Love & the working girl

When I started out in this profession almost three years ago I had, like most of the general public, certain ideas about the industry.

Most of them have been proved wrong.

The Sex Industry is about sex

It’s about so much more than that. It’s about feeling safe with another human being. Nothing is more intimate, nothing brings you closer than sex. It’s about trust.

And sex itself is so varied, covers such huge territory. Sex to one man is being cuddled, to another it’s nipple clamps and perhaps a little bit of pain (as you know, I’m not into pain in general), to another it’s lots of touching, to another it’s talking without restrictions or limits.

Complete honesty and a total lack of agenda are extremely attractive.

There’s no emotion involved

For some people in the industry it could be true, but it never was for me. I’m genuinely interested in people. I loved hearing your stories, your adventures, your ideas. I’ve made some real friends.

Perhaps the reason I had so many regular clients both in Tasmania and interstate was that I did care, even if it was only for an hour or two.

(The exceptions were the men who treated me as a slightly warmer version of an inflatable doll. No, sorry, not interested in that sort of experience, but I’ve written about that topic before. They were never welcomed back.)

It’s dangerous

People outside the industry who knew what I did would always ask me the same question, “Isn’t it dangerous?”

Yes, it was, but not for the reasons they thought.

The media and fiction enjoy making the most of the danger, the stereotype of the poor, desperate woman who has “fallen on hard times” and has no other option than to “sell her body”.

Hate to disappoint you, but for me, at least, nothing could be further from the truth.

I got into this industry because I genuinely love men and sex in all their infinite variety. I’ve always enjoyed male company, and I’ve been fascinated by sex since I discovered it 50 years ago.

But every now and then someone would walk through my door who was a bit different, a bit special. A man who I wished I’d met in another time and another place. A man who engaged my mind and, dare I say it, my heart, as well as my body.

I sold illusion, not just sex. I sold fantasy. I sold a few hours with me so that you could be totally and completely yourself in all your pain and all your beauty without any danger of being rejected.

The trouble is, to me, it was real. It was authentic, it had to be, otherwise you weren’t getting your end of the deal.

But sometimes it got out of hand. Sometimes it became more than just a couple of hours. Sometimes a man would forget that I was, after all, a working girl doing my job.

Even worse, sometimes I would forget too.

And that, my friends, was the danger.

 

Author

LadyJaneHobart@gmail.com

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