Tag Archive for: Sex work

Are Whores “Proper” Feminists?

Sex and feminism seem to have a very uneasy relationship. I’m not a sociologist and I am not writing an academic treatise, I am writing my memories of my experiences and thought processes, so please read this post with the understanding that this is my personal grappling with this thorny issue. I have a jumble of thoughts to try and tease out and make sense of and hopefully by the end of this process you and I will have a stronger sense of my answer to this question and my reasons.

 

My first thought is that you have to define what you mean by the word “feminism.” Arghhh….how unbelievably dreary and pedantic – but words really matter and if your definition of feminism is totally different to mine then of course we can never agree on the answer to the question.

 

Until I was well into my 40s I didn’t consider myself a feminist. Mainly because my brain had wired “feminist” together with “non-sexual woman” and even “man hater.” I’d always found men easier to get on with than women, they’re generally more straightforward with fewer varieties of masks. Plus I went to an all girls’ school, I know what utter bitches females can be. So I wasn’t man hating. 

 

Worse, from the age of 18 when I first felt a cock inside me, I have always loved sex. I wanted to make myself available to as many men as possible, as often as possible, to feel that blissful moment of penetration followed by the explosion of feel good hormones. Other students did drugs and alcohol to get high. I wanted cock. 

 

Please note that at this stage of my life wanting something and allowing myself something were two totally different things. The point is that in my 20s and 30s I didn’t feel that I could possibly ally myself with feminists because I just enjoyed men and their genitalia far too much. 

 

Like so many people, younger me understood feminism to be a rebuttal of men, older and wiser me understands it is a challenge to the patriarchal system that we are all trapped in. 

 

Feminism was born in Europe in the 18th and 19th Centuries – a period of increasingly suffocating control and oppression of women. If you read “Normal Women” by Philippa Gregory you will get a sense of how brutally women were treated and how urgently they needed to break free. 

 

And clearly, in many ways, women have been very successful. We can vote and stand for elections, we too can lead our countries into war against other countries. We too can now slave away long hours in the office for the profit of corporate billionaires. We can choose what clothes we wear, corsets are a thing of the past and we can even choose if/when we want to wear a bra – you know all the things we can do, I don’t need to list them here.

 

But where we haven’t liberated ourselves is in our sexuality. 

 

I guess it took thousands of years to tame women and make them believe that they are non-sexual or that if they are sexual then that part of them is nasty, bad, dangerous, slutty, shameful or lower class. It’s going to take a bit of time for the process to unwind. 

 

What I’m trying to say is that the kind of feminism that fears sex, especially the kind shared with men, is an incomplete feminism.

 

I allowed myself to start considering calling myself a feminist and being a part of this elite club of superior women (I mean who wants to wear the yoke forever?) following a conversation with a friend who was surprised I didn’t consider myself a feminist. 

 

I asked her, “What exactly is feminism?”

 

“Well, for me, it’s having the freedom to choose. Fundamentally if you, as a woman, don’t have choice then you’re enslaved by those who deny you that choice.”

 

So feminism is about choice. Which is about freedom. Now that resonates. 

 

My friend offered her definition during the period in my life in which I was fighting for the right to choose who (and how) I had sex with. The Boyfriend sought to limit my choice. I sought to expand it. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I didn’t want to restrict my life experiences and personal growth for his comfort. 

 

I think that’s pretty radically feminist! A woman living the truth that this is my body and my orgasm and I’ll do with it what I please. 

 

The common response to my demand to live life on my terms is “How selfish.” Which is today’s ducking stool if you ask me. It’s just the modern means by which women are controlled and coerced to do whatever it takes, and be whoever people want us to be, to keep them comfortable. 

 

I once read a brilliant quip on Facebook, “If you have a problem with a sex worker using her body for work, but not a coal miner using his, you have a problem with the sex, not the work.” 

 

People, including many, many women are discomforted by sex work because, in truth, they are discomforted by sex. So many so called feminists – women who believe in bodily autonomy and female choice – become deeply hypocritical and pained when considering sex work. 

 

I’m absolutely fine with women who choose not to have sex. I hate the gym and I hate people who try to jolly me into the idea of sweating in an overheated, over stimulating room. If a woman loathes the idea of a sweaty man rubbing up against her body, that’s great – more for me! 

 

No-one is making women have sex (well only people breaking the law). If you don’t want to, don’t, simples. Just don’t use the weight of a big word like “feminism” to shame and disparage those of us that really do want sex, want loads of it and choose to sell our sex in a capitalist society (in which every other person is selling their unique genius). 

 

My feminism is inclusive. It includes women who hate sex, hate men and hate themselves. I feel sad for them but I won’t tell them that they are not feminists for making the choices they make.

 

So why hasn’t feminism freed women from the chains of sexual oppression? Why hasn’t a movement led by women for women finished the job? I think we’re starting to, it’s one of the roles of my blog, but why has it taken so long?

 

“Normal Women” documents how sexuality became an intrinsic part of the English  class system. One of the distinctions between high class (non-working) women and low class (working) women was how sexual they were allowed to be. 

 

High class women became objects to be revered but not touched. Objects of desire that you could write poetry and love songs about but who remained, pure, unsullied by sex and beyond your grasp, as perfect and unblemished as the statues of the Virgin Mary in all of Europe’s churches and cathedrals. 

 

When the Ancient Greek belief that women need to orgasm to conceive a child was replaced with Enlightenment ideas that they didn’t, even orgasm with a husband was denied any woman who needed to believe herself to be high class or high born.

 

But clearly their husband and “lovers” (the men who wrote lengthy poems and songs expressing their undying love to their untouchable goddess) needed the physical experience of sex with someone. So, low born women, women believed to be little better than livestock, were accepted to be highly sexual, even animalistic in their desires, and thus endlessly available to any man however high or low born he was. 

 

I don’t think this conditioning has been washed out of women.

 

Consider the founding women of feminism – all high born – ie sexless. As more women became educated they moved themselves, through their education, from low born status to high born status, and even if the rigid class system in England didn’t really allow for this upward movement, the women doing the moving wanted it to be so. One way, across hundreds of years of English history, for a woman to demonstrate that she is “high born” is to live as sexless a life as it is possible to lead. 

 

The rules are different for men, who are happily allowed to be sexual whatever class they believe they belong to. 

 

What I am suggesting is that there is status to be gained by women who eschew sex and that after hundreds of years of conditioning this behaviour has become embedded in our bodies. 

 

Well most of our bodies. Somehow I didn’t get this genetic blueprint. Maybe it’s because I am made of immigrant stock and am not a pure-bred English woman? 

 

The hierarchical structure of patriarchy wires us to need to feel superior to someone. Anyone will do. Patriarchy survives by giving us all someone to look down on. And, feminism is operating within the same patriarchal system as everyone else, so it’s not that surprising that feminists also need someone to look down on, and they absolutely do. 

 

Feminists will fight for women to have the right to choose bodily autonomy and to work for a life of economic independence but NOT if it means enjoying herself in the process! 

 

That’s honestly why I think whores are better, we don’t look down on people to make ourselves feel good, we make ourselves feel good by making other people feel amazing! 

 

So, are whores feminists? 

 

Am I a feminist? Is your whore a feminist?

 

I don’t know and I think I have moved beyond caring about whether I am admitted into the club. I know I am a Queen. I stand tall and proud in my space. I don’t feel the need to convert you to any cause or make you feel uncomfortable in any way (unless you’ve booked a Ra massage with me!) 

 

I live my life on my terms because I have vowed to die with no regrets. 

 

I am a wife and a mother as well as a whore. I love my life and I love my work. I wish for everyone to have the same level of freedom, satisfaction, joy, passion, authenticity and creativity in their lives as I have. 

 

I enjoy the company of men especially when they are naked and I can play with their cocks. I am learning to feel less judged by women who are still trapped by centuries of conditioning. 

 

In my little way I rebel against the system every day. And I ally myself with anyone else, feminist, anti-colonialist, anti-war, heck, anti-monarchist who is, in some small way, in their corner of the world, disrupting the patriarchal system that has been so destructive to humanity and the planet. 

 

As a whore my life is devoted to love, pleasure, heart connection and the momentary dissolution of ego – personally I think that’s a more powerful middle finger up to patriarchy than spending hours angrily typing man hating messages on Facebook and X. 

 

Patriarchy will continue to control and exploit us all as long as we continue to waste our time hating, judging and policing each other – and ourselves

 

In my opinion, feminists who hate men are agents of patriarchy and feminists who deride sex work are also agents of patriarchy. Their small minded, ignorant, arrogant, fear based belief systems are maintaining the order they purportedly seek to disrupt. 

 

And I have no time for it. 

 

I disengage from the noise. 

 

I refuse to answer the question and I book another sexy appointment. 

 

I have real work to do. 

 

Recommended further reading:

 

“Normal Women” by Philippa Gregory

 

Photo by chloe s. on Unsplash 

Becoming Anabelle Part III – A Conversation With My Fridge

One of the most common misconceptions about sex work is that it is done by someone who is either desperate, out of other options, or both. 

 

Sex workers in film and television are women in a temporary fix who through their own hard work, grit and determination, or thanks to a rescuing angel, are able to escape their temporary plight and move beyond the horror and degradation of “selling themselves”. 

 

The underlying assumption here is that only sex workers “sell themselves.”  

 

Which is clearly rubbish. 

 

Most people in the modern world are exchanging their time for money. This is most obvious if you’re in employment where your contract states the number of hours a week that you are to work in order to receive payment. But the self-employed are also exchanging their time for money. 

 

We are all selling ourselves!  

 

Carolyn Myss  explains that one of the core human archetypes we all carry within us is “The Prostitute.” You know you are interacting with the world from this part of yourself when you are “Selling your soul for money”. 

 

Not your body. Your soul.

 

By Carolyn Myss’s definition we have all been prostitutes at one time or another in our lives, because we have all done jobs we find boring, pointless or out of alignment with our values and belief systems. We do them because we need the money. In our willingness to compromise, and even override our soul’s desires, we allow ourselves to be prostituted.

 

Ikigai (illustrated in this Venn diagram) is the Japanese alternative to prostituting your soul. 

You will notice that when you do something you love which is also something the world needs, you have MISSION.

 

When you do something the world needs which you can be paid for, you have found your VOCATION.

 

When you do something you can be paid for and are good at, you are doing your PROFESSION.

 

When you are doing the thing that you love and which you are good at, you are following your PASSION.

 

When your work is your MISSION and your VOCATION and your PROFESSION and your PASSION you have found IKIGAI.

 

In my early 20s with an Honours degree in Anthropology behind me and filled to the brim with desire to bring peace and love to the world (a true hippy two decades too late) my IKIGAI was teaching. 

 

First I had to fight my parents who didn’t consider it a proper job (ahh, if only they could see how I’ve progressed!) I was passionate and determined because I believed I would be good at it and that I’d love it. I truly believed that education was a right for everyone and that the role of the educator was to light a fire of passion or knowing or something – anything – within the beating breast of every child. 

 

Next, I had to fight the system. Despite a 2:1 from a top university, my degree was one of those “Mickey Mouse” degrees as the BT ads used to say and didn’t automatically qualify me for a place on a Primary PGCE course. I needed to justify it. 

 

So I did. I sat down and wrote a long supplementary letter to my application forms detailing how my degree could be applied to every subject in the primary curriculum. Of course it didn’t surprise me after a degree in Anthropology that a system of control (the British education system) would assert control over the types of people allowed to do the job – it’s what social structures do after all. 

 

I succeeded in talking myself onto the PGCE course and I turned out to be a bloody good primary school teacher. I worked very hard. I loved my classes passionately and would get into trouble on more than one occasion for defending their honour, but for years I didn’t understand why I was such a very good teacher.

 

Becoming a very good whore has shown me. It’s about presence, intent and energy. You can’t stand in front of a class, more concerned about data than you are about the children and be a good teacher. Just as you cannot sit in front of a cock and care more about him “finishing off and paying up” than about an expanded energetic and healing experience and be a good whore.

 

Finding IKIGAI matters. Those of us who find it once are very lucky. Those of us who find it twice – are we just greedy?! The thing is, IKIGAI isn’t a fixed state. Remove one of the 4 “ions” (passion, mission, profession, vocation) and you’ve lost IKIGAI.

 

Very quickly my vocation and profession for teaching fizzled out. I still had mission and passion but within a few years of passionate excitement that I was actually paid for something I loved doing so much, it dawned on me that I wasn’t really paid at all. I was given a bit of pin money and a pat on the head by a society that underpays all its “caring” (i.e. largely female) professions, replacing hard cash with good feels like “deep respect.” 

 

Deep respect didn’t pay my bills or buy me the clothes to work in or help me save towards an occasional holiday or theatre trip. Deep respect was increasingly irritating. And most annoying of all, maybe my parents were right?  Despite all of my training and hard work I lived on tuna pasta and an overdraft.

 

But I did still love my job. By which I mean I loved my colleagues, I loved the children I taught, I loved interactions with their parents and I did consider myself very, very lucky to do a job that brought me so much deep satisfaction. 

 

Then Michael Gove (eugenicist and Education Secretary 2010-2014) happened. What happens when you put someone who deeply believes in the genetic supremacy of the few (elite white males) in charge of education? Well it turns out that he turns that system from one in which ALL children are helped to find their level of success in the 14 years of compulsory education, to one in which most must fail so that a few can be shown to have succeeded (and thus be deemed superior). 

 

Failure became an essential part of the system that I was teaching in.

 

Teachers who had already lost both vocation and profession now lost their passion and their mission and fled in vast numbers. They have been replaced by suit wearing, brief case carrying data collection robots. My interactions with my colleagues which I had valued so much as a young teacher became soul destroying experiences as schools filled up with more and more people who cared more about data than they did about the individual needs of the children in their classes.

 

I started to hate the profession I had worked so hard to join and had loved so, so much for years. I knew that I was no longer working in alignment with my values and beliefs, but I felt trapped. I was a mum with 3 young children, not the best time to take big career risks. 

 

It was a conversation with my fridge (honestly) that helped me make my decision. 

 

I was sitting slumped in the kitchen chair at the end of another demanding day at school feeling very tired and upset after another horrible interaction with a data collection robot. The hot tea in my hands was slowly building up my strength for the evening of mothering ahead of me. The house around me was blissfully quiet, all I could hear was the hum of the fridge opposite me. 

 

My mind returned to my most pressing problem – what was I to do if I left teaching? It had long ago stopped being my IKIGAI and that day’s interaction had reminded me that it was getting close to impossible for me to stay in a system which I had come to believe was actively causing harm. What could I do instead?

 

On the fridge opposite a postcard, white with stark black words, caught my eye: 

 

“Whatever makes your soul sing – Do that”

 

I looked at it, it made sense. Of course it did, I had bought it and put it there! But it also annoyed me and I told it quite grumpily, “The only thing that makes my soul sing is sex and you can’t make money from sex.”

 

The fridge just laughed. 

 

That tall, fat, white thing in the middle of my kitchen stopped humming and laughed at me. I heard it and I paused to think about what had made it laugh, then shook my head and replied, “Oh – yes, I see what you’re saying – but women like me don’t make money from sex.”

 

What I meant of course was that selling sex was what impoverished, drug addicted, destitute, enslaved, manipulated, weak, vulnerable, fallen women have to do because they have run out of other options – think Fantine in Les Miserables – not a highly educated, “normal”, middle class English woman like me. 

 

I obviously knew that prostitution is the “oldest profession in the world” and I knew that as an industry it makes billions every year. But I was the mother of 3 children in one of the most affluent postcodes in the country. My non-working life was filled with children, dog walking, village fetes, coffee mornings and summer BBQs. None of my neighbours and friends would dream of visiting a prostitute (would they?!) – let alone be one!

 

It was impossible.

 

DAMN – there was a postcard right next to the singing soul one: 

 

“Nothing is Impossible, the word itself means I’m Possible”

 

WHAT???

 

There is no point in plastering inspiration quotes all around the house if you are going to ignore them. So I didn’t. That conversation with the fridge planted a seed. I did some research, talked with my most trusted few and one small step at a time Anabelle was created. 

 

MISSION 

 

I knew I loved sex, as I had told the fridge it truly is the thing that makes my soul sing. Like a painter needs to paint, a singer needs to sing and a dancer needs to dance – I need to give and receive sex, but to be honest, when I started, I had no idea if the world needed Anabelle. 

 

I had no idea that what I would offer would fill a societal need. I have learned over the past 10 years that the world really needs kind, loving, authentic, genuine sexual services. 

 

I have learned that sex, for many, is not the joyful experience that I have always found it to be. Sadly, for many, sex is a disconnected, monotonous, dull, harmful often toxic experience. Humans are wired for connection, nothing is ever going to stop human beings from seeking love and intimacy. Can you imagine a world without great art or great music? 

 

For far too many, their lives are lived without great sex. 

 

Yes, there is most definitely a need!

 

VOCATION

 

Could I get paid for my kindness, compassion, love, understanding and insatiable sexuality?! You may laugh when I tell you that I had doubts, because you see these qualities are just who I am, and we all find it very difficult to attach a value or a price to what we are or what we find easy (i.e. are skilled at) rather than what we have to work hard to do. 

 

If I had denied all of my qualities and trained very hard to be, say, an accountant then I would feel like I had earned the right, through sheer hard work, to charge a high hourly rate. But value something I find natural and easy? That is a much harder thing to do. According to David Graeber  this is why as a society we reward boring desk jobs so much more than the interesting creative or caring jobs – if you enjoy your work, the theory goes, you don’t deserve the same level of compensation.

 

There is a logic to this – I am miserable, but at least I am paid to be miserable!

 

But if you examine value from the receiver’s point of view then it is obvious that people who offer a service that others value deserve to be paid very well for what they do. Adele sings beautiful songs, she loves her art and is very proud of it, she doesn’t offer seats at her concerts for free. So I just had to imagine myself as Adele and charge for my beautiful songs!

 

PROFESSION

 

Once I did the inner work to have the audacity to charge for what I love the most and am uniquely gifted at, it was all quite easy. I will never forget the thrill I had driving my battered little car away from my first job with an envelope of crisp notes in my handbag. I had earned more in an hour than I did in a day as a teacher. 

 

Initially I ran the two professions alongside each other, wearing different hats for different days of the week. I loved sex and had a sense I could charge for providing it, but would I be any good at it, professionally? 

 

Thus far I had only ever had sex on my terms when I was in the mood. Could I guarantee I would be in the mood? Could I be professional enough to be sexy with everyone who walked through my door? What about days when I wasn’t quite feeling it? I am asked these questions quite frequently and I too had them in the beginning. 

 

It turned out that I was a complete natural. I am a very, very good whore. I am incredibly professional and deeply passionate about my work. I have a strongly developed “masculine” or yang energy around commitment and showing up for people. If I commit to something in my family, community or at work, I do whatever it takes to deliver on my commitment. 

 

I read voraciously and invested in incredible training to deepen my understanding and skills. I took my health more seriously because you have to be healthy when you work in this way. I worked differently, but with as much hard work and commitment, as I had in my earlier teaching days. In other words, I was very professional about being a whore and I still am. 

 

PASSION

 

Underpinning it all, all my structures, focus, professionalism, hard work, vocation and mission lies my passion. It’s still the same passion – the passion I have felt very strongly since I was very, very little – to live in a world filled with fairness, love, compassion, kindness, tolerance and respect. 

 

I find people fascinating. I love their bodies, I love their energy and I get to enjoy what very few people on this planet get to enjoy – interactions on a soul level. 

 

I have strong “feminine” or yin energy. I am highly intuitive, very sensitive and incredibly responsive. I can connect with people in an intimate setting with ease and often very, very deeply. I am good at this! And what is more, I absolutely love every minute of it.

 

My passion for sex became my purpose in life. I truly care to give people heart opening, mind expanding, life enhancing experiences. Everyone is different so has their unique needs and desires. The joy in my work is understanding those and allowing my intuition to guide me and meet them. 

 

Sometimes I will voice out loud something that bubbles up inside of me as I am working, but much of the time I quietly give or do something without saying anything and then later learn that it was THE thing they desperately wanted or needed. You can only do that when you have deep passion for what you are doing.

 

Creating Anabelle was the moment this Alice fell down the rabbit hole and went on the most remarkable adventure. 

 

I have worked with hundreds of beautiful and remarkable human beings and learned something from and/or with all of them. Some of the lessons I have learned about humanity have been saddening or shocking, but the vast amount has been nourishing and uplifting. If you could all experience humans the way I do, you would see what I mean.

 

I am still a qualified teacher, but not once has it crossed my mind to leave my life as a whore to rejoin the profession that turned me into a prostitute. 

 

I have found my IKIGAI.

Becoming Anabelle Part II – Tinkerbell

 

[This post is best read after Black Pants Man though I have tried to write it as a stand alone post] 

 

The Boyfriend wasn’t at all happy with my new hobby which is all that it was at this point – consciously anyway. We had been together for a year and the early heady days had given way to DIY on his rundown cottage and Sunday hockey matches. I had done marriage. I was through with mundanity, I had reached the point in my life where I realised I only had one life and that it was crucial for me to live my life well – which meant on my terms. 

 

If I wanted to put my sexual needs on ice, play house with a husband and come last after the children I had that back home. I did not need to leave my precious children and drive two hours to get it. I wasn’t joining The Boyfriend in his dilapidated cowshed (aka “good investment”) to be a patient and loyal “wifeling”. 

 

I was driving around the M25 for SEX. Lots of it. 

 

All-weekend-in-bed-stopping-only-to-refuel kind of SEX. 

 

But hockey and doing up his investment hovel were important to him, so it was made plain, by him and his family, that I needed to find myself an all consuming hobby to distract me from my insatiable need for SEX. He was very bemused and not at all happy when my all consuming hobby turned out to be, not a healthy sport or creative craft, but what I really, really wanted – SEX!!

 

Obviously being the very honest person that I am, I talked it all through with him. We spent hours and hours discussing it, he bought me books to explain to me what I am – polyamorous apparently. The books backfired, as did the Facebook Community he found for me. I dived in headlong like a parched traveller who’s come across an oasis in the desert. Try telling that thirsty traveller that they have to stop drinking – the brain literally does not compute.

 

Plus, I had met The Lover. 

 

Learning that there was a term for ethical (i.e. honest) non-monogamy – polyamorous and that I was that term – made me feel truly liberated. I’d known in my bones that monogamy was BS and my marriage had proved it – two lovely, funny, sexy, highly sexed people killing each other with boredom. Humans are genetically almost identical to bonobo chimpanzees (1.3% genetic difference) and bonobos are all having sex the whole time. 

 

I had just learned that I was a hairless bonobo and The Lover loved it!

 

The Lover and I had met in the 24 hour period during which my skeletal profile was up on an NSA site. Simply stating my situation, with no pictures uploaded, it simply said, “I’m married, have a boyfriend but need more sex. Can you help me out?” The Lover messaged me only hours before The Boyfriend succeeded in talking me into leaving the site. And his message was sexy-as-fuck. 

 

First off his profile picture was everything a woman wants to get her juices running – an arty black and white photograph of a woman’s back with a pair of male hands gliding down her spine – as if playing a double bass (surely the sexiest of all musical instruments?) His message was as delightfully charming; he said it would be an absolute pleasure to help me out of my predicament and he even used apostrophes correctly! 

 

We soon moved our conversation off the site and were sending each other photos. The tease was delicious. We had two of the sexiest weeks of my entire life before diaries permitted a meet and when we finally did spend a day together there was no way that one meet was going to be enough. He was FABULOUS. 

 

A seriously stunning cock, the kind that takes you aback when you first see it in the flesh, but more importantly he really knew how to use it. When he pulled out of my cunt to feel what it was like inside my arse he did so with so much grace and care that I felt I had never been so deeply loved and held  in my entire life. When we parted on that first, blissful, day and I rushed off to do school pick up, I knew that I was going to need a lot of sex with him to live my life to the fullest.

 

At this point The Boyfriend didn’t break up with me, he just wanted me to stop, to go back to being “normal”, back to being a safe, monogamous, sexy woman on his terms. Nothing stopped him breaking up with me, I didn’t lie to him, he knew everything, but he wanted the incredible sex. I’ll admit I was obsessed, I probably still am, and many people will declare that to be unhealthy, but all I can say, with my dandelion smile on my face, is that I am really, really happy – and healthy. 

 

Years later, after the painful breakup and very established in my role as Anabelle, I wonder why I tried so hard to convert such a narrow minded and conventional man to my way of thinking. It was very obvious to anyone who knew me quite intimately back then – The Lover, my confidant Jenny, one or two other girlfriends, that The Boyfriend was never going to embrace the life that I so deeply desired. Why did I cling on to him? Why did I try to win him over? 

 

I was in love. I loved him truly, madly and deeply. He was the man I wanted to grow old with. Just not yet! I wanted to grow old with a life well lived behind me. I wanted to create memories that would warm me in my final days. Most of all I wanted to die, Lilith style, with a wicked grin on my face. 

“No regrets” became my motto and my decision function machine. When faced with difficult life choices I started to ask myself the question, “On your death bed, which choice will you regret not making?” – the answer showed me the path that I must take, however unconventional, uncomfortable or inconvenient it may be. It is always the bolder, braver, less conventional path that gifts you the most opportunities for growth and expansion. As Vincent Van Gogh said,

 

“Normality is a paved road: it’s comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow on it.”

 

I love flowers. Which is no doubt why one day I had the bright idea that The Boyfriend and I would have a threesome with a prostitute in an anonymous London hotel. 

 

Surely this would win him over to my side? 

 

What man does not dream of a threesome with two women? 

 

What man would not find a girlfriend who gifts him such incredible experiences, completely intoxicating and hold onto her as a rare and precious gift?

 

I had absolutely no idea how one finds a prostitute and I felt morally conflicted. A bit like buying teak garden furniture – you want to make the purchase, but how do you know that it’s ethical? Women don’t come with a Fair Trade stamp like my coffee does.

I found an agency online, baulked at the hourly rate, and perused the photographs. One or two appealed to me (their bodies made my nipples twitch and my cunt throb a bit) so I pinged their photos to The Boyfriend to ask his opinion. Happily he selected my favourite and I booked both the hotel and the lady. 

 

The whole thing cost me way more than a week’s earnings, but I was living life on my terms, this was a once in a lifetime experience, I was about to convert the man that I loved into the joys of ethical non-monogamy and we were going to make precious memories together. I was taking a step off the paved, expected, path of normality to spend time with my beloved enjoying the flowers. 

 

We were both as nervous as hell when the day arrived. We met her in the hotel bar and fell easily into small talk. Then, bless her, professional that she was, she asked, “Do you only want to talk or would you like a bit more fun?”

 

“Of course” we both replied in unison and led her up to our room. There she removed her dress, tied her long hair in a ponytail, removed a tube of lube from her bag and said, “I think we start with her, OK?” I wasn’t going to argue.

 

It was the first time I had ever kissed a girl, and I really liked it. She was exquisite, small boned, slim, delicate with incredibly soft skin. Kissing a woman after years of stubble was quite a sensation – I was hooked.

She was really fun with me, she guided me down The Boyfriend’s body to share his cock between our kisses. I wasn’t as mad about blow jobs back then, I did them more as a gift for the man rather than for my pleasure, but with her tongue and her lips so close to mine, teasing his shaft and glans between us, I enjoyed sucking cock as never before.

 

And his cock had never been as magnificent before.

 

Afterwards we named her Tinkerbell, she was fairy like in her appearance and playfully fairy like through the whole session. After sharing cock with me she invited me to lie on my back and sliding down my front to pleasure my cunt with her lips and tongue, she directed The Boyfriend to get a condom. That is how I ended up lying there watching The Boyfriend fucking Tinkerbell as she tongue fucked me.

 

And yes it was as amazing as it sounds. Those of you who watch porn are probably a bit blase about sex as I describe above, but for me, at the time, it was out-fucking-standing. I was delirious with delight as we took a short break half way through our two hour session.

 

It was incredibly relaxed. That was my overriding impression of sex with a professional. She was so relaxed about her body, the sex, us, our bodies. Knowledgeable, funny, sweet and above all, relaxed.

The Boyfriend asked what all men of his type ask when they meet someone new, “So do you enjoy your work?” I was embarrassed, I felt awkward. What if she had to lie? W”hat if we learned that we had just tasted non-ethical coffee? 

 

Tinkerbell just beamed, “I love it.”

 

Then she expanded a bit, “I earn really good money, I am saving up to open my own bar with my boyfriend. It’s good, you know.” Then, because this is England and we were making mid-sex small talk, she turned to me and asked, “What do you do?”

 

“I’m a teacher, I teach infants – aged 4 to 7 years.”

 

“Oh, how gorgeous! You must love it!” she exclaimed.

 

“Well, I do, but the money is terrible – it’s taken me a week’s wages to pay your two hour bill tonight!” She just beamed and nodded knowingly, she already knew this. Teaching, an apparently vital, “respectable” profession is just not as respected – in hard cash – anything like  her “disreputable” profession. 

 

She then turned to The Boyfriend and asked, “And you?” 

 

He replied with as much pomposity as I thought it was possible to muster, a pomposity that was completely incongruent with his naked body and softening cock, “I” he announced, “Am an accountant.” 

 

Her face fell and she just said, “Oh, poor you.”

 

It still makes me laugh out loud. I didn’t at the time, I stifled my giggles and marvelled at how she had readjusted her crown in the face of his middle class pomposity. I loved her so much for it. And envied her deeply. 

 

Here was a young woman doing something she clearly enjoyed, earning far more than the two of us combined, and completely owning the space. Young, beautiful, sassy, confident, kind, sexy – pretty dazzling to a middle aged woman set on reclaiming her life to live it on her terms.

 

Tinkerbell taught me the joy of kissing a woman. I learned the delights of a soft female body and soft female moans, of little teeth and small fingers pleasuring your flesh. She was the first woman I tasted, the first woman to taste me and I found both immensely liberating. 

 

She tasted sweet and maybe a bit spicy, definitely not fishy or pungent at all. Why are we told by countless bad taste jokes that women have “fishy fannies” when actually our cunts bear no resemblance to fish at all? I mourned the wasted years in which I’d denied myself the pleasure of receiving oral sex because I was sure I smelt ghastly and decided that I would be more like Tinkerbell. I would open my legs and gratefully receive any, and ALL, pleasure any giver wanted to lavish on my grateful cunt.

 

She also showed me a completely different face to prostitution to the one we are constantly peddled. 

 

Contrary to the mainstream narrative that there is no such thing as a happy and empowered prostitute, the first prostitute I had ever met was both. 

 

I will take your word for it, if you have personal experience otherwise, and I know there is a side to the sex industry that is dark and exploitative, but ALL slavery is exploitative, not just sex slavery. 

 

Selling sex does not necessarily make you unhappy and it can make you very, very happy and empowered. That is what Tinkerbell taught me. 

 

She was another nudge from the universe towards the creation of Anabelle. I think of her often and wonder what she would make of the shy, rather awkward woman she met over a decade ago. I hope she got to open her bar and that Covid didn’t destroy her dreams along with so many others’. 

 

There isn’t a school or a college you can go to to learn the art of being a whore. It is not something you can get certified into. Like much in life, the empowered route does require a certain amount of privilege. Tinkerbell was part of my route. If you had told me at the time that I was doing research for my future business, I would have laughed at you, but meeting her shifted my perceptions entirely and I could feel, in my body, that I wanted to be like her. 

 

I wanted the freedom, the sassiness, the sexual confidence. I wanted to make other people’s dreams come true. Above all I wanted my life to be devoted to pleasure and orgasm like hers was. She was younger and so much prettier than me, but I had a growing sense that I wanted to walk her path.  

 

 

Recommended Further Reading (which happen to be the books The Boyfriend bought me):

 

“Sex at Dawn: The Prehistoric Origins of Modern Sexuality” by Christopher Ryan and Cacilda Jetha

 

“More than Two” by Franklin Veaux and Eve Rickert

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