I avoid rhapsodizing about exotic vacations or name-dropping hotels.I never disclose my rates and I don’t claim every encounter ends in mind-blowing orgasms — or any orgasm at all.
That type of sensationalistic hype is really only good for selling books or selling face time on TV shows, neither of which I’m interested in.
I use my space online to write as accurately as I can about the experience of having sex for money, mostly because I need that outlet for my own mental and emotional reasons, but also because the stories that usually reach non-sex-working audiences are too often two-dimensional and extreme — focused on a white, “high-class” call girl finding happiness through her designer-label lifestyle, or drug-addicted and pimp-abused street prostitutes whose lives have been a series of degrading assaults.
There have been periods when I can’t go a week without opening an e-mail like this from a woman somewhere between the ages of 17 and 25. I never intend to glamorize my profession, and I don’t list expensive gifts I receive or lavish items I buy for myself.
For about three years, I’ve written honestly about my life as a prostitute on a modestly trafficked blog.
And so-called 1 Escort in New York Natalia Mc Lennan recently released a memoir of her days making $2,000 per hour.
But I think the causes are far more complex than a few pop culture artifacts.
The glamour of prostitution can’t be traced back to the 1970s “Happy Hooker” Xaviera Hollander or the unrepentant schlock of “Pretty Woman.” It’s the persistent symptom of a society that still insists sexual desirability is a woman’s duty, and wealth is the most important hallmark of success.
A young woman who is desirable is a young woman who wields power, and that power is often bestowed in the form of cold, hard cash.
Yet I’m often called “brave” by those who e-mail me, and this admiration is attributed to my perceived ability to shake off the constraints of polite society in pursuit of something stigmatized (and illegal).
Most of this sentiment undoubtedly comes from the romantic quality bestowed on any taboo activity just by virtue of its being verboten, but I suspect a bit of the allure is drawn from the same masochistic curiosity that spawned sites like
Which isn’t to say the women who e-mail me are power hungry.