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Summer Sex |
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More than 25 percent of American men have had a sexual experience with another male as either a teen or an adult. |
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Then I returned from a monthlong tour with $17 in my bank account and creditors knocking down my door. I found the motivation I needed to begin my career as a "private lingerie model." I found an ad in the "help wanted" column of the T&A Times, accompanied by pictures of vixens apparently skilled in meeting their clients' needs. I tried to imagine my own photograph among them and wondered whether my face might give away my real identity as a penniless indie rocker with no desire to satisfy the sexual needs of anyone but my girlfriend. But the countdown to rent was ticking. The ad was in search of "fun sexy girls to work in busy lingerie modeling shop." After assuring myself that I am a relatively fun, sexy girl, I dialed the number, and was greeted by the sultry voice of "Tanya," who I assumed was another fun, sexy girl like myself. Tanya's tone changed dramatically when she recognized me as another woman looking to make money, rather than a man looking to spend it. She asked me a series of questions about my "profile," including height, weight (I lied), cup size, number of tattoos and location of piercings. Tanya assured me that my navel ring was a potential asset and recommended that I come down to fill out an application and meet "Christy." Christy filled numerous roles at the lingerie shop--manager, receptionist, part-time dancer and the owner's girlfriend. Christy started as a dancer, but after finding true love with the owner, she reserved her striptease and optional masturbation show for her boyfriend, and danced only when the money was scarce. As soon as I walked in the door, the manager/girlfriend was overflowing with enthusiasm. My blonde hair and big breasts apparently made me a natural. The application process consisted of writing down my age (which she never checked), measurements, hair color and tattoo descriptions on the back of a piece of paper ripped from a nearby book of coupons. (They had apparently run out of official forms.) I neglected to include a description of the tattoo on my leg that says "Man's Ruin," worried that it might have been a bad career move. Formalities finished, I was to come in the following day for training and to meet the owner, Kenny. I was instructed to wear a tight dress and pumps, so I spent the afternoon at the Goodwill, where I picked up my entire ensemble for approximately $10, leaving me with $7 and a knot in my stomach. I was gonna have to pay my rent with my good looks, literally. When I arrived at the shop in my new tight dress and a thick protective layer of cosmetics, Christy and her boyfriend weren't there. The two girls who were working looked me up and down and introduced themselves as "Misty" and "Candy." After giving me the once-over, the girls resumed their heated conversation about the infidelities of Candy's boyfriend, who was currently serving a prison sentence. Misty good-naturedly offered to join Candy in finding the girl that had been sleeping with her man and "beating the whore senseless." I smiled encouragingly and kept my mouth shut. Christy and her beau arrived shortly, but not before Candy had the opportunity to warn me about Kenny: "Don't fuck him like the other girls, he's not worth it." One look and I knew I would have no problem heeding her advice. Kenny was a beefy man with a well-manicured goatee and brown hair that hung in ringlets to his shoulders. I introduced myself as "Sugar," and tried to look fun and sexy. Kenny stared at me blankly. Later I learned that Kenny and I had more in common than the mutual exploitation of horny businessmen; like myself, Kenny was a musician. This was an aspect of Kenny that I would become all too familiar with as his band practiced in a back room with inadequate soundproofing. Intrigued by the prospect of a fellow musician, I probed Kenny about his band. He told me that he played lead in his "heavy alternative grunge" band. I took it as a bad sign when he clarified his role not as lead guitar, but as "lead vocalist." Their set consisted mainly of covers ranging from Pearl Jam to Pink Floyd. Kenny stated that his band would not stoop so low as to play local rock bars, and that they would play nowhere smaller than the Roseland. "Yeah, my band's played there," I said casually, expecting him to be impressed. "Cool," he responded, and left the room. That may have been the beginning of the bad blood that would eventually force me to abandon my job at his shop. The actual training process consisted mainly of Christy's instructions about the necessity of keeping the front room clean and the rooms stocked with baby oil, and where to drop the clients' $40 donation to Kenny's rock 'n' roll career. In the middle of Christy's detailed discourse about how to use the charge machine, a client walked in. He was younger and better-looking than I expected. He didn't look like a man who would have to spend upwards of a hundred dollars to see a naked woman. Candy and Misty instantly switched into attack mode. I took their cue. Like catty girls at a high school party, the three of us fought for his attention. Smiling, giggling and staring him down, we waited in anticipation to see which one of us he would ask to dance. After enjoying a moment of indecision, he smiled at me and said, "I'll take the tall one." After the initial rush of victory wore off, I wondered what the hell I was supposed to do. Christy took charge, leading him to the room and telling him to get as comfortable as he would like, which, I would learn moments later, meant naked. "Work him for all he's got," Christy encouraged as I walked into the room and felt the door close behind me. The room was about the size of what I imagine a prison cell looks like, with a couch on one end and a chair in the other. All the furniture was covered with white towels, with one neatly folded white washcloth on the arm of the couch. I avoided the naked man's stare as I walked over to the stereo in the corner and pressed play. Barely audible slow jams trickled from the speakers. I tried to imagine some male fantasy flick starring "Sugar" as the simultaneously demure and promiscuous woman of every man's dreams. As I started to dance, he took a $20 bill from his wallet and laid it on the arm of the couch. Things seemed off to a good start, so I continued to flirt with him while gradually removing the rest of my clothes. Halfway through the 20-minute "modeling session," he hadn't laid down any more money. I realized I was gonna have to ask for it. I have discovered that the key to sex work is to establish what the client really wants to see and then give it to him, within the confines of the law. The problem is that many clients are too embarrassed to come out and say it. The worker has to experiment to discover what the client came in for, but once you find it, no price is too high. My first "trick" wanted me to tell him about my first sexual experience while touching myself. Once he finally established this desire, and I agreed to fulfill it, he laid down five more $20 bills. Jackpot. In the last six months I have learned to set a price on fantasy fulfillment. Twenty dollars for a straightforward, no-frills striptease, $50 for an average, no-penetration masturbation show, $80 for an in-your-face, as-close-as-it-gets "couch dance," $100 and up for "toy shows" (i.e., getting it on with a dildo), as well as domination and role playing. I have called clients everything from Big Daddy to Little Bitch. When it comes to fantasy shows, no request is too bizarre, and no tip is too big. When the 20-minute timer of my first performance went off, I got dressed slowly, making small talk. (Using the full 20 minutes of a show is actually a rare trait in a client. They are usually "finished" in less than 10, and out the door in 15.) I left the room and joined the other girls watching Cops on TV and eating pizza. Although I had left the man only moments ago, I couldn't recall his face. This has been true of every trick since; I forget their faces immediately. I continued to work at Kenny's shop for three more weeks before my dislike of him grew to uncontrollable proportions. I have worked at two other "modeling establishments" and am currently working at a shop where the clientele tend to have more disposable income and make fewer obnoxious requests for hand jobs. The sex industry has provided me with the opportunity to work very little, giving me more time to play music, not to mention having the nicest equipment I've ever owned and the security of knowing I can make rent in 20 minutes. But stripping is not without its downfalls. Spending eight hours a day being objectified by men can leave a girl with some pretty serious animosity toward the opposite sex. I can't see a man my father's age without picturing his dick in his hand. Prior to my work in the sex industry I considered myself attracted to men and women equally, but during the last six months my sexual attraction toward men has almost completely vanished. I wonder if I could ever be romantically involved with a man again. Despite the pitfalls, I will continue to dance for as long as I can leave my work at the office and can maintain a big enough sense of humor to see middle-aged men naked and tell them how bad I want it. |
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