Omitting the Crucial Fact

      On Thursday the nice doctor is going to tell me if I have damaged my brain, liver, and kidneys.  

       Yesterday during one of the intake interviews at rehab, I was asked how I make a living.  I omitted the fact that I work as a prodomme.  

        I don’t know if I made the right decision.  

        On one hand, the cat’s out of the bag: I checked myself into a rehab program and my family knows about it.  So do my close friends.  So do my 8 blog readers.  My college doesn’t know, but I chalk that up to being a completely irrelevant member of the faculty (though I did find a letter from HR in my mailbox yesterday and almost had a heart attack.  Fortunately, it was just spam).  I could teach in a gorilla outfit and they would not give a fuck as long as I turned in the grades. 

       Additionally, I am paying about 30% of my yearly income to gain access to a bunch of professionals.  Common sense dictates that the more they know about me, the more they will be better able to help me.  Neglecting to tell them that I work in a high-stress, quasi-legal job  with a lot of people who routinely drink and use drugs is a pretty serious omission.  

         But, to quote the Mathematician, our favorite philandering borrower of his neighbor’s Sulfur-Crested Cockatoo, “It is true that I omitted the crucial fact, but I was worried that you would be mad.”  (gee, you think?)

        You see, other than my analyst (and, I suppose, the Surgeon), I have told exactly one other health care professional about my Secret Job…and it was a bad experience.

        It was a drug and alcohol counselor at the school where I attended my Ph.D. program.  I went there when I decided that I had a problem.  I had a few sessions with her and then told her that I worked as a prodomme.  It seemed topically relevant.

         It angered her.

          She told me that I was doing it for attention and to receive the validation of males, that I was dating the Surgeon because he gave me money for textbooks (HA!) instead of doing the responsible thing and taking out a student loan, that I was not a real feminist, and that I was throwing all other women under the bus by letting men think that all women are sex objects for sale.

         Can you believe it?  Can you?  I was completely vulnerable and turned to this woman for help.  The state probably pays this woman with a Master’s degree $75,000 a year!  

         In retrospect, I should have reported her and formally complained, but I was worried that if I made a report, I’d have to say exactly what it was that made her so angry, and I didn’t want my Secret Job on any official record. 

       Which brings me to another reason I didn’t tell the people at Rehab my entire employment status: if it’s on the record, it’s on the record.  Other people would be able to see it.  Insurance companies.  Lawyers.   What happens if I get married one day and have a kid, and then divorce and have the guy claim that my history as a sex worker makes me an unfit parent?  Some of the dommes at the Studio are mothers.  Every one of them I’ve talked to about it expresses concern that the state could try to take their children away.

       The last reason that I didn’t tell them is that I’m going to be in a cohort.  The “I Flunked Out of Life Class of 2014,” Fall Semester.  It’s co-ed.  My experience has been that if some men find out you’re a sex worker (not all men, just some, don’t get defensive), they immediately objectify you and use it as an excuse to treat you poorly.  I spend enough energy emotionally managing drunk guys and chester molesters at work.  I don’t need to do it at rehab. 

      (On the other hand, I’m sure that the rehab is full of degenerates who did degenerate things when they were using, like sell grandma’s TV set for heroin.  I am positively a goody two shoes in some of the rougher AA meetings.)

        I hope I’ve made the right decision.

                              *                           *                         *

       Oh, and a quick complaint: I saw a new potential client the other day.  I didn’t like him much.  He was sort of a jerk.  He asked me if I would undress if he gave me more money.  I thought about it and decided that no, I didn’t want to be topless around this guy.  I make decisions about nudity on a case-by-case basis.

      “Nope, sorry.  I don’t think that I can do that,” I said.

      He stared at me and blinked a few times, as if I’d just said something completely unreasonable. 

      “Why not?” he asked.  “Why won’t you?”

       What is wrong with some of these men and their empathy deficit?  They can’t all be sociopaths; they’re too many of them.  Good god, it must be nice to go through life without having to consider any situation of exchange from another person’s point of view.  Any human being who was not a completely self-centered moron should be able to understand why a person might want to keep their clothes on in front of a stranger they just met.

        “Because I don’t feel like it,” I explained calmly. 

        “Why not?”  Like a little kid!  And he had nice clothes and a briefcase and a company keychain!  Someone HIRED this dude!  He passed a job interview!

        “I just don’t like it,” I  said.

       “But isn’t that what you’re here for?”  The self-absorption knows no bounds.

       “Let me ask you something,” I said.  “Why do so many men completely ignore any sexual boundary they find invalid?”

        He looked puzzled, like a dimwitted student trying to make sense out of Being and Nothingness.

        “Uh, can I meet someone else?”

        Yes, I think that would be best. 


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