I remember the first John I ever fucked. New Jersey hotel room. Black suit. Bareback. He was nice; gentle. Maybe he could sense my nervousness or maybe he was like that with all the girls. He asked me if I’d go Greek and I said no. First of all, I didn’t even know what that meant…not until I Googled it later that night when the last John had left and I was drinking a glass of wine alone in my hotel room. Second of all, once I did know what it was I couldn’t imagine ever letting someone put it in my ass.
Isn’t it sort of funny how the things we tell ourselves we’d never do because of our morals we end up loving in the end?
This was years ago. Back when Craigslist let college girls and professionals put ads up advertising a quick fuck for $200 an hour. I don’t really remember (or care) how I found out about this or how I started doing all of this – all I know is that once I started I didn’t want to stop.
That summer was the summer of Rihanna’s “Umbrella” and that song permeated my ears every time I came to NYC. I was just a shy girl from the South but when I flew to the East coast – usually JFK or Newark, depending on who I was working for – I transformed into Alexis.
Alexis was cunning, confident, and knew how to take care of men in the way they needed. She wore short skirts and cute outfits that were nice enough to look business casual but just slutty enough to steam the mirrors. Sometimes they wanted to fuck. Sometimes they wanted a blowjob. Most of the time they just wanted to talk.
What was I, a 21-year-old college girl from Georgia, doing in a New Jersey hotel room? That’s what the first John asked me. At the time I didn’t have much of an answer but eventually, over time, I learned to rehearse the kind of ‘woe is me’ victim answer that always seemed to please them. I also learned after the first John to never EVER go bareback. Rookie move on my part. Luckily, I was safe. The married guys always were.
When I say the greatest sex of my life was illegal I’m not saying it was great because I was a young girl in a hotel room getting fucked by men twice my age who had the cash to pay for a little relief on their lunch break. I’m saying the greatest sex of my life was illegal because the men who paid, the men who needed it the most, the men who didn’t talk and just slowly unzipped their pants for me to take care of them – those men gave me exactly what I needed – cash, mostly, (obviously), – but power.
What do I mean by that, by power? I mean that there is nothing more powerful than a woman on her knees giving a man a blowjob. You can dehumanize sex workers all you want but there’s a reason why sex work exists and why it will always exist. There’s power in making a man cum because as much as he thinks he doesn’t need you, he does, and when he’s hungry enough for that release, he’ll go to desperate measures to get it.
The thing about sex work is that many sex workers eventually find it tiresome and tedious. Like any job, yes, it gets this way. Some Johns try to intimidate you. Some try to cheat you out of what they owe you. Some think they’re in control in the situation. And I get that. What boss isn’t that way? But getting a man so horny he’ll open his wallet and hand you every last dime in his checking account is a beautiful thing.
It’s been years since I left New Jersey, since I left New York, since I said goodbye to that kind of life. It was a fun, strange, if not interesting time of my life. And out of all of it – the cash, the jewelry, the expensive dinners and clothes I treated myself to – what I miss the most is the sex.