What being a Sex Worker taught me about men

When I became a sex worker, I had a sort of ah ha moment: putting up with men was work, I realized—and I didn’t have to do it for free. Whether I was working as a table dancer in London, a gown club in New York City, or some hole in the wall off a freeway in the midwest, the men were the same. More than dances, they wanted me to sit silently and listen while they complained about their jobs or talked shit about an ex.

I was therapist, marriage counselor, career advisor, priest. The emotional labor men feel entitled to that women are expected to perform for free, I got paid for. And—unlike other service jobs or the real world—if a dude was particularly awful, security would step in while I walked away.

Some years later, when I went back into sex work as a call girl on craigslist, it was similar: much of the job was emotional, rather than physical labor. The sex itself was not very different than encounters I’d had as a civilian.

To believe all sex workers are inherently victimized by their profession invalidates the experiences of those who have been. Sex workers, though at greater risk for victimization due to the criminalized and stigmatized nature of their work—are, on an average day, no more or less harassed or put upon than any other woman living in this sexist world.

I’ve spent the years since transitioning out of the industry coming to terms with the complicated sexual experiences I’ve had in my lifetime.


Now, it seems women who haven’t traded sex for cash have begun to engage in a similar reckoning: from the #metoo movement and Harvey Weinstein to the New Yorker short story, Cat Person, and the much-read (and debated) story about a bad night out with comedian Aziz Ansari, we’re talking as a culture about sexual harassment and the meaning of “bad sex” in broader terms.

The #metoo movement has gone a step further, and complicated our understanding of ethical sex. Ethical sex isn’t just consensual—it’s non-exploitative, it’s protected, it’s honest, it’s pleasurable.

When I transitioned out of sex work, I began seeking everything my intimate life was missing: I wanted sex that was pleasurable and non-exploitative. I wanted a romantic partner I could be honest with, and who shared my values.

So accustomed to abuse, I fell into a codependent relationship with a man who took advantage of me financially while using my sex work past against me. After I left that relationship and started meeting men online, I often rushed too quickly into bed.

Eventually, I learned to weed out what I’d call the “client” types—men so engrossed in themselves that my presence barely registered. Men who’d choose a bar as our first or second date, even though I’m sober.

I learned to factor sex into an emotionally fulfilling relationship. Casual sex with strangers had been easy, whereas sex in the context of a relationship presented certain challenges. I didn’t know how to act—or, more accurately, I didn’t know how to “not act,” I had grown so used to performing.

From the beginning, the man I eventually married was an attentive partner. As far as emotional labor, he does his fair share. One of the first major differences between sex with my husband and sex with a client is that the former checks in. In the beginning, if he thought I wasn’t enjoying myself or sensed that I didn’t want to continue, he’d stop.

These days, I’m still cornered into doing emotional labor. The other day, after a man helped me carry the stroller up the front steps of my building, I listened politely as he gave me child-rearing advice. When he offered to return with a box of gently used baby clothes, I politely refused. Sometimes, I’ll be polite.

This article originally appeared on VICE.