of social media ‘mood’ and the endless war against stigma. But the truth is that I had my heart broken by my community those years ago, while people watched on or even laughed, and that’s a wound that’s scarred viciously.

I’m a harder person because of trolling, because of deeply entrenched misogyny in the sex industry, and I know more than most that it’s not limited only to men or to clients, but that it’s alive and well within the community too. I’m happy and fine today because through circumstance and determination, I’ve been able to build a support network away from the industry, so I can ugly-cry into someone’s sleeve and not worry about how that might impact my survival network. I love you, my community, I do - but like my relationship with my Mother - I love you more from a safe distance.

PETRA FOX

Twitter: @foxandthefeline

Instagram: @foxandthefeline

Web: petrafox.com.au

Love

 Justine and Jake* book me for a few hours. It's their anniversary they tell me, they can't wait to meet me. They promptly pay a deposit and send me little kiss emojis. A little flutter happens in my tummy.

They sound like great clients, I do love seeing couples and the vibe they give off seems easy going and like they are going to be a lot of fun. I see a lot of couples, and every dynamic is different. Sometimes there’s a lot of rules about who is allowed to do what, to navigate jealousy and the general feelings that can arise when you watch someone you love touching someone else. And it’s all cool, I’ll always support people to do what feels comfortable for them and nothing else. Sometimes rules can be a bit of a tease which can also be fun in it’s own way. 

I generally like to hear from the woman first - too often I fear male partners (assuming cis-m/f couple here, as they seem to be my most common couple dynamic) might be coercing their loved one to do something outside their scope, and often times couples enquiries are fake - just a dudebro getting off to the fantasy of a threesome with their uninterested wife. But I persevere with this side of escorting because while I obviously thrive with individual clients - there’s something about a threesome with a couple that when it goes well - there’s an unmatchable high attached to it. 

Justine approached me - she articulated that this would be their first time introducing an extra person to the bedroom, but she sounded excited and honestly, enquiries from women are almost always top notch, respectful and to the point. Exactly how I like it. So my nervous flutter was one of excitement, not anxiety - I can’t wait to meet them.

I open the door to this jaw-dropping couple on their anniversary, and they’ve dressed up a little and the scent of Calvin Klein Light Blue and Marc Jacobs Daisy is intense but leaves an impression - and I’m flattered by their effort. They’re both in dark colours which reminds me of the sexy mysterious professionals in the big cities and it contrasts my yellow dress - bold being basically my signature by now. We pop some bubbles, the most aphrodisiac of drinks and my constant social drink of choice, and conversation is easy and flirty. We haven’t touched yet but there’s a trickle of excited sweat down my back which I hate the sensation of but signals the extent of my nervous anticipation. I’m the luckiest hooker in Australia tonight. 

If you know one thing about me it’s that I’m quite introverted, but I also thrive as the centre of attention (it’s an only child thing), and almost as if they knew it, I have become the focus of the evening. I drink them in and feel overwhelmed that such a gorgeous, sophisticated couple have for some reason chosen me to be their host for their maiden voyage into debauchery. My curiosity about their bodies, and how they move, drives us to the bedroom quicker than perhaps I’d usually take things. No complaints, believe me.

We’d discussed their boundaries in the booking process, for which they stipulated they were comfortable with each other getting fully involved in everything, which is fun. I think they’ve been anticipating this for a long time, couples often fuck and fantasise together about threesomes well before they happen - I know from experience. But I ask before kissing her - consent is sexy, but honestly I just want to hear her tell me she wants it - it drives me crazy hearing someone tell me they want me. My ego and sex drive often intertwine, I won’t apologise for it. I ask them before I kiss him, I run my hands around their bodies asking if they like it, and their moans of encouragement excite me. As she’s bi-curious, but never having done more than kiss a girl, I ask Justine if I can eat her pussy to which they both respond with a glint in their eyes - a certain ‘yes please’. Nice.

I usually find myself a little dominant with women, something I’ve discovered in the last couple of years - my switchey-ness has been well and truly cemented - and I push her knees up to her gorgeous chest and hold her still by the ankles while I eagerly pleasure her - Jake looking on as if he’s seen the light of God, and they kiss, hungrily with full love and support of each other as they journey through this new experience together. It’s truly the most beautiful thing.

Later, after a team effort of a blowjob and experiencing that condom sex is no barrier to fun, Jake cums also, behind me in doggy, watching his wife writhe around in pleasure while being held still by this strong, tattooed stranger that he’s fucking. And as I write this, I’m wet as a puddle, because obviously, physically, threesomes are a very sexy thing. For me as a bisexual woman, it’s a little like a smorgasbord - some of everything I like. Experiencing this with sexually progressive, stunning individuals is possibly the hottest thing I can do in this work. Work perks if you will - often this job is genuinely sexually exciting. I absolutely have thought about this booking while using my Satisfyer Pro (google it) a few times. But it’s also so much more than that, and this is where I get to (what I think is) the point of this post.

Love is just a beautiful thing to experience, to witness and to participate in. The experiences that I have with couples are just so magical because these two people have really put their trust in me to respect and celebrate the love that they have and to guide them in a way that is comfortable and unthreatening, into new touch, new experiences, new rabbit holes to fall down. When I’m in the company of people who fully support each other to really to explore, I’m most at home - this is my element.

After Jake and Justine leave, the smell of pussy making itself at home on my face, the latex smells and stale perfume still engulfing my senses, I call my partner B to tell them about what an amazing day I just had at work. I wander from one supportive relationship and back into my own, knowing that the reception I’ll receive when I tell this person who I love that I just ate the pussy of one of the hottest women I’ve ever seen, under the watchful eye of an excited husband, will be truly happy for me. Every genuinely supportive  partner of a sex worker wants a phonecall about a good day, hoping it isn’t a bad one. But B just genuinely wants me to have a damn good time and find my bliss. That’s polyamory, I’ve found. Afterwards, still beaming, I leave a message for my partner G, who later calls me with an OMG TELL ME EVERYTHING because their office job just never lives up to my work stories in their eyes (obviously I never give any details in my horny work stories that could even remotely identify my clients). G tells me that they think what I did for that relationship went beyond transaction and beyond sex, the Yoda that they are, and their pride in me and what I do melts me - G does that a lot. My partners don’t just tolerate my work - they know it’s a part of me and they’re proud of it. 

And this is who I am, at the core of things. I live a life rooted deeply in love. It’s a hard thing to say here, I think. I do keep my personal life very private and sacred, because that’s exactly what it is. But it’s really hard for me to convey my brand as one thing when I’m another. I want people to know that I am supportive of different relationship dynamics, I’m supportive of different sexualities and identities and people who are having their own struggles either with monogamy, with love or even just life. I want people to know that I foster an environment, backed up in my own life, where people can just be themselves and let go safely. I have been afraid I think, to discuss love, I know from experience in the last 10 years that you can lose clients if they know you’re loved - but perhaps I’ve outgrown putting up with people who think I should be denied the same things people enjoy in other occupations. I am not a possession - and love really fosters love. I bring more to my job, knowing I am supported through the good and the bad, and knowing that I have a safe place in the world outside of my job as well. Being loved, being poly, being bi, means I truly understand these moments, like with J & J, strengthening their relationship by having new experiences and exploring parts of themselves that may be on the surface quite sexual, but also touch on parts of your identity and place in the world. Being experienced, cared for and happy should never be seen as a negative in the world at all, lest of all the funny little world of sex work.

And no-one really talks enough about how much love surrounds and intertwines with the world of sex work, perhaps for the same reasons I have also shyed away from it. Sex work is definitely about sex with no strings, to a point. And it’s fun and I like it. Easy, breezy no strings fucking is high on my list of things I enjoy. But more often than not, it’s deeper than that. In this past year alone, even in spite of the absolute shit-show that is Covid-19, I’ve been a birthday present to people hired by their significant others. I’ve been part of anniversary (and wedding!) celebrations, I’ve been medicine for heartbreak, I’ve been a lockdown buddy, I’ve been the person people explore their sexuality with, I’ve been the person people share their secrets with and the person people talk to about the loves of their lives. And in my own life I am loved, I love, and I’ve supported my partners through other loves, heartbreaks and my friends through theirs too. And these moments, like with Justine and Jake, especially this year, remind me of our humanity, when at times it feels distant. Love really does transcend everything, and if we can celebrate it, explore it, support it and hold onto it, perhaps we can look back on these times and remember love most of all.

* Not real names, obviously - for discretion reasons consider them a product of artistic license

PETRA FOX

Twitter: @foxandthefeline

Instagram: @foxandthefeline

Web: petrafox.com.au

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

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