Though last week was full of the little chores which are necessary to real life, it was also full of the kind of weather which tends to raise my spirits. Plus I had a multi-hour outcall with a very nice gentleman whom I hope will become a regular, and I restarted one of my old ads and started up a new one. But I suppose the most interesting event of the week from your point of view (besides the taking of this selfie) was that on Saturday night, Christina Slater and I went to dinner with Desmond Ravenstone, a lifelong advocate for the rights of sexual minorities who has joined the fight for decriminalization and recently helped found Clients of Sex Workers Allied for Change (COSWAC). I’m impressed by both his energy and the knowledge and experience he brings to the table; if we can keep attracting individual allies of his caliber and pulling groups like Lambda Legal and the ACLU into our coalition, I think decriminalization in the US can be achieved a lot sooner than many people imagine. And it’s about goddamned time, considering that there’s never been a valid legal rationale for criminalizing it in the first place.
Archive for the ‘Biography’ Category
You’ve mentioned several times that you’ve never really “amateur dated”, but you’ve also said you were promiscuous before becoming a pro. Those seem to contradict each other; could you explain?)
By the standards of the 1970s, my mother was quite overprotective; her level of caution would be considered fairly low in these days of bubble-wrapping and helicopter parenting, but 40 years ago she was definitely on the strict side. Like modern parents, she “seemed bound and determined to control my natural free-spiritedness and to delay my sexual maturation for as long as possible“, and part of that was “she did not allow me to date until I was 16, and even then only in groups to chaperoned events.” Of course, that backfired (as authoritarian prohibitions generally do); all it did was to stop me from dating, but not to stop me from having sex (especially since nobody bothered to chaperon me when I was alone with other girls). It did, however, mean that I never developed the weird habit of going places with guys I barely knew and then letting them grope me. By the time I was out from under my mother’s roof I had already had my heart broken once and wasn’t exactly eager to experience it again; I had a few long-term arrangements with women, including my second heartbreak and my first sugar mama, but until Jack started pursuing me my relationships with guys were largely pragmatic rather than based on mutual attraction. After he left me I didn’t want to be with anybody for a long time, and by the time that feeling faded I was already a pro and had no interest in giving away that which I could sell. So even though I had sex with a lot of strange men in my teens, they were all guys I met via my social group and my motive was profit or some other practical thing rather than auditioning partners; the majority of girls who hit on me were already partnered with men and were only interested in experimentation (except for that second heartbreak, about which the less said, the better). Therefore, even though it wouldn’t be accurate to say I’ve never been on an uncompensated date, the idea of making a regular practice of going out with strangers of either gender and giving them sex for free, and of wanting to do that badly enough that I actually take the time & trouble to create an ad on a website and somehow work out how to decide which messages are even worth answering (again, without profit in mind), is so alien to me that it’s like an outlandish custom practiced by some exotic culture I read about in National Geographic.
On Monday of last week I had another beauty treatment, then went out of town on a 2-day gig from Tuesday to Thursday. This in itself wouldn’t be especially noteworthy except for the fact that it seems like every time I’m out of communications range for more than a few hours, some kind of big disaster happens (in this case, the raid on Backpage) that I then have to stay up late struggling to catch up with. It’s almost as if the universe were trying to tell me something (in which case I apologize in advance for the category 5 shitstorm which will no doubt ensue the day after I croak). Fortunately, I had something on Friday evening to take my mind off of things: a lovely and generous gentleman took Jae, Vignette, Lorelei and me to see a local production of Man of La Mancha, which happens to be among my favorite musicals (the irony was not lost on him, and I daresay he enjoyed our company more than the show). And while we were in the lobby, Lorelei spotted a poster for an upcoming show that she says we simply must see together; I’m really enjoying having a musical-theater-viewing pal, and we’re working on a list to share (“You haven’t seen such-and-such?” she says. “Oh, I’m sure you’d like thingamajiggy” I reply.) We’ll try to take as many selfies as possible in the process, though we somehow forgot to get one on Friday (a damned shame given that we all looked spectacular, if I must say so myself). So here’s one I took on the immensely boring three-hour wifi-less ferry ride Tuesday evening instead.
So last week was a kind of quiet one; it started with a lovely evening with Lorelei Rivers, listening to the soundtrack for Hamilton (which I am extremely impressed with despite not actually being a fan of hip-hop). The only other really noteworthy points of interest (from your point of view, anyway) were an interview for an article on the dangers faced by sex workers, and a lingerie shopping trip with a couple of fellow whores (courtesy of a very generous gentleman). OK, I can see the guys perking up at that one; yes, sometimes our lives really are like y’all fantasize (though we certainly did NOT have a pillow fight in Victoria’s Secret or fall into a lesbian three-way in the fitting room at Nancy Meyer). Sol pronounced the black set I bought from the latter shop “incredibly hot”, but I’m afraid I couldn’t take a selfie that would show it all off, so if you want to see it you’ll have to take advantage of my very generous special (running until Thanksgiving) and specifically request I wear it for you. Yes, I know I’m an awful tease, but here’s a little something I got from Victoria’s; I don’t really like most of their stuff, but this one caught my eye. And since my lingerie drawer is really now kind of overfull, I guess I’ll have to move all the big things like corsets and catsuits into the closet with my full-length nightgowns. And one of these days I’ll have to rearrange my sex toys so I can actually get to them without everything falling on the floor.
Last week was definitely an improvement over the one before. Besides a meeting between several activists (including myself) and a potential ally who could prove very important, and the lovely couple call I enjoyed very much (Hi y’all! Looking forward to seeing y’all again soon!), after which this selfie was taken, it was the beginning of autumn, and as long-time readers know that always improves my mood. I’m an autumnal sort of gal; I like the days short and chilly, the leaves a riot of color and the nights filled with warm beverages and savory scents. Long, bright, warm days take a toll on my highly-strung nervous system and tend to make me tense and anxious, but when the external sky and landscape match the gloomy October Country inside my skull and my soul, I feel at home and at peace. People have often remarked that I seem to come alive more in the autumn; maybe that’s true, or maybe it’s just because I match the scenery better then. But whatever the explanation, there’s no doubt that it’s my natural habitat, and the season in which my natural aura is at its most powerful and intense. I’m no longer at a place in life where I can dance through the dry leaves under a harvest moon as I did in my youth, but I like to think that the autumn steps in the dance of my life are still among the most graceful and beautiful.
Since I’m back to actually writing my columns a few days in advance, I wrote last week’s before a weekend which actually turned out to be very lovely. I spent the evening of Saturday the 10th with Abby May, who’s been busy with life the past few months; it was so wonderful to hang out with her, catch up, relax and just enjoy that special energy that exists only between close friends. And I really needed it; that week had been just plain yucchy, so an evening with someone dear to me was just what the doctor ordered. And as it turned out, Abby wasn’t my only medicine for melancholy that weekend; when I took this picture on the afternoon of Sunday the 11th (still a teensy bit hung over, thank you very much) I was only a few hours away from dinner with the beautiful and fascinating Lorelei Rivers, followed by watching musicals on her sofa (last time we got together I shared Jesus Christ Superstar with her, and this time it was her turn to introduce me to Hamilton). The week that followed in the wake of those two joyful, relaxing evenings wasn’t really much better than the one that preceded it, but my head was in a completely different space going into it. And that made all the difference in the world.
Last week was a really strange one; it was as though something unwholesome was in the air. I spent large portions of every day on the phone, and only a little of it was in the relatively-pleasant task of giving interviews to reporters; the rest of it was spent putting out figurative fires and talking to customer service people about more glitches and problems than I usually have to deal with in a month. Most of the would-be clients who called me were nothing but wankers and time-wasters, and two good appointments that I was really looking forward to were postponed; one of those was my New York trip, which now looks like it’ll probably end up in October. And if that all weren’t bad enough, on Thursday the news spread through our community that Tahoe Ted, who was demonized by Seattle “authorities” for running a message board, took his own life rather than endure any more character assassination and emotional torture. Apparently, the prosecutor’s office doesn’t want this getting out because they realize it makes them look bad; they don’t want anyone realizing that their victims are human beings with lives and feelings, whose lives they wantonly destroy to “send messages” about people having sex for reasons sociopathic billionaires disapprove of. About the only good news I received last week was that my friend Savannah Sly is returning to Seattle soon; let’s hope she brings some good fortune with her.