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I had no dreams of designer handbags or weekends in the Hamptons when I started sex work.
I wanted to experience every glamour and success a city could offer.
I wanted to know what it was like to be sexually powerful and I wanted to know what it was like to have men want me.
Admitting as much feels shameful since it denies the primacy of external pressures that might have pushed me toward labor so in demand yet so reviled.
The notion of the modern-day happy hooker, the vapid middle-class girl who starts “selling her body” because she thinks it’s fun and harmless, is a mainstream media-spawned nightmare haunting every heated discussion of sex work.
But I had the instincts of an anthropologist and an inexplicable sense of invincibility—not because I thought I was untouchable or special, but because I simply didn’t register situations as dangerous no matter how shady the circumstances. So one night, a few days after I auditioned by showing my boss my boobs, I drove back to his house, went upstairs to one of two rooms with a double mattress on the floor against a pink curtain, and logged into my newly made account.