Lately I’ve been in a good place.
It’s nice to announce that to you, the people who read my column. A year ago, when I started writing for The Gloss, I wasn’t in such a good place. I was miserable, and unsure of why I was miserable, slowly sorting through the baggage of abuse and rape and general lack of clarity. I was doing work I hated for money that wasn’t worth the struggle of putting on the clown paint that looked good in the dark, and I didn’t know where I was going or how things could ever get better.
Things are so different now; I’m doing work I love for money that makes getting up before noon more than worthwhile. I look forward to going to work almost every day, I look forward to seeing my co-workers, and it’s rare that I see a client I don’t have fun with on some level. I feel warm and happy towards everyone, and I have the luxury of sitting back and looking at who I am, not just as a woman, but as a woman who is also a sex worker. This has brought me to the not-entirely-comfortable realization that I’m quite a sadist.
I think I’ve known this for a while. As a child I always wanted to play medieval torturer with my friends. I’ve always been fascinated by pain, both mental and physical. I’ve never been much of a masochist, as submissive as I am in my private life, I have almost no pain tolerance: I can’t handle more than a hand spanking, and even that is sometimes almost too much. But realizing that I’m actually a sadist is something different.