Monday and Tuesday were extremely slow. Not only did the bell not ring a lot (I spent most of my time napping or doing my day job), but I wasnâ€™t closing the deal. Too many Larry the Cable Guy truck-drivers who wanted the world for $100, ideally $20 if they could get it that cheap.
I wasnâ€™t being a team player, but I needed to find the balance of feeling good about myself, making money and taking care of the house. Itâ€™s not an easy spot to find, especially since the house encourages you to go ahead and have sex at what amounts to street prices. If I wanted to be sucking dick in a car in an alley, Iâ€™d already be doing it. Yes, this is some of the class issues I was talking about. For an American in the US, itâ€™s easy to spot class (might not matter or be so clear-cut in another country). And I know what sort of class of man I like best, and who appreciates me properly.
Besides, I grew up with those redneck, trailer-trash, KKK-loving bastards and I really have no intention of giving them pussy if I can help it. Not mine, at any rate.
No, some things I cannot put aside. That is me and has nothing to do with sex work.
The most disturbing thing so far happened Monday night. A man who had already seen a girl was in the bar while I did a lineup. He saw me and another girl came to get me for him. Not only was he full of bullshit (I could stop this work and come live with him â€“ he felt he could cover my expenses â€“ ha!), he had been drinking and was utterly annoying and cheap. But I finally got him to agree to my price for sex.
We do dick checks before we process payment. So if thereâ€™s an issue, they can leave without worries of refunds or anything like that. No harm, no foul. I pulled on my latex exam gloves and started wiping him with an alcohol-soaked baby wipe. He looked okay until I pulled back his foreskin. There were red spots all over the inside of his foreskin and his head. My interest ended right there.
He didnâ€™t take it so well. He argued it was because he was rubbed by the condom before, he argued he had doctorâ€™s proof he was clean. The small amount of money he was paying for sex, and the half of that I would get was not worth my future and my health. Iâ€™m not that much of a gambler. Since Iâ€™m not a doctor and could not properly identify the issues or test him â€“ I handed him back his credit card and escorted him to the bar.
This caused waves.
Remember, part of being a team player is not letting money walk out the door. The girl who had him before me said she didnâ€™t notice anything. Another girl told me I was supposed to get a second opinion anytime I had a questionable DC. The bartender said that I didnâ€™t have to see anyone I didnâ€™t want to see, then immediately called another girl to take him to her room. She did him. I think she was told why I rejected him, I donâ€™t know.
Disturbing. Unsettling. Unsafe.
I felt like I did something wrong in protecting myself. I certainly question how well-informed everyone is on STIs and transmission. (One girl believes that two condoms is double protection. Not true.) The house probably doesnâ€™t care if you get something in the line of duty. The tiny amount the guy is paying certainly wonâ€™t even cover treatment costs for a curable STI, much less a life-threatening one. The amount he paid would barely cover the reduced cost of our weekly culture.
Chasing the money can be done very well without scraping the bottom in terms of prices, clientele or needless risk. Bella wants â€œprofessionalsâ€ in the house â€“ girls who want to work, make money and donâ€™t have home issues or substance-abuse affecting their work. I want that too, but a real professional will be turned off by the three things I just mentioned: rock-bottom prices, low-end clientele, risk/safety issues. Though a real professional can roll with most things and learn new things (like negotiation), the serious issues affecting her money and well-being cannot be overcome â€“ no matter how nice everyone is. Unfortunately.
Another very slow day. Another day with too much free time to think (and nap). My irritation at the cheapies grows. I openly discuss this with Shaunia and she begins suggesting ways of making better money. I listen and try to learn. Making money is why Iâ€™m here. Iâ€™m not a journalist and though I want new experiences, I also would like to make money. I am a sex worker, after all.
I ruminate on the personal revelations Iâ€™ve had while here (Iâ€™ve had a few already). I think about my upcoming travels to different countries and how I might handle different situations. My germ-phobia. Whether or not my class issues are confined to American society (I believe that they are). I think about two boys I really like. How sore I am. Iâ€™ll be seeing the local perv-doctor Thursday for my weekly and wonder how that will go. I write. I nap. I try to adjust my attitude. I consider leaving early (8/18) instead of staying through 8/20. I had previously considered staying through 8/25. Itâ€™s still up in the air.
I donâ€™t even think about sex worker rights. I donâ€™t, I canâ€™t. Itâ€™s not part of this universe. That these girls arenâ€™t on the streets is what seems to matter. Why aim so low? Is it merely a matter of eye-opening education? Or dire need? Or that you canâ€™t carry a thought when youâ€™re interrupted by the damn bell every five minutes?