Blood Money

30/08/2012 § Leave a comment

The title is fitting, though over-dramatic. Blood money means money for blood, means payment for murder, if we compare this definition to my own story then my story is very tame. But it’s my life and involves both blood and money, prostitution and periods. So if you’re easily offended by any of these feel free to leave.

I had been menstruating for a day or two, or a few. I didn’t know and I never do.

I’ve never been able to keep track of days and events in my mind. I think most people see themselves with the past and future stretching away behind and before them. They see the morning behind and the evening ahead. I’ve never been able to do this. I rarely know the day, time or month. I barely know the year. The most I can do is drift and believe what I wrote in my planner. ‘Oh, dentist appointment at half 10’.

In the late afternoon my tampon came out with a small amount of blood from a full days wear, I pushed a baby wipe into my vagina and pulled it out almost clear with the slightest stain, I thought I could risk it.

The majority of clients I’ve met so far have wanted me to go on top and take control. Is that a common thing for men and whores? It must be. I didn’t expect it. I expected most men to want to dominate and fuck a whore rather than be fucked by a whore. I find the men who always want me to go on top disappointing. I am attracted to dominant men, I prefer to be the fucked rather than fuck and part of me sees their submissiveness as laziness. It’s more effort to dominate them and it often doesn’t come naturally to me. It’s easier for people to create their own enjoyment rather than to accurately create it for them. You rarely know a person better than they know themselves. I have another, stronger, theory for this which is kinder to the men and something I believe very much to be true, but it’s something to go into on another post.

I’ve never had a man be rude enough to tell me to ‘earn my money’ when I ride or suck his cock. Thankfully. The stereotypes in this business are rarely true.

‘How do you pronounce your name?’ he asked, ‘Carrot or Sharrot?

‘Charlotte’ I said surprised and amused. ‘But it doesn’t really matter’. I smiled and brushed my hand aside to cover any embarrassment he might feel. He was Chinese and it bothered him, or to be more accurate he was worried it would bother me. I find this with most clients who aren’t white, they are worried I won’t find them attractive because of their race, they often are predominantly attracted to white people and presume I am predominantly attracted to white people too. Every client who is a PoC asks ‘Am I the first -insert race- you’ve ever slept with?’ The less time they’ve spent in England and the more noticeable their accent is, the more they worry.

A man once sent me a message before we met, ‘I’m Indian by the way, is that ok?’ ‘Of course’ I said. Some talk about where they came from, almost as if to explain themselves, almost as if to justify their existence here, whatever ‘here’ means. Is this how many PoC feel? Do they only feel able to expose this worry to whores?

I want to say that I don’t care what your skin colour is, how you look, what job you have. I want to say that I will barely notice what you look like and afterwards I won’t remember you well. If you are human and clean you are perfectly fine to do business with me. With this job I find it’s a blur of faces and bodies and it isn’t important how attractive I find you.

I climbed on top and angled him inside me fully expecting it to be ok, but my body wasn’t finished and I bled on his dick.

I lifted myself off and apologised. I felt a mix of embarrassment  shock and humour. Hardly any embarrassment, and plenty of shocked humour that I had to hide because he looked so innocently confused at the blood. I tried not to laugh, how surreal and ridiculous our lives sometimes sound! A well-educated under-age prostitute bleeding on a clients dick, how awful does that sound! But it’s fine, honestly. Not a big deal, I wouldn’t change or regret a thing. After we’d cleaned up we lay together and he said ‘Are you, are you’ gesturing towards my lower body awkwardly. ‘Oh no, I have something in, I won’t leak’ I said, rushed, also awkward. It was the wrong thing to say but it didn’t matter. He didn’t understand a lot of the things I said, the language and accent barrier.

But I’d misinterpreted him. ‘Did it hurt?’ He asked. ‘Did you feel pain?’ He didn’t want to know if I was leaking on the clean sheets, he wanted to know if I was suffering. He seemed genuinely concerned and I thought higher of him after that. Though also thought less of him, did he really believe periods are painful and the blood is from a wound? The ignorance some men have of the female body…

‘Did you know, did you know you were going to’- again he gestured towards my vagina. The main character of this story, the vaginal protagonist. He was trying to find out if I did this on purpose and bled on his dick to cut the session short. As if  I‘d be stupid enough to say yes. ‘No idea!’ I said brightly, ‘ I’m a week early!’

I felt a bitter joy that the renewal of my body stopped his fun and that he hadn’t been able to have sex or come. I felt this way because he tried to get a discount before we met, thirty pounds off a two hour booking I think but I can barely remember looking back now. It was petty and annoyed me. I hide things like this from clients- they value kindness so much. So I act sweet even though I am sometimes bitter.

He was fascinated by my ass, he thought it was one of the greatest asses he’d ever seen. It made me sad because the lust was so unoriginal and boring, sex often bores me, men finding parts of my body attractive bores me. I know my ass is pretty good in the eyes of most males because men constantly objectify it. I don’t care whether you like it, I don’t care if you think I’m pretty, or hot, or beautiful, or ugly.

‘You’re not the prettiest girl I’ve ever slept with’- *bought* I thought nastily- ‘But you are pretty in a certain way, and you have a great ass’. He talked about his girlfriend in China, and I got the impression he was very much with her because he felt he should rather than because he wanted to. I got the same impression regarding his job.  He never said so in such words or spoke of his unsatisfaction in either area because I don’t think he really knew it himself, I don’t think he realised there was any other way to be or live. I speak of his girlfriend as if she is an object because although he spoke of her kindly, it was how he described her. Like everything else, I don’t think he realised there was any other way.

You only really know something when you know it’s opposite, you don’t realise you’re sad if you’ve never experienced joy.

I wanted to say ‘What on earth are you doing with your life? Do things you feel passionate about!’ But of course, I didn’t. People let out their sadness to whores because they can, sometimes self consciously and sometimes without realising. We’re a blank slate to write emotions on, therapists whose job is often not to speak but to look attentive. Healing through touch is quite a real thing. Often it means so much to them to talk about meaningful things or nothing much whilst close to us, whilst we give them our full attention.

All people feel the same in this respect, men and women. We all want to feel cared for, attractive, appreciated.

Men always ask me if I have a boyfriend, I always say I’m single. He asked me why I was single and when I said, ‘well, it would be hard to date with this job’. He said ‘no! I have known escorts who have boyfriends! You could find a lovely boy who wants you!’ I didn’t want to explain that I knew this, but was single because I wanted to be. I don’t think he would have understood my love of independence and fear of dependence. Female independence didn’t really enter into his sphere of reality.

I thought of a statement which amused me last night  ‘ I’m not a slut, I’m a whore, sluts do it for free, whores do it for money’. Sadly no-one in my real life knows about this job, so I must smile at this alone.



30/08/2012 § Leave a comment

My points of reference have changed. I take £150 like it’s a £5 note, carry it in my pocket like a scrap of paper. I suppose it is a scrap of paper depending on your perspective. Everything is so meaningless and meaningful at the same time. I have over a grand of disposable income in my bank account but choose one sandwich over another in a supermarket because of a twenty pence difference, I scrabble for change.

It started raining hard today when I left a group of people and began walking to the bus stop. A homeless man crouched against the wall had a thin blanket around him and no cover from the heavy rain, he was soaked to the bone and shivering uncontrollably, eyes wide at the passing people. I walked past and hated myself for doing nothing to help him. Part of me wants to say ‘everyone else walked by too!’ But that sickens me, to justify yourself through other people. To use ‘we’ as a form of power.

I always beat myself up about not helping these people. Mostly I feel empathy and sadness though part of me feels anger towards them, it’s the anger people have deep down towards people who are suffering. Really, it isn’t anger at all, it’s fear. We know how easily we could fall and it scares us, so we distance ourselves with anger. Sometimes I feel angry because what I do to earn my money, how careful I have to be not to slip down like them, how hard life can be. I sometimes feel like they haven’t tried hard enough. I sometimes slip into a dog eat dog mentality, I often feel like if I fall down myself like them? I deserve it. The consequences of being weak. Toughen up little girl, toughen up. It’s grossly unfair to people whose lives I know nothing about.

So far, I haven’t fallen.

I haven’t worked this job for long, I don’t do it often, I haven’t earned a lot from it. I’m richer than my student friends but within seconds it could run away like water. I’m desperately hoarding for future desperation, I save money religiously, binge on food, hoard and destroy possessions. Everything is so fragile, my panic is never eased.

It doesn’t take long to get used to things, humans are remarkably adaptable. I appreciate the moments in hotel lifts before and after appointments. The wall to wall mirror to gaze into as I rise. It solidifies me before and after, brings together the disjointedness of everything. I check my appearance, every time it feels less of an act. This is me, my name is name, I am an escort, waitress, student. No label feels like an act, they’re all equally accurate but untrue, they’re all not quite real and have little to do with the core me, really.

I remember the downwards lift journey after my first appointment and the excitement barely contained inside me. I felt so focused and real, fully aware of my situation and surroundings. I have few moments like this, so much of my existence is an unreal dream with dull panic, constantly fearing the colour grey. At the most recent appointment my mind had already slipped away in the few paces from the room to the lift, already bored and thinking of something trivial I barely glanced in the wall to wall lift mirror. My reflection when I caught a glimpse of it didn’t solidify me. I felt as I do often in life; stretched, unreal, and not quite whole. Things become old after a few times. What will be my new danger? New adrenaline? New thing to make me feel as if I’m viewing myself through a telescope, focused and real?

Fodder and Betrayal (or, Quiet Loyalty)

30/08/2012 § Leave a comment

I look to appointments almost as writing fodder. When making a decision between two actions I sometimes think, ‘what will make the best story?’

I mentally referred to one meet as an ‘encounter’ and instantly felt guilty because it’s how another client referred to our appointment and I felt I’d betrayed him, which is silly. I think it’s the sadness of him, the meaning he puts in the meetings I feel I have to match, how cruel it would be to brush them off as nothings. It’s the kind of kindness or cruelty no-one -including him- would know existed either way, so why does it matter to me? Empathy, sympathy, care. Quiet loyalty. Sometimes I’m kinder than I think I am.

I see meaning and poetry in everything, it’s why I write so much. I never know how far to go with my interpretations, I want to stand on tiptoe with my feet still on the ground but I can’t tell if I’m past this and floating.

My morals and conscience are complex but they are strong, and they are there. You can betray someone by trivialising something between the two of you they put meaning to, even if it has no meaning to you, even if they wouldn’t see it as betrayal.

It reminded me of a man in my private life who had a nickname for me and rhymed the end of my name in a certain way. Recently I caught a glimpse of a private message between him and a woman where he rhymed her name in the same way. I felt silly, but think him sillier. You can’t collect pretty girls by rhyming their names, you can’t create intimacy by giving someone a nickname.

It hurt, but no more than if a friend shared a moment with me I thought was private (even something as impersonal as going to a particular unusual cafe) and then did the same thing with another. There’s often something devaluing about repetition and sharing. Mass production, popular books, a story moved from a private journal to the internet… whores. The men who pay thousands to bed a virgin. Even if the original content or person does not change, multiple hands and eyes makes it worth less. I don’t think it should be this way, and I can’t think of the reasons for this intellectually though I’m sure I could if I took more time to think on it.

It’s so easy to break trust in often such subtle ways, and I’ve never found anyone who hasn’t.

My friends do things like the story mentioned above of the rhyming nicknames, my clients lie to their wives, themselves and myself. On my preferred kink site thousands hide their bestiality, paedophilia, scat fetishes. I’m not saying any of these things are inherently bad, just how easy it is to hide things. You can’t trust anyone, better to keep your distance.


30/08/2012 § Leave a comment

I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

Don’t Walk Away, Run

30/08/2012 § Leave a comment

On our first meeting Beard gives me a book called Zetatalk, about aliens who spoke to a woman through an internet chat room and told her the truth about everything. The woman then wrote this book. Its front cover is an ugly painting of a white alien standing in the sea with a finger outstretched, touching a planet; ‘So how much of this do you actually believe?’ I ask, not wishing to offend.

‘It’s bollocks!’ I cry later, drunk.

I argue with Beards’ father with our faces close (too close, was it sexual? From his point of view? I can’t be sure), both wasted and screaming to be heard in the enveloping metal gig around us. We argue about many things including kindness, innocence, naivety, youth, and angels. It was one of those winding arguments that neither side knows who started and neither side remembers how it developed. We use the word ‘cunt’ to describe people and places, and the word ‘cunty’ as an adjective. Later I regret it because I’m a fan of cunts in general and don’t like using it as a negative term, but my only regret is the use of the word, not the argument itself or what I said within it.

Beard is a vegetarian and believes that eating plants and animals are wrong because they both have souls, but eating plants is the lesser or evils because animals have a higher consciousness. My entire body cries no silently at these things but I don’t speak. I’m getting better at this, the not speaking, and and my body and mind working together. I try to analyse it later and decipher why I baulked so strongly in this moment so much I actually felt my body jolt, but I am tired and analyse too much of what I feel in day to day life to want to ponder this specific event.

He eats junk food from mega-corporations, drinks animal milk, and does a lot of other things which make me angry at his hypocrisy. I could list the reasons he’s not right for me, but I won’t. There are many valid reasons, but when you know someone is not right for you silly things become reasons too; his incessant burping, his mediocre penis. Silly. Sometimes you don’t need to analyse things and weigh up the options, sometimes you know you’ll be making the right decision on something. You know that you can think about it afterwards and act blindly now, you know you won’t regret it.

Self Reflection

29/08/2012 § Leave a comment

I have to be careful at appointments (appointments? meetings? encounters? I’m still not sure what to call them) to not be too quiet.  I have a tendency for my mind to wander and fall into blank trances, and it just won’t do when my acting skills are directly related to my income. I’ve never been one for small talk. I talk too deep, too fast. Or I don’t talk at all.

Sometimes I have to work hard to make situations between myself and others relaxed. If I’m not careful I can naturally create tension and must be especially bright to dispel it. This is rare with clients, I am rarely awkward in this job. It often becomes a competition between myself and a previous me to see how relaxed and comfortable I can make appointments, I almost always win.  In my personal life some find me awkward but others have described me as one of the most laid back people they know. What is a personality and how do you make it consistent?

I read into things where there are no things. Once a man I was dating told me he believed in a particular conspiracy theory and I mentioned it twice in following dates. The second time I realised I’d made a mistake, he had meant it to be a passing comment and not a reoccurring topic. I’ve learnt that when someone wants something to be brought up, they will bring it up themselves.

I’ve learnt not to fill silences after a companion has stopped talking. I’ve learnt people are just people and nobody is good or bad. I’ve learnt you can relate to, you can empathise with a person, but we are all in our individual universes and it takes a long time to enter another’s.

I realised recently that I never truly hate people. Over time I have stopped thinking ‘what a dickhead!’ and instead think ‘hmm, dickhead…’ often taking time to work out the reasons behind their behaviour. I can empathise with most people, even rapists, murderers and paedophiles. That doesn’t mean I condone their behaviour, but I always see the other side of the story. It’s hypocritical in the way I would be so full of anger and vengeance if anyone affected myself or the people I care about in these ways. But everyone’s relatable.

It is easy to dislike me and I have stopped taking it so personally. This job gives me a freedom I would find hard to get elsewhere. There are lows and there are highs but with a meditative mind I can sometimes find a middle path.

Sometimes when I’m travelling and in a state of complete limbo I reach happiness. It’s the happiness I’ve been aiming for and all I’ve been aiming for really, since I was fifteen. I am nobody and nothing in those moments and I understand why Buddhists aim for this.

What could be more complete than disappearing.

I want to disappear on a train journey with a destination that takes months to reach. I think I can turn my back on everything, I think I am too attached to everything. Aren’t we all made of such paradoxes?

No Contradictions

29/08/2012 § Leave a comment

A mind, body and soul work together. They breath and drink and grow together, they collapse and weaken and shrivel together.

A philosophy must have no contradictions or the whole thing falls apart.

Where Am I?

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