A Little Story About Not Becoming an Escort- Twice
Twice I dodged that bullet.
In my 20’s I had a crazy life. I was a wannabe rock star living in Vancouver in the ’90s, waiting tables, and busking to get by.
Vancouver was not nearly as expensive as it is now, and a girl like me could afford a little studio apartment quite comfortably back then. Money was always tight but life was doable.
It was during this time when I had nothing better going on and nothing to lose that the opportunity to escort presented itself.
A co-worker told me that she’d gone with a friend who was an escort on a “date” the night before and got $500 to spank some guy with his belt, I was intrigued. She said she could probably get me some work.
There is always someone willing to pay for weird shit if you’re prepared to do it and the weirder it is the better it pays.
But this friend of mine was a bit of a sociopath with a bizarre sense of humor. She laughed as she told me about tieing him up and all the weird dirty things she said to him. To her, it was a big joke, but it made me feel nauseous just hearing about it.
I considered it, but in the end, it just seemed so unsavory.
She went on to be the regular escort of a Japanese businessman who took her on trips and bought thousand-dollar bottles of wine. She even went to Japan for a year to strip. For her, it was an adventure.
I didn’t really give it much thought until later that year.
It seemed the Universe wasn’t done with me.
At one of my bartending jobs, a girl who looked exactly like Laura Dern sat down at my bar one night. We got chatting.
She told me she was an escort and that I’d do well if I wanted to give her a call and have her hook me up.
It seemed like an exciting prospect, kind of classy even, until I looked over at her with her “date”.
The guy she was meeting was a seedy older guy. Flushed and sweating with the anticipation of what I can only imagine were his thoughts of getting his money’s worth.
Suddenly, I couldn’t see myself sitting across from a douchbag like that for a whole night just for a free dinner and a few bucks, especially if he expected me to blow him later.
No amount of money could make that appealing.
I’d rather spend an entire Saturday afternoon singing on a streetcorner for quarters than do that.
I took her number, but I never bothered.
In the end, neither of these opportunities appealed to me, so I never took the plunge. After the moments passed, I never really gave it much thought.
In my 20’s my soul was out at sea as I hopelessly watched the beacons drift out of reach never thinking I’d make it to shore.
In my 30’s all the therapy I’d invested in started to make a difference.
I got my heart together, my head on straight. I started living with more purpose and I met my husband.
After a lifetime of being alone, I had someone. I had a place to land. Solid ground beneath my feet.
That seed of hope I’d hidden away finally had a place to take root. Suddenly things mattered.
I mattered.
When we first met, I wanted to be honest with him. I told him what he needed to know. He knew I’d been a musician and had a crazy life a decade before. He knew I was a fully formed person, not a 2D cutout of what a woman is expected to be, and I was more like a man in many ways.
During that period of new love, I was glad that I hadn’t gone down the road to prostitution when I had the chance. They call it escorting, but we all know what that means.
My husband and I have no secrets, but would I have kept that from him? Secrets drive psychic wedges into relationships and take a lot of energy to carry, I don’t think I’d have it in me to keep one that big.
I don’t’ know if our early relationship would have withstood that test. I’d like to say that he loved me so much he’d have overlooked it, but I don’t know.
And what about my daughter?
I don’t want her living in a world where she is expected to be chaste and sexless. I think that sex workers are human beings that deserve safety and respect. I think women are equal to men and that each person has jurisdiction over their own body.
I want her to celebrate and revel in her body, healthily and appropriately, so how would I frame telling her this without making it sound shameful or glamourous?
It wasn’t because I thought it was morally wrong or dangerous that I passed on the offers. I gave it enough thought to come close but in the end, I just couldn’t follow through.
Truth is, it just wasn’t for me, but in retrospect, I’m glad it wasn’t.
I’m sure that old friend has some pretty interesting stories, I remember her telling them to me. But although her experiences might make her more interesting, I’m not sure she got any real benefit from those adventures in the long run.
As it stands, I’ve found my stories elsewhere and I’m okay with that.
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