Sex My Profession

I earned a living by catering to people's sexual needs: People who wanted fulfillment without obligation and commitment. I satisfied the desires people had for an outlet without demands or conditions or pressures of commitment. I did a community service that I am not ashamed of or regret. When I got into the work I spent my time with men who were often married but not fulfilled. I gave them what was missing. Eventually, however, I started seeing married women who wanted the same thing without the gender demands that sex with their husbands often required but didn't satisfy. I give them something they cannot otherwise get.

They come to me without guilt or shame, wanting perhaps just as much someone to listen and care and offer no pressure or try to control them. I came to prefer it and eventually focussed my energy and time exclusively on women. Not that I was gay in my sexual orientation or desires, but because I preferred their company and style of eroticism. Being a sex worker did not give me pause, disgrace me, or tax my conscience.

I got into the business when I lost my job because of "downsizing" and a friend told me she was an independent contractor in personal service. She owned her own home, drove a new car, and traveled out of the country regularly. "What kind of personal service?" I asked.

She smiled. "Sex," she said. "I give them what they don't get at home."

"What's that?" I said.

"Stress-free fucking," she replied casually. "I put no demands on them. It is just pure, unconditional fucking. There are no obligations, no penalties, no stipulations. I just fuck them and they pay me for doing it."

"You don't regret being a prostitute?" I asked.

"I don't prostitute myself. I offer a community service, like a fireman," she said with a smile. "I pay taxes. I give to charities, and I vote every year. There is nothing about what I do that bothers my conscience."

We looked at one another for a minute, then I smiled. "I make more than a teacher," she said, "and as much as many lawyers. Nothing I do do I think of as immoral," she told me.

After that it wasn't long before I was a working girl myself. I asked my friend how I could get into the business and she gave me names, vouched for me with contacts, and helped me get into the trade. Two weeks later I was meeting my first client, a man named John, although I hardly believe it was the name his mother gave him.

He was not grubby or unpleasant or unkind. He was just a man who needed attention and some feminine appreciation. I gave it to him and he gave me money, it was just that simple. It didn't make me ashamed of myself or troubled by what I had done. I didn't have regrets, feel compromised, or have hesitations about continuing to merchandise myself in the sex business. I did think of it as a business, a occupation like any other.

When the first female who came to us for services, I was surprised, but I asked the woman in charge of the brothel, Mrs. Clemons, to send her to me. She was grateful to find out I was willing to be with another woman, like a specialty.

I enjoyed the sex and found I actually liked being with women very much. The sex was gentler, more like making love, less hurried and 'wam-bam-thank-you- ma'am.' Men seemed eager to get it in and get it done, like the speed of the climax was somehow a measure of the sex.

Men seemed to want to get to it, to get it over with and get back to their wives who didn't fuck them anyways. Women seemed to want to savor the experience, to sustain it as long as they could, like eating a piece of chocolate slowly to keep the taste in your mouth for as long as you could.

I liked that difference and eventually I asked Mrs. Clemons to send all the women to me. It ended up there were enough that it kept me busy and ultimately I ended up only servicing women. Oh, I like being fucked by men, I really do, just not enough to give up my time with my lady friends. Also, they paid better, in general, than the men. They seemed to feel for us, to want to reward us for the personal service and fulfilling their needs. I think they understood us better than the men did. The men seemed to think we weren't as good as they were, even though they used us, but the ladies liked us as people and seem to think of us as equals.

I am not sure about that in society in general, but with the women who employed my services, I am certain of it. They actually seemed to like me as a person. Anyway, I really began to like having sex with women. Actually, I didn't feel used. I felt appreciated for my skill and my willingness to give companionship. I got the feeling they thought of me as someone who could help them get through difficult times.

Anyway, one day a woman came to the house we worked in and asked for me, which wasn't unusual, but I remember it well. It was in June, on a Wednesday, and we went to my room, embraced, and locked the door. Her name was Sally Watson, and we had been together before. She would come back and ask for me each time, not knowing Mrs.Clemons would send her to me anyway.

"Today, I'd like to just talk, if you don't mind. I'll pay you, of course, but I'd just like to talk to you," she said.

"You'd pay me to just talk?" I said.

"I don't have many friends," she said. "Not real friends who know me and care about me, and there are somethings I'd like to ask you," she said. I put my hand on hers and she seemed to like the gesture very much. "I'd like to know about you. Where you're from, what you did before this, and how did you get into this business?"

I told her about myself. That I was from Santa Barbara. That I grew up there, went to college in town, and that I lost my job, finished college, and how a friend told me about the business. Sally seemed really interested in me, and she also seemed interested in the sex trade. She told me she really wanted to be a sex worker like me.

"Honestly? Most girls don't want that," I said.

"But you seem to like it. You are smart, and you seem really happy. I truly admire you," she said. I was stunned.

"You seem so secure and sure of yourself. I look up to you. I think of you as one of the most exceptional, intelligent women I know," she said. "You are who I want to be like."

I must have looked stunned, because she said, "Really. Your attitude about sex is what society should think. I have never known anyone who is more knowledgable and understanding about human sexuality than you, even the professors at my college are not as rational and as informed as you are about sex."

Then she smiled. "Please help me get started in the business of sexual service," she said. "I want to fuck for a living. I want to use that word and be as comfortable with it as you are," she said.

I must have blushed, because she said, "Most of the women who come to you are probably older than me, but they respect you. I know because I have talked to some of them. They love you," she said.

It was true, I knew, my attitude about sex is extremely liberal. My parents are responsible for that. Oh, we did not have sex within the family, but I have been comfortable with my body since I was very young. My parents are nudists and have been nude around the house in front of us for as long as I can remember. My sisters and brother were also often nude around the house as well. It just felt natural.

Sally's praise made me begin to think about my work as a call girl, although I never used the term or thought of myself in that way. I tell myself no matter what other people call what I do, I am a sex worker rather than one of the more typical terms people use. I am not a whore, I tell myself, but I do what a whore does, but not in the same way for the same reasons. The sex may be the same, but the attitude about it is different. At least that is what I have convinced myself.

However, I had decided to help Sally any way I could. Incredibly she wanted to work in the sex trade and she had no illusions about what it is. That night I mentioned her to Mrs. Clemons, and she told me to tell my young friend to come in and talk about what the decision entailed. If I believed what I had convinced myself of, there was no reason not to help her get into the sex business. She looked at me as a role model, and I cared what she thought and was not ashamed at what I did for a living.

I called her and explained what I had done. "Mrs. Clemons would like you to come and see her," I said. "Come see me first and I will give you some suggestions what you should avoid with her and what you should stress," I said.

"You like sex, don't you?" I said. She blushed and nodded. "You may think you are being paid to have good sex, but most of what you are paid for is not good sex. A lot of it will be with old men, and much will not even be close to pleasant. You will be asked to do things that may not be arousing, or even pleasant, except to the men, that is why I do mostly women now," I said.

She did not look pleased. "You are trying to talk me out of it," she said.

"I am trying to make sure you know what you are getting into," I said. "I don't want you disappointed, or disillusioned. It is not hard work. The money is good. You can refuse in most places to take someone who asks you to do something you don't want to do. Generally, I like what I do. I don't have regrets, but I want you to know what is coming. Sally, I don't want you to regret making this decision," I told her.

"Is Mrs. Clemons easy to work for?" she asked.

"Generally, yes. She has her quirks," I said. "She is a terror regarding schedule. If you are supposed to be here at a certain time, you need to be here. She won't tolerate laziness or lack of punctuality. You won't live here, but she demands the room you use here be clean, tidy, and nicely decorated. That will be up to you. We have no cleaning staff."

She smiled. "I like things neat," she said. "I have a thing about being on time," she added.

"Then you should do well here," I said. "I would love to work with you. Sometimes some of the girls entertain one another, if you know what I mean, socially. It just can't be here. Mrs. Clemons is a stickler for that. What we do on our own time is our business, as long as it doesn't't reflect badly on the house. We call it the house, and she is our supervisor, not the madame, pimp, or 'dictator.' Generally, she will be pleasant, just don't cross her," I said.

I put my arms around her. "If you change your mind, you can. Just don't do anything you don't want to, and don't get into this business unless you really want to. Then if you decide to do it, do it with my support and I will help in anyway I can. Think about it and tell me what you decide in a few days."

When she left my room, we hugged. She left and she was still thanking me as she walked away. I wasn't sure whether she would come back and work with me, or would go on to be a lawyer, or a housewife, or a nurse, or doctor, or whatever. I just hoped whatever it was made her happy.

I didn't see Sally for several weeks, then one day Mrs. Clemons brought her to my room and introduced her as Desiree. She said she was a new girl in our house and would like me to mentor her. She seemed to forget I had sent her, and we didn't say we already knew one another, because if Mrs. Clemons didn't remember she had been a friend, then it wasn't necessary for her to know. It may be better, actually, for us to keep that to ourselves.

Over the next month I saw Sally, or Desiree as everyone called her by then, when we were back where most of us lived, in an apartment house a few blocks from the "house" where we worked. At night, when we were working, I didn't see her, of course, but we did talk a bit at the apartment house and at meals, although most of us ate alone, but she would come to my apartment with food and we would eat together on my bed.

"It's not as bad as I thought it would be," she said. "Most of the men are old, yes, but they've been nice to me. They do have some strange requests, but not too bad, so far. One man just wants me to roll on him as he lays on the bed," she said. "Another wants to paint me. I mean paint on me. He paints my body and then washes me in the shower. I am not sure which he likes best, painting or washing," she said.

"It doesn't matter," I said, "as long as he pays."

"Oh, I know," she said. "I was just wondering."

She went on to tell me all of the strange things she had been asked to do for money. "The only thing is," she said. "I don't have many orgasms at work, so I have been learning to do that to myself these days," she said

"We all do," I said.

"You do that too?" she asked, her eyes wide with surprise.

"Every night," I said, "afterward. If I didn't I wouldn't be able to sleep," I said. "We have to take care of our own needs. Nobody else will." The look on her face told me she was disappointed in the truth of the matter. "I can show you what I do," I said "I learned it from a sex therapist friend of mine.

"Oh, yes," she said. "I would like that."

I had her sit on my bed and remove her panties. I told her to open her legs slightly, lean back on her arms but bend her head forward so she could see. I put my hand on her pubic mound, my fingers curving over her vulva, or pussy as everyone here calls it, although a few call it their kitten or flower, even. I put two fingers over her labia lips, one on each side, letting the upper part of my palm rest over her clitoris, being able to push down on it as I moved my hand quickly back and forth, holding her lips between my fingers so it vibrates over the clitoris with the pressure of my hand.

As I did she closed her eyes, savoring the feel of my hand moving back and forth with the weight of my palm controlling the pressure on her nub. She sighed, and then forcefully climaxed as she sat on the edge of my bed. "Oh, yes," she said smiling. "That was wonderful."

My hand was wet with her lubrication as I sat up and let her luxuriate in her orgasm. "You can do that just like I did, every night," I said. "It will relieve all that pressure from not coming during work."

"You should teach that," she said. I smiled, told her I was not a therapist, but thanked her for the compliment. "You have such a gentle and caring ability to teach people what to do and how to do it. You are a natural teacher," she said.

After she left I began thinking about what she'd said. I did get pleasure from showing Sally (or Desiree) how to masturbate. I began to think of going back to college to get a masters in sex therapy. The more I thought about it the more I wanted to do it. I thought about a story I once read about a sex therapist who became a sex worker. If I did what Sally suggested I would be reversing the story. I would be going from being a sex worker to a mental health care provider.

Two weeks later I was signing up for day classes at the local college in the masters program to work on my degree in sex therapy. I began taking classes after working much of the night and sleeping between classes. When Sally heard what I was doing, she came to my room to give me words of encouragement. She was like a sports fan, cheering her team. "I am so glad you've decided to follow this path," she said. We embraced like sisters, holding one another and crying. "You will make a wonderful therapist," she said.

"If I make it, I have you to thank," I said.

When I finally got my masters after my fifth year, I took the examine for a therapist license and passed on my first try. I was quite nervous, but Sally/Desiree was totally confident. I called her when I got the results and she actually cried, as did I, and we sat with phones in our hands, not talking but just crying happily.

"Thank you Sally," I said. "I love you. It was you who inspired me, encouraged me to go back to school and get my degree and get into sex therapy. Without you, I never would have started it and got this far. I have been asked to go for my PhD and get a full phycologist credential. I have considered it and decided to work to counsel people with sexual problems as a psychologist."

"I am so excited for you," Sally said.

On the following Monday I enrolled in the doctoral program at the university. I would be able to continue working as a sex worker while in the program and I could live in the same place and work on my PhD during the day after working each night. I met two other women working on their degrees and active in the sex industry. One, Gwen, worked from her home as an independent, and the other, Marsha, worked from a call service in the Santa Monica area. Gwen was nearly finished, having only to have her thesis approved by her doctoral committee. Marsha was about halfway through her degree.

Both were thrilled to meet another working girl working on her degree in sex therapy. With my masters I can meet clients, but the state only classifies me as a sex counsellor. With the doctorate, I could put out my shingle as a sexual psychologist. That means that I could charge more and make professional diagnosis. As an experienced sex worker, I would have a prospective that many in the field just don't have.

It took me two years to get my PhD and begin a practice as a psychologist specializing in sexual psychotherapy. My office manager and my personal assistant is Sally Watson, who keeps our office running smoothly and efficiently. We may be the first psychologist and assistant who have worked as sex workers and learned the truth about sex from the inside. I was happy to be a sex worker, and I am even happier to sit with people and help them work out their problems having to do with their sexuality. Sometimes life goes in surprising directions.