I AM FIRING A CLIENT

I hate my client and I can’t exactly tell you why. He’s the only client that both gives me gifts and tips me each session. He’s not ugly, just a middle aged man who I happen to despise. After our first session together, I was not particularly thrilled. But that experience regularly comes with the territory. He did not do anything in particular to make me feel this way, it was just not an enjoyable experience as I found him a bit creepy. And yes, sometimes I get joy out of sessions. Actually, I prefer sessions to be enjoyable if it's for the right reasons. I think it's misconstrued that all swers dislike clients and the sex they have with them, but I would much rather enjoy the company and forget that I’m working at all. I mean that’s the dream right, to feel like you’re not even working. If you love what you do you’ll never work a day in your life? That statement that needs a lot of unpacking, but why should swers be excluded from this sentiment? Is it because we seem dirty? And we seem dirty because we fuck for money? 

Anyway, when we met, I was not getting booked as often as I would have liked, so I didn’t immediately block his number when the session ended. He asked to see me again a few days later and I did not have the capacity to conceal my disgust so I passed, and told him I’d see him the following week instead. The next night, I had no plans but to watch some cheesy 80’s Japanese action films so when I got hit up for work, it was a no-brainer. Upon screening the potential client, something did not quite sit right with me so I told him to meet me in the cross streets as opposed to my actual incall location. Thank God that I listened to my gut because I was right. This was no new client, this was the same man I had seen earlier in the week. His dumb face appeared as his car window rolled down. I flipped. I have a temper and usually I keep that at bay but I was so triggered upon seeing his face. Though I have had 90% good, non-coercive experiences in this industry, there is still the other 10% that hangs in the back of my head when I see clients.

My anger bubbled up through my chest and exploded through my throat. “What the fuck are you doing?!” I screamed. I went to walk away but he screamed my (work) name and told me to get in his car. This only made me more vile and as an innocent party of bar-hoppers passed me, they got caught in the crossfires. I screamed at him again and told him I was not getting in his fucking car. He waved a black and white striped gift bag out the window, “I’m sorry I just wanted to see you. Let me explain”. My blood was boiling, standing in the cold on a Lower Manhattan sidewalk during fucking Santa Con- arguably the worst time of the year. I wanted to run but the inner hustler tugged at me. I was curious as to whether I could still get my hourly which I fully deserved at this point. You can judge me for this part- I do. I got in the car. However, I got in with the condition that the car was to be turned off and my leg could hang out of the door, shoe to cement, blocking the car’s ability to lock or drive off.

I got in the car and he started his long winded apologies. As I furiously bit my lip, he suggested that I open the the gift bag. It is a full-sized Gucci Bloom perfume in its beautiful pastel pink bottle. It’s my favorite scent and I had only been able to afford the mini-roller up until then. My defenses cooled slightly. I told him it's one of my favorites.

I don’t want to recount the grimace-inducing details of his apology and how he feels so immoral and twisted for paying for sex. He said it goes against his spiritual principles and family morals. He said that he hates to see young women doing this ungodly occupation and wants to help me get out of it. The he told me a story of how he used to see a Polish girl and he ended up funding her to escape the horrendous trade. Blah, blah, fucking savior bullshit. I tell him he has no idea the gravity of what he has done tricking me because someone had previously taken advantage of me and this reminded me of that. Tears welled up in his stupid eyes. I told him I should report him to the blacklists and never see him again. But the hustler in me… I told him to give me my hourly and I will think about seeing him again. I took my gift bag, wad of cash, and beelined toward the train station amid bright red Santa hats and drunken Manhattanites I was floored. I should’ve blocked him. But there was a lingering voice of a former swer mentor who taught me some ends and outs of hustling. The voice of my former mentor advised me to milk the situation for all I could. This same mentor told me that the real test of a “good” sex worker was the amount of money one can procure from a john without ever touching him. I considered this on the train ride home. I had finally done it- I had taken money from him without even having to touch his shoulder. But at what cost?

Weeks went by and I carried this sentiment with me. I finally made the decision to get a few more bucks out of him. I agreed to meet him for a nice lunch during a weekday, hear his wretched apologies again and take the hundred dollar bills with me when he footed the bill. I won’t lie, a great sense of accomplishment swept over me when he handed me the envelope and I got to walk away coldly.

I started seeing him for sessions in the following weeks. I did felt guilty for taking advantage of him even though he put me in a shitty situation. Upon every session, he started presenting me with various Kate Spade jewelry. It was not my thing, but in a messed up way it was validating to receive gifts on top of my hourly. It is rare that a client gifts me something- even tips. Which I know other girls got all the time and this made me jealous. I wanted to know that I was as good as them.

Amid the validation, my deep resentment lingered toward him. Silently, I tried to ignore the resentment but, following unusually bad depressive episode, I was forced to see the connection between my misery and our scheduled sessions. One day, I saw my chance to run. After our session on day, he asked my birthday. At first, I started to tell him my actual one but what kind of hustler would I be if I said it was seven months away. So I tell him it’s in two weeks. “I will tell him it’s my birthday, I will agree to have a nice lunch with him to celebrate, collect his birthday gifts, and make it clear I will not be sleeping with him after lunch. Then I will call it off with him a few days later, telling him I got a good job in the film industry.” Today I executed the first part of this plan. I faked being a Pisces for a few hours and received a duffle bag of gifts and a wad of cash. 

During our lunch, I tried not to be phased by his shirt that said HERO on it in big bold letters. I tried not to be phased by his description of big donation he likes to make on the mornings of his birthdays or yet another mention of how his parents’ high expectations oppressed him growing up. In the way he talks to me, I can tell he thinks of me dumb, naive, and unaware of how the formidable trials of life can really shape a man. I know his type. He is most likely a dad and married to a woman who also despises him. He probably has teenage kids that see right through him. He sees himself as someone stands atop the rigid mountain exposing himself to arduous weather in order to shield the weak- a sacrifice very few people can really understand. I hate him. I breathe deeply on the subway with a duffle bag in my lap, thanking God that’s over. My gaudy Kate Spade gemstone necklace peeking out of my winter coat. 

I probably seem spoiled to you. And you may be right but the reality is that my soul was absolutely drained by this man’s presence and I had enough. I gave him more time than he deserved. That’s what I tell myself anyway. He is a shining reminder of how money is not everything. Though it is to a certain extent, but once the bare minimums are taken care of, money stops having so much value in the face of constant feelings of disgust and resentment.