The worst is the smells.

Not necessarily bad smells, either. Well, they would be to any refined crusty punk’s (that’s me!) olfactory glands. Perfume, shitty incense, cologne. Pheremones. There’s a certain smell to sex work: it’s the smell of sex you don’t want. I’m not talking about the whole sex-work-as-rape argument. What I mean is, this is work, it’s not for fun, it’s not for pleasure, it’s for money. Plain and simple. Good sweat smells are so fucking sexy, but imagine those smells on someone you’re not turned on by. It smells like taint, seriously, like sweaty cock. And cologne, they always wear it. I can smell it on me. And it gets confusing, too, the smell of my own vulva intermingles with the work smell till I can’t even stand the smell of my own body. I walk down the street and can smell gross men a block away. But I know that, if not for the synthesized perfume, their own stench would be even stronger.

One just came in, I don’t know if I misread the clock but I may have had him in for an hour and a half longer than intended. I actually almost turned him away because he was so young. Working with younger guys, and this guy may have easily been my age, is really disconcerting. First of all, they’re usually shitheads and try to argue your price down to nil. On a deeper level, it brings up way more insecurities than your run-of-the-mill married, middle aged dude. Those guys aren’t necessarily gross, but I have no doubt in my mind that they think I’m the hottest piece of ass they’ve seen in the past 10 minutes. The younger ones, it’s too close to reality. This guy, just now, wasn’t particularly unattractive, seemed like a vaguely interesting person who I could have had a good conversation with, and was awfully skinny. It shouldn’t bother me, but being bigger than a dude I’m fucking still weirds me out a bit, even if he’s paying. Walking up the stairs I almost turned around to be like “listen dude, I just can’t see you, you’ll have to come in when someone else is working.” But, I sucked it up and he was actually a relatively good client. I let him kiss me, even, which I never do. It’s stupid to cross the boundaries I’ve set up for myself, but it’s not like I’m getting any in real life, why not have fun with it?

My best clients are clean, in the 40s, and not particularly attractive. They don’t negotiate money or safety measures, and they get done in a timely fashion. They’re guys who I know I would never be attracted to in real life. There is no question that it’s all fake. It’s the blurring of boundaries that fucks with me.