The Scheme for a New Job

So: the Job.

People against sex work often nag discourage childe “remind” us that we “can’t do this forever!  Eventually nobody will want to buy what you’re selling!”  I’ve heard this a few times–always from therapists, never from clients or other women in the biz, because we know better.  A person can, in fact, do various forms of sex work through middle age and presumably beyond.  I used to be insecure about getting older in this industry, thinking that it would be harder for me to find work, but I needn’t have worried: my money hasn’t been affected at all.  Even when I was working out of a commercial dungeon with women in their early 20s, I did just fine. A lot of guys like very young women and will not deviate from that, which is fine, but they are by no means representative of the entire client base. I know women in their late 40s and 50s who are very successful, moreso than I have ever been, and these women are not serve a niche market.  Especially in prodomming, there is a lot to be said for experience and looking like a convincing authority figure.

As long as I maintain my face and figure, I could do sex work for a very long time.

The reason I want a new career is that I need a job conducive to starting a family eventually.  For me, sex work ain’t that. I also need a job where it will be easier to maintain my sobriety.  All alone in an anonymous hotel room/rented dungeon space for days at a stretch on tour, cut off from the world except for sex worker Twitter and email, is not a great place for me to be.

If I want to raise a child, I need stability and a reliable, steady source of income.  Kids cost a fucking fortune, so the job has to pay well.  The Collector has a fortune, but without him, I will need to provide everything.  I never had much material ambition, but there is a certain standard I want to achieve and be able to maintain before I even consider having a child.

I’ve settled on a new career: court reporter.  It’s an AA degree, which means I could be done in two and a half years and start work right away after I get my license. I am done with the big leagues–I don’t want another grad degree.  An associate’s, though, I could do.  The pay is good (well, I think it’s good–court reporters in NYC make $80,000/year), the job is in high demand, and I can do it as long as my hearing hold out.  I wouldn’t even have to work in the courts, because there’s other work for freelance stenographers. Best of all, court reporters are essentially self-employed (and I love being self-employed!), so I can work as little or as much as I want to.  This would be important when the child is young.

I’ve found the college I want to attend.  I want to start in the Fall.  It’s accredited and NCRA-approved.  The program is online (they have a brick-and-mortar campus, but it’s in another state) and while I’d much prefer to learn in a physical classroom, I see no reason why I can’t do this online.  I’m a bit intimidated because this is unlike any education I’ve had before–this is a technical degree that requires me to master a stenograph machine and its attendant software programs. It also requires some native talent for the machine, which I may or may not possess: if I can’t perform with the necessary speed and accuracy (and some people can’t, try as they might), I can’t get my license..

This is what I want to do.  It is not my dream job, but it is a good job performing a necessary social function in an environment that I would not hate to be in. It is something that I could be proud to be.

This is Plan A.  My backup plan is paralegal, another degree I could knock out at my local junior college in three semesters after I transfer credits.

Now I have another problem to address: paying for school.  Court reporting college is expensive, and I am very reluctant to go into debt for $40,000.  Almost all of my college was paid for through scholarships and fellowships.  I can’t do that here.  Without the Collector’s money to fall back on, I have to do this myself.

Which brings me to the next part of my plan!  I’ve been scheming!  Scheming about how I’m going to pay for this!  And it’s sex work, natch.  A new kind of sex work!

Is it a hair-brained scheme?  Is it spectacularly ill-advised?  Or is it feasible?  Indeed, I ask you, WHAT COULD GO WRONG?

You tell me!  I’m writing about it in the next installment.

New Update: Dad Material? New Career!

I had to give up my old apartment, which is a crying shame.  It was an attic apartment in an old Victorian house, close to the river and in a great neighborhood.  It had a sloped ceiling in the living room and big trees in the yard and two raccoons that would peek in the window at night.  It was also nice and QUIET (as I age, I am slowly but surely turning into a true noise crank).  I liked it there.

Well, the Collector was threatening to buy the house my apartment was in (yes, the entire building) if I didn’t stop “hiding” from him (and maybe hiding shouldn’t be in quotes because I was, in fact, hiding).  He’s shown up at my door before and it was pretty awful.  I’ve had a lot of experience with boyfriends who just come over break the door down (or, in his case, let themselves in with secretly-made copies of my house keys) and it was giving me a lot of anxiety, so I moved.

I think that we’re done.

Which brings me to the next topic…and it’s awkward….

Something has happened to me in the last few years.  I started to think I’d like to eventually have a baby. 

I’m a shocked as you are.  I never wanted children before.  I felt strongly enough about it to put it into my online dating profiles. I am at a loss to explain why I changed my mind.  The only thing I can think of is that there really is something to that old trope about the biological clock: I’m in my late 30s now, and I no longer have a seemingly unlimited period of fertility ahead of me.  My mother went into menopause early.  It occurred to me that if I want a family, it’s something that I will need to plan for.  Not immediately, but in the foreseeable future.

I told the Collector about it and he suggested that I freeze my eggs.  He even offered to pay for it.  I was blogging while this was going on, but it was too personal for me to share online at the time.  I took him up on his offer and started going to the fertility clinic.  It was one of the most expensive gifts a man has ever given me, but I took it.  I had to go to classes and sign a lot of legal paperwork and inject myself in the abdomen twice a day, and then some of my eggs were harvested and frozen.  They are floating in a vat of liquid nitrogen.

A year and a half later, our relationship had grown, and he told me that he wanted to be the father.  He said that he always wanted to have a daughter. This is a huge thing for me.  I mean, can you imagine it?!  I thought about it.  I’ve been thinking about it for a long, long time.  On paper, it sounds great.  He’s twenty years older than me. How many men his age are willing to have a new baby?  Wow, aren’t I lucky that I found a guy like this?  Look at all the things the Collector could give a baby!  It would have every material advantage!  The best education money can buy!  The best health care! It would live in the most exciting city in the world!  It would have two high-IQ parents!  It would probably be good looking!

The Collector had one restriction: he wants me to wait till I’m 40.  Which is fine!  I have more work to do on myself.  I need at least two–and preferably three–years of unbroken sobriety before I even THINK of actually becoming a mother.

But I couldn’t commit to it.  I kept pulling back, and asking myself if the man was really Dad material.  His relationship with his elder son is not too great.  And how could we have a child and keep practicing our sadomasochistic relationship?  And am I ready to be domesticated?  And he’s controlling, what about that?  His kinks push the envelope sometimes, even with me (never thought I’d say that!).  What if the relationship goes bad and a kid is involved–how on earth would I ever get away?

The Collector says I’m afraid of being happy.  Is he right?

I know that before I have a kid–if I have a kid–I need a few years of good sobriety, and I also need a well-paying, steady job.  I’m not saying that sex workers can’t or shouldn’t be mothers–I know many who are!  But I think it would be best, for me, if I had a straight job.

During my time in rehab, I decided to make a career change.  But first, I’ll have to go back to school.  I’ll be going back to sex work in a few months in order to make money to cover tuition, because it’s going to be expensive and I won’t have the Collector’s help to pay it if I’m not with him.

I’ll tell you all about my new career plans in the next update!  And also more about why I’m worried about marrying the Collector.  Also, my ideas for doing sex work–I am going to try something new that will work around my rehab and recovery program.

Things Clients Have Said to Me

The following are a sample of things clients have said to me.  My thoughts are in italics.

“Does your family know?”

So rude.  Does your family know?

“What does your boyfriend think of all this?

“But what if your future husband found out?”

After the session and his ejaculation, when suddenly seized by shame and remorse: “You shouldn’t do this anymore! You should get a normal job, like at a restaurant or something.”

Side note: I get awful vibes from men overcome with shame who act close to panic after they have an orgasm.  I think they’re potentially dangerous when they’re in that state of mind. Handle with care.

At the end of the session, which was a 3-ring circus and involved an orgasm on his part:  “I want a refund.”

So go make a complaint to the Better Business Bureau!

“Can I get a discount?”

“Are you clean?”

New client comes out of the bathroom with a very solemn expression on his face.  He holds out his hand and shows me three red pills that I’d left on the bathroom counter.  “What are these pills?” he asks me.

They’re cinnamon altoids, fuckstick! 

“So, are you at this job because you use drugs?”

“But what if the children found out?” (Dungeon was a block away from a daycare center and a park.)

“You must have had a very hard life.”

Some men see sex workers as broken flowers, crushed by the cruel cruel world.  My question is: what sort of person believes that and then decides to book an appointment anyway?

Client is a coked-out idiot pouring sweat in ill-fitting women’s lingerie with a dildo up his bum: “Does this turn you on?”

Client wants to masturbate in front of all the women in the dungeon, but doesn’t want to pay them to be there: “I’ll put on a great show for you! You’ll love it!”

Yes, I am sure it is as entertaining as Cirque du Soleil. You could do it on Broadway. 

“I want to speak on the phone before we meet so that I know we will be compatible with each other.”  After being told about my telephone rates: “I can’t believe you want to soak me for every little thing.”

When I explain that I’ll be happy to have a dinner-date session with him for my reduced social-rate fee: “I will not pay you to eat with me.  That’s ridiculous.”  When I explain that I am here to work: “It’s a pity that you hate what you do so much that you have to call it work!”

Client who brought a LOADED GUN to session: “Don’t worry, I’m harmless.”

“You girls sure make a lot of money.”

Upset new client wants an explanation for why I won’t fly alone with him in his small airplane to his vacation cabin in the middle of nowhere in Canada: “But why not?  I’m paying you!”

Indeed, why not?  What could go wrong?

“How did you get those bruises on your back?”

Hmmm….you are a masochist and I work in a dungeon.  Think about it, guy.  Think about it real hard. 

Update: I’m Back!

I’m back with big, big news!  Lots of things have changed, and are in the process of changing around here!

Yes, I was off the internet for more than a year.  It sucked, but I had to do it.  I was Working On Myself™.  I was Doing Me™.

The first thing I did was check myself into residential treatment for alcoholism.  This time, I decided to throw in the proverbial towel and do it right–a long-term stay in a secure environment.

I had several reasons for wanting to be institutionalized.  The most important reason was that I’ve been struggling with quitting drinking since about 2011.  I’ve had periods of sobriety that lasted for 3, 6, and even 9 months, but I had many relapses, too, and every significant relapse was getting worse.  Alcoholism is a progressive disease/affliction, and a few years ago my body started going on strike.  When I drink now, I end up physically addicted very quickly and back in the hospital in a matter of days.  This unacceptable state of affairs had to be addressed as seriously as possible, which, for me, meant rehab.

Another reason I went was–let’s face it–I needed some time away from the Collector to get my head on straight and decide what I wanted out of our relationship and, importantly, whether or not I was likely to get it.  The Collector and I were discussing, umm, I think it’s called “taking the relationship to the next level” in women’s magazines.  So I did what any right-thinking woman would do when offered the chance for domesticity with a fascinating sadist who is, ostensibly, the man of her fondest nightmares: I ran away like my hair was on fire “just for a little while, while I get sober” and checked myself in to a secure, undisclosed location.

I also knew I needed to ask myself the burning question, “What am I doing with my liiiiiiiiife?”  And not just in some vague, existential way as I lay on the bed of an anonymous San Francisco hotel room in my leather domme gear, waiting for my client to show up and wishing I’d asked the staff to empty out the minibar when I checked it.  I mean seriously asking myself what I want out of life, and then deciding what I need to do to get it.

So I went to rehab, and then, after some time with the Collector, I went to another secure, undisclosed location that was like an apartment complex or community for recovering addicts.  I lived there for months.  I did a lot of volunteer work with the homeless and then women & children leaving abusive relationships.  I did that for months and it turned in to a job.  It was temporary–I knew I’d quit when I was time to move on–but it gave me something productive to do and a routine while I got more sober time under my belt.  It also gave me a lot of time to think about what I want to do next.

I’ll talk about more changes in my next blog post, but, for now, I can tell you that I’ve been completely sober for over 13 months, which is the longest time I’ve been without alcohol since I was about 20 years old.  I’m going back to school for a career change, and you want to stay tuned, because paying for school is going to be a huge pain in the ass if I don’t marry the Collector. And there is more!  Lots more!

But I’m back, and I’m healthy, and I feel great!

Since transparency is a new regime value around here, I wanted to post more pictures.  I still can’t show my face in photographs, but here’s a sketch the awesome femdom/BDSM artist Sardax did of me, which should give you an idea of what I look like, after all this time: