The Introduction.

Let’s start this off as simply as possible, shall we?


My name is Emme. And I am a sex worker.

My real name isn’t Emme, and what I do doesn’t quite get entirely compassed by the term ‘sex worker’, but it’s the one people like most to hiss viciously at me as if it is something to be ashamed of.

You can call me whatever you like. Prostitute, whore, slut, sex worker. Hooker. I don’t like to get too precious about trivial things like that. I am what I am. I do what I do. That’s all there is to it.

So when my friend told me I should start a blog talking about all the different things that I do and how I feel and what it’s like, I thought, why bother? There’s Belle Du Jours everywhere now, people even dress up as her for Halloween, she admitted who she was ages ago, what’s the point in having an anonymous blog?

But here goes nothing. My name is Emme. And I am a sex worker.

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At the start of 2009, I was frumpy. I didn’t wear makeup, wore big t-shirts to cover myself up; didn’t care about anything. I was living with my ex in the most uncomfortable living arrangement ever. I worked a fulltime job in retail where my boss hated me, I was broke all the time, and I was bored shitless.
The first thing I did was get the stones to kick my malingering douchebag ex-boyfriend out. I gave him a fortnights notice and kicked him out officially a week prior to that, and the first thing I did was clean my house with the aid of a professional maid service, sell all his possessions on eBay and have one night stands. I stopped eating junk food, started dropping weight. In May 2009 I got pregnant to a friend and had an abortion. It was after that that I realised I was wasting my time having one night stands and figured if I can pull them for free, why the hell couldn’t I do it in a professional sense when I was actually trying to look halfway attractive, and earn some serious cash while doing so?

In August 2010 I started working a reception job at a brothel. This was my gateway into the sex industry. I quickly jumped the desk, put on some red lipstick, and pulled major cash while doing so. It was apparent that while white Australian men preferred the porn star, blonde bombshell hooker, it was the minorities and immigrants that loved me. I was (and still am) a size 14-16, very pale, long hair, DD cup breasts, chunky legs, visible piercings and tattoos and black plastic glasses. The hustling started. Oh boy, did the hustling start. It turns out my seven year stint in retail had allowed me to partake in some serious small talk with potential clients where most girls wouldn’t bother. The charm worked- I’d be flat out while other girls moaned and groaned about no clients coming in to see them anymore.

This continued until late November 2009. At that point, in the three months since I’d started on the job, I’d paid off all my credit cards, saved up a nice stack of money for the future endeavours I planned to participate in, and have a ball while doing it. But I was still working full-time in retail, hating every minute of it. In these three months I started amassing a big clientele based around fetish work- being a bit of a kinky bitch myself it came easily to me and I handled it with ease where most girls looked on in horror. One of them said, “Why don’t you work at a fetish brothel? You’d make a killing. One of them is looking for a few new apprentice Dominatrices, you know”.

The next morning, a mere three hours after I’d knocked off work at the late shift at the brothel, I was on the bus already heading to my job in retail. As I flicked through the money I’d earned the previous night I mulled over his suggestion and finally got the balls to give them a ring.

Two days later, I started working there, and I put my notice in at my retail job at the start of December 2009. They ‘graciously’ allowed me to stay on part-time but made my life a misery, despite no one really knowing what it was I got up to outside of work. Two weeks after declaring myself only part-time, I walked out one Sunday afternoon after another brush with management and called in sick for my two week notice period. I cried on the way home on the bus, wondering if I’d fucked up my life forever quitting from a secure retail job two weeks out from Christmas. I bawled the entire four hour bus trip home to my mother’s house, wherein she looked at me with absolute disappointment and told me that if I wasn’t going to make anything of myself at least go and get a TAFE certificate in hairdressing.
I was 22, a washed up retail veteran, sitting on my mother’s coffee table because it was the only cold surface I could find in the house. I’d been caned so severely by a client in a submissive session the day before my ass cheeks still had welts on them. My life was fucked.

I wallowed for about two weeks, working nowhere, moping around with my cat and playing videogames until mid January, 2010. It was then I realised it wasn’t really going to get me anywhere and put my plans into action. I accepted an offer to University in my hometown, quit the hooker job at the vanilla brothel, told my fetish brothel I’d continue on while commuting, and found a house. A nice house. Not a shithole like I was living in in Melbourne. I could afford a decent house so why the fuck not? Exactly. I bought a huge plasma television, more game consoles, and started stocking up on original artwork. Which brings me to this exact point in time, August 2010.

On this blog I will discuss what it is I actually do at work, ranging from fetishes through to other BDSM play through to topics I suppose I give a shit about. Right through to my daily life whinges. You see, just because people pay me to have (latex protected) access to my vagina, doesn't mean I don't lead a normal life. You wouldn't know what I do for a living if you look at me. And even if you told everyone I know, they'd think you were telling porkies. But here I am. And here you are.
My name is Emme. And I am a sex worker.