Grant never tried to exact any harm on myself or my family. He continued to call for several weeks, including one time when my sister answered the phone and was subjected to an incredibly creepy interrogation of her own. Soon after, the calls stopped and Grant’s emails became fewer and farther between.
While things might have been different if he had been a little more imbalanced, as things turned out I am in some strange way grateful to him. Without Grant, my mother might never have learned that I was a sex worker (I would have died before I gave up such information willingly) and I would have continued to live a double life, hiding my work from the parent I was closest to. One thing that made my experiments with the sex industry so much easier was the fact that I had people in my life who knew what I did and didn’t judge me for it.
My mother’s view of the sex industry is as dim as ever. When I texted her to verify that this was true, she responded with a diatribe about how all sex work was an automatic dead-end that provided no opportunities for personal growth and could very well ruin the life of anyone who pursued it, but followed said diatribe with an assurance that she has come to understand and accept that sex work–and my affinity for and love of it–is part of who I am.
I’m sure that Grant has no idea where his creepiness led, but every time I have a frank discussion about sex work with my mother, I almost want to say a little ‘thank you’ inside my head to him for bringing it about.
Cathryn Berarovich is a former sex worker and current writer. She’ll share her stories each week on TheGloss.
(Still from Pretty Women by Touchstone Pictures)