*There are no photos of me topping available for obvious reasons.
It began the way so many things do in this world; with a very good regular. Quality time with someone always builds on itself. I’m not claiming that regular sessions engender anything like complete trust. I’m not sure that even exists in this world or otherwise.
“You trust me a lot more than you expected to,” I said one night during a tender moment. The recognition in his eyes was everything. “Exactly that,” he responded.
I’m getting ahead of myself. A few months back, a lovely young man got stuck in Los Angeles after his friends went home for reasons and texted me for an appointment.
He walked in with fear etched on his face. He was so nervous that he barely spoke for the first hour. Two days later he came back for two.
This is the first time he’s seen a companion in sobriety. That alone is a lot to untangle. When I was in 12-step recovery, disclosing the nature of my work, usually to a prospective sponsor, was difficult for precisely this reason: the intersection of sex, shame, and substance abuse. There was always some former crackhead ready to co-opt my story, weaving it inextricably into their own wild recent past.
“That’s not a sober job,” said a lesbian who didn’t believe in bisexuality over lunch at Canter’s. Maybe not the way she did it. It is this job and only this job that has allowed me to build a life in which substances are an option, rather than something I need to survive.
A sober client is a dream; a sober regular is even more so. My body doesn’t tolerate alcohol well anymore, the ultimate irony. Now that I’ve learned how to regulate myself to a level where I can regulate my drinking; my tummy hurts. I hate how people act on cocaine. I’ve fired more than one client whose aim, rather than find a companion who wants to party, was to manipulate someone who doesn’t want to into doing so. And as much as I love my pothead clients, I am one (a pothead), but the emotional maturity isn’t there the same way when you smoke your troubles instead of processing them. For this reason, the three years I spent completely sober was priceless and necessary.
I’m happy I wasn’t an escort in my early twenties. I was such an idiot then. “Book smart and practically stupid,” my dad called it. Seven years of master-level risk and reward solved that.
Once I had a sober client on the founder of AA’s birthday. Bill Wilson was such a notorious skirt chaser there was an entire AA committee formed just to cockblock him from newcomer women. Cheating on your wife with an escort on his birthday? Exactly what he would have wanted.
But this post is not about my sober clients, just the one I’m currently beating up. The first several times we met he believed he’d be going back home any day. So he booked me. Again, and again, in the same week. We have chemistry. Real, undeniable, electricity between us, even through his early trepidation. It’s only deepened as we’ve racked up the hours.
I was concerned about our sessions becoming routine in a bad way, the way so many clients complain about their home lives. I was reading Thriving in Sex Work by Lola Davina at the time. She mentioned the importance of keeping track of which outfits you wore for a regular to avoid repeats. I realized later she wasn’t giving this advice for outlier regulars: by that I mean someone booking two to four dates a week for months. But thankfully I came to my senses before I spent too much at Agent Provocateur. And also that the economy is trash and expensive lingerie is nearly constantly on sale now. I may have overdone it, but the collection I now have is glorious.
After a few weeks, I’d read his tarot and pulled out the nuru mat; we’d gone to the strip club and also out for ice cream. He’d had his first titty fuck and told me things he doesn’t usually talk about. Things were steady and deep and good, but I want to keep the dopamine flowing, too. I pulled out my handcuffs and crop, holding them out to him like a question waiting to be answered.
It was a big deal for me to offer, but he didn’t know that. I historically only sub for fun and for free, and it’s gone horribly wrong. The first few times I subbed for work, I had a panic attack. The featured photo in this post is more recent; it worked because the client was extremely experienced in domm’ing specifically with escorts, and it was a minimal part of our play. More so, it worked because I have done the inner work.
This led me to that moment, holding my green leather handcuffs and the fire in his eyes as I understood.
Reader, I topped him.
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To be continued…
