I wasn’t a prostitute for very long. I didn’t even hit the one year mark.
By late 2008, the recession had really hit, and it was becoming more and more difficult to remain independent, keep my rates what they were, and work as infrequently as I wanted to. I wasn’t sure that with my ghost-pale skin, Joan Jett hair, armful of bad tattoos, faceful of metal, and figure still padded with traces of baby fat I was a type that escort agencies would want to hire. Moreover, I’ve always had a very difficult time tolerating the idea of changing my appearance for any job. Even if I was wrong and I found an agency that wanted me, the prospect of surrendering so much as the smallest percentage of my earnings to anyone at all was unacceptable.
After all, I entered the sex industry in a quest for independence, both financial and otherwise. Why would I ever sacrifice my autonomy when there were plenty of other jobs out there, both within and without the sex industry?
Despite the new difficulties presenting themselves to me, I wasn’t sure I wanted to give up prostitution. After all, I had a few regulars, each of whom I still saw at least once or twice a month, and while it was becoming increasingly difficult to attract new clients, it hadn’t become hopeless. I never worked frequently enough to be rich, but I was still (significantly) more financially secure than most of my civilian peers and that alone was worth something.
The three things that changed my mind were a client, a postwar motel, and a mirrored ceiling.
(Photo of bedroom mirror from this real site, Hidden Bedroom Mirror)