I’m so happy to have a story in Tobi Hill Meyers Nerve Endings – the only anthology I know of that is an all trans author collection of erotica. The collection is really amazing. I’m a harsh judge of erotica and I found something to enjoy in almost every story – the quality of the writing is extremely high – check out two of my favorite stories: Singularity by Katherine Cross and East Oakland Part II by Aria Sa’id.
I love this story because I wrote it before meeting my girlfriend, and reading back it feels like a spell of who and what I needed in my life, and I got what I was looking for. The story starts with a character dealing with anxiety around personal sex coming from sex worker burnout and goes from there. Get the book to read the rest here
The routine gets to you. Scanning through your ads, updating them – I’m available now! New pictures, new ad copy. Suggestive but not explicit. Tag fisting but don’t say you fuck for money. Reading other hooker profiles, wondering if their persona is selling better than your own.
Then there are the calls, texts, emails:
“Send me nude pics”
“Are u horny?”
“Do you like dirty ass?”
“Are you tight or is ur hole sloppy?”
Then finally: “Would like to meet up.”
If you have the pleasure of meeting there is the labor of creating movie star intimacy within minutes mixed in with the mundanity of someones spit collecting in your mouth, tongues often wooden pressing against your own. The feel of genitals being up next to your face, soft and slippery or inviolably hard – and everyone wants you to deep throat. You want to deep throat, because it’s important that they know that you are good, that you are special, a boy with a vagina – what a delight! It is my goal in life to make you fully aware what a blessing it is to fuck me.
It’s not that you don’t enjoy some of these encounters, many you do. Money is a great lubricator, and you love having sex with some of your clients, look forward to it even. Great guys – some with bodies you love, like the dad you never had, and the pleasure of doing a good job is really the best satisfaction you can ever truly receive. But does someone who works at an ice cream shop go out for ice cream? The routine. The smells. The feeling of a strangers sweat drying on your body. Being on regardless of what’s going on in your life – who recently was found murdered or dead after a suicide or overdose; the sadness of the walk to the hotel – walking through streets full of shopping carts, people with nowhere to go but the sidewalk, cops circling like vultures – to that perfect perforation from their block to his block – sidewalks tidy, bistros and fusion restaurants a perfect border around his hotel with a bar, and a gym and a convenience store inside.
Sex work is work but also sometimes it is labor, like digging a ditch. A thirty minute blow job and ass fingering combo, allowing your holes to be stretched to a new capacity because a client want to fist you – it’s stress on your muscles, you know?
This is why you don’t seek out unpaid sex. You look at Scruff but mostly to see if there are any potential johns to be cultivated from the pool. At dance parties you flirt but mostly just with such generality no one could expect it to be personal. At friends house parties sometimes you share the perfect kiss, often you are high and there is that molly glaze that makes everything shiny, fascinating while also not absorbing. But if you have sex it is usually with your friends, people with whom a gift economy is already established – with some friends you can even relax: be a star fish, experience pain, tell them no hickies, have blunt conversations about STI’s. Everyone else feels like too much of the pattern. The sex might be amazing but somewhere in your body you are on the clock, waiting for them to cum and tell you how amazing that was, and that part is waiting with anticipation for your job to be done.
That is why you are looking for a reason to leave this conversation with someone you are getting along with fantastically. She sat down next to you at the bonfire, which now simmers as glowing coals. There are 10 people scattered around awake at this party. 3 of them are in the shack in the backyard next to you in a k hole – you can hear them, one orating a story of being on a big ship driving through Milky Way waters. There is one other person around the fire, asleep in a moldy armchair, an alter of beer cans at their feet. This moment feels private, intimate – the sky has streaks of grey coming up in the west and she is talking with her eyes connecting directly to yours in the pause between sentences.