Scat is…interesting.
What is even more interesting is the fact that a year ago when I started my Dominatricing ‘apprenticeship’ I swore black and blue that I would never do scat. “I can’t stomach shit,” I said blithely, “anything but shit”. Several girls looked at me knowingly. I piously sipped from my Starbucks cup, shaking my head. “Never. I can’t even shit with someone in the adjoining room let alone let loose while someone watches.”
Either the money seemed too good to be true for the idle joy of taking a shit for someone else’s pleasure, or curiosity got the better of me. I’m always the one in my group of friends licking nine volt batteries and consuming large amounts of cake batter made with hash butter, so I suspect it was the latter, even though at the end of a shift when I’m collecting several pineapple-coloured dollar notes that were earned with yesterday’s breakfast, lunch and dinner excreted on demand, I do feel slightly smug. Is smug the word? I’m positive it is.
Let me get one thing perfectly straight. I actually enjoy my job. This includes this particular fetish. I sort of view it like this- if I earn over $100 in a single day, I’m coming out on top of whatever I’d be earning in retail. But if push came to shove, I would rather do this job for 15 bucks an hour than retail for 15 bucks at hour. In the fetish sex industry you seemed to get fucked a lot less than you do in retail. Metaphorically sucking the cock of every douchebag that waltzes into the store wearing some ill-fitting suit expecting to be fawned over is far worse than actually sucking the cock of an individual who has just showered using soap, and put a condom over the end of his knob. Anyone who says otherwise is delusional. Cock is hardly ever bad. Retail is consistently terrible. There is a lack of self-worth that belongs to anyone who has to pander to the demands of an obsequious middle-management failure that drinks shit filter coffee and uses red dots and shiny gold stars to document the progress of his weekly budgets. Was that a little specific? Is my bitterness showing? Is JB Hi-Fi going to sue me? Is JB Hi-Fi going to admit they drove a sensitive soul such as me, into shitting for money? Needless to say, sex work is far more becoming that drudgery in an office. For one, I can wear heels, and my boss doesn’t have short man syndrome.
I was supposed to be talking about shit, wasn’t I? Well technically I still am, I’m just spouting bullshit as opposed to joyous declarations of the love of TURDS. WHO DOESN’T LOVE AN AWESOME BROWN SHOWER NOW AND AGAIN? YOU DON’T? OR YOU WANT TO LEARN THE LOVE? READ ON, MY FRIENDS.
It is far harder to master the art of scat-play than ANYONE IS WILLING TO ADMIT. You require not only a strong stomach but a fairly substantial diet change, and for someone like me that lives off drinking shit beer, eating imported candy products and whatever Dominos will deliver between 5 and 11pm, this is a BIG CHANGE. Anyone who has ever watched any scat porn will know that there is SO MUCH SHIT inside some of these girls, which reminds me of every asshole retail manager I ever had (except Rene, hi Rene if you’re reading, you’re rad), but it flows and flows and flows and it’s amazing. They cover whole beds! They fill entire diapers in ten seconds! People choke and bathe in the stuff. HOW CAN SO MUCH SHIT COME FROM ONE CUTE TIGHT LITTLE ASSHOLE? Does anal bleaching really do that? Maybe. My ass isn’t bleached, being a white girl who fails at growing body hair, so I do a cute little turd that sometimes curls like a little ‘S’ in the toilet bowl and that’s it. So to get bigger turds? You need to eat FIBRE. FIBRE FIBRE FIBRE. Unfortunately fibre gives me the worst gas ever and it’s not even the gas I can fart out and dutch-oven my boyfriend with, its just rumbly stomach evil that happens to reabsorb itself into my intestinal lining or something. I belch sometimes. I suck at farting and definitely can’t do it on demand. Every now and then I let out this pathetic little squeaky fart and my brother looks up at me from his position on the floor of my lounge room to sigh and say, “was that it?” After he finishes patronising me by farting such filth into the air even the cat wakes up, glares and stalks out, I go back to reading about nothing on Wikipedia and he goes back to making garbage angels on my lounge room floor out of beer cans and pizza boxes.
But it’s not just the act of the turds. Clients can be very demanding! They want a particular texture, a colour, no smell, extra smell. And considering they’re paying a small fortune you sort of have to pander to their preferences a little bit. And by a little bit, I mean as much as you can, because being a cunt to a client is great if they’re paying you to be a cunt but if they want a nice sweet girl who just spanks their ass a bit or shits on their chest, in the case of this fetish, YOU DAMNED WELL DO IT or you find out some other girl has stolen all your clients. Nevertheless, it’s fairly easy if your stomach is WELL BEHAVED. Mine is not. I am lactose intolerant. This means I either projectile vomit (and oh yes, there’s a fetish for that too) curdled milk products about twenty minutes after I consume them, or I shit out an impacted turd the size of brick garden paver that tears me a new asshole a week afterwards.
Neither is preferable, funnily enough.
You can take chlorophyll tablets to stop the smell considerably. Also eating a diet very low in additives and containing no meat or dairy will lead you to have fairly inoffensive turds. Keep in mind it’s still a turd, you can’t take a shit in a bowl and show people and expect them to look at you like you’ve just given them a bowl of diamonds. Look at cows. They eat grass, they shit, and their shit, while less vile than cat shit (or puppy shit, as we found out at work the other day when another girl brought in her puppy and he decided to lay some cable in the dressing rooms) is still SHIT. So be realistic. Ever heard the term “you can’t polish a turd”? Well guess what? You mightn’t be able to polish the damned thing, and neither can you roll it in glitter and try to pass it off as a gay-pride vegetarian spring roll. It’s shit. It’s always going to be shit.
Eating lots of beans will make your turds pretty much Teflon coated. This is a term my brother coined about a decade ago and has stuck with us ever since. These are the turds that, in my limited experience, most scat clients prefer. It’s the perfect little 20cm long turd that looks neat, smells minimally but can be broken up if they get the sudden urge to rub their faces in it (or if I get the same urge, and they can’t get away from me fast enough). If you do this turd in a toilet, you try to wipe and nothing is there, and you look in the bowl and there is nothing there either. You are then left to sit there and contemplate whether or not you really did take a shit or if you were just hallucinating the entire time, and if you’re a bit under the influence as I can be on weekends sometimes it really does fuck with your mind.
Shitting on demand is also something some clients believe we can do. Believe me, we are not those cute little reindeer toys where if you stick coins in one end and pull their tail a jellybean turd appears. You stick coins in either of my ends and I will give you an injury to the frontal lobe of your brain with an ice-pick. So people need to book in advance to get a good quality turdlet on their chest- that’s a bit of a given, really. That’s all well and good. But that’s not where the difficulty lies. There is so many variables after the client has made a booking that you really do wonder where in high school you went so far off the beaten track that you realised taking a shit in your favourite undies while a guy beats off to it was really a better option than studying medicine at Monash. It was probably while I was boxmunching in the carport of my girlfriends brother. It’s a slippery slope. Well, it is, if you’re munching it correctly.
Noooo. The difficulty lies in the logistics.
Logistics, you say? Beside the obvious pun you get when you steal the first three letters of that word, what the fuck could be so hard about taking a shit for some guy in a dungeon at 12pm on a Wednesday afternoon? LITTLE DO YOU KNOW. WELL, YOU ARE GOING TO KNOW SHORTLY, BECAUSE I AM KIND ENOUGH TO TELL YOU.
Sometimes they want you to shit in underwear. Squatting, crouching, standing, hanging upside down like a monkey, who fucking knows, but they paid you to do this so shut up and do it. Would you rather be sorting socks at k-mart? No. Of course not. That’s the most demeaning and horrible job in the world. So get on with it, petal. Sometimes they want the texture of it. Some of them like watching your butthole gape as you push your little Teflon-coated turd out, but are revolted as soon as you starts coming out so you need to scamper forward like some sort of prairie dog (ever wondered where the term ‘prairie-dogging it’ came from?) so you can shit on a designated towel, maybe on their chest or stomach, or by some amazing sphincter muscles and some prayer to a fetishist deity you can somehow get it back up your butt for next time.
There is also the stark reality of it. Porn is fun. Porn is good. You watch porn and you see some chick that is smeared in her own shit, but somewhere in the back of your head you go, ‘oh, its chocolate syrup’ (protip: it usually isn’t) and you can’t smell it or feel the texture. So a guy comes in all heave-ho (haha heave the ho! …SORRY, don’t throw your prostitutes around, we really hate it) and asks for a shit planted neatly on his chest.
It usually goes great until the smell hits them; they blow all over their underwear at the first touch as the mere idea of reliving their favourite porno moment, and reality sets in. Five seconds ago you have a hot girl on top of you wearing no underwear and you had your dick all nice and hard in your hand and life was awesome. Now the room smells like rancid curry, the chick is stepping off you and you’ve got a steaming little turd sausage nestled amongst your greying chest hairs. And your wallet is three hundred bucks lighter. FUCK YOUR LIFE.
There is also the issue of sheer biology. If someone requests a brown shower on short order, sometimes an enema is the only thing to get that happening. Most healthy digestive systems run the same, there is no shit stored in your rectum and there is usually minimal in your colon at any one time if your system is working correctly. So a micro-enema is going to sting your asshole thanks to the active ingredients BEING VICIOUSLY POTENT SALT (the enema apparently acts as a hyper-osmolar agent that draws water from your large intestine into the contents of your colon. Chances are, the ingredients are so irritating to your asshole that you want to shit five seconds after shoving it up there and all you get is a nice dose of foaming enema agent on the dude’s chest. Oh, and by the way, it’ll sting your skin too. You know why? Because I’m of the belief it’s made out of ant-rid or something. DON’T USE MICRO ENEMAS. I would rather stick an 8in butt-plug up the ass of a guy with an impacted colon and spend two hours getting the smell of shit out of my hair in the clean-up afterwards than ever expect a client to use one of those micro-enemas. This goes against what every other Mistress I know does, but I bet very few of them have used those godforsaken things, and they are there in existence to prove that life can indeed be cruel. I sucked a wasp up a straw from a bottle of Fanta once and it stung my uvula, and I would rather do that again than use those fucking micro-enemas.
A proper enema is the next option if someone is really jonesing for the contents of your large bowel. This is when several bags of water are slowly drained into your butt and you hold it for as long as possible and then shit it out. If I don’t already need to shit before I do this, I usually shit brown coloured water and maybe three little turdlets that look suspiciously like piercing jewellery I’ve swallowed recently. Once I shit out not one but two 5c pieces. Another time I shit out a small four-top piece of red lego. Yeah, I just said the word turdlets. More to the point, I’m a 23 year old adult and I just admitted to not only swallowing Lego BUT SHITTING IT BACK OUT. But honestly, if that’s going to be the thing that tips you over the edge and makes you hate me, I really didn’t want you as a friend anyway. TRUE FRIENDS LET FRIENDS SHIT ON THE CHESTS OF STRANGERS.
After mastering this art of scat play, I immediately went out to celebrate. “I finally shit on someone’s chest!” I announced at Taco Bill on a Thursday night. “It’s time to celebrate! I’ve made it as a professional fetishist! My dad is gonna be so proud!” Two fishbowls (read: 30 shots) full of cheap, nasty tequila and half frozen lemon cordial, three huge bowls of dodgy nachos and a chilli taco later, I was hunched over the toilet bowl , simultaneously shitting liquid and rocketing stomach acid not only out of my mouth and nose, but up through my tear ducts (it’s all connected). Crying stomach acid is not the best way to start a Friday morning.
Needless to say, after coaxing my sphincter into allowing itself to open while hovered over a dude furiously jerking himself off while telling me to “shit, bad girl, take that big dirty shit on daddy’s chest”, I can now shit without fear of recrimination or ridicule in public toilets. I used to wait until no one else was home to let fly so this is a real development. I suspect it’s because if anyone glares at me after using a toilet for what it is actually designed for in public, I smile at them while mentally shitting into their handbag. Only mentally? Before anyone starts thinking of all the horrible revenge things I’ve ever done involving, you can rest assured I’ve only ever participated in one act of turd-terrorism, wherein I convinced a friend to shit in a mutual acquaintances Milo tin as a response to having our shoes filled with water and frozen in the chest freezer in his shed after a big night at his house. Why? Think about it. How often do you check your tin of milo after a big party? Most people only drink Milo when they’re cold and lonely on a Friday night twice a year while watching Love Actually. Which makes it easy to bury in there and forget allllll about it. Note: I don’t drink Milo anymore.
Other notable acts of revenge on people who I suspect to be deserving of some of the most vicious turd-terrorism include gluing their rubbish bin lid down on bin night before it was emptied, and fucking their sister.
Regardless to say, there was no poo involved with either of those, except the “You did what? Oh no, SHIT, you fucking moll,” when they realise what has happened. But that doesn’t count.
You’re welcome. Happy turd-burgularing.
XOXO, Emme.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
Watery fun! ...Sort of
Before I started working in this industry, water-sports were something I begged my mother to write me sick notes so I could avoid them during P.E class.
Water-sports in fetish terms are anything to do with pee. This includes drinking pee, watching pee, playing with pee, rolling around in it, gargling with it, pretty much anything you could ever imagine you could do with pee and SO MUCH MORE. And the joys of this fetish is that it’s so very varied that it’s actually one of the more enjoyable ones. First up is the gross factor. ITS URINE DAMMIT EW OH GOD. Right? It’s horrible. Well, not really. Turns out its sterile when it first comes out of your body unless you have a bladder infection, which is handy, although it’s probably bad for you to drink only urine for your water consumption because you’re re-ingesting all the crap your kidneys filter out of your blood. The real nasties are filtered out with your liver, so try not to assume you’re going to get some guy drunk because you’re so hungover you see stars whenever you stand up. Also, it’s kind of warm, which is a little bit creepy at first. But in this blog entry I will discuss all the lovely things you can do with PEE.
The most important thing to remember is that if you have a shy bladder, do not pass GO, do not collect your $200. Don’t even bother. When I first started, I would have to turn a tap on while I did a wee on the guy so I could get it all started. Turning a tap on mid-session makes it a bit awkward and breaks the mood a bit so I recommend against it. Just think of waterfalls and pee away. But it’s never that easy. It’s a high hourly rate, if all you have to do is pee, you’d be doing it for free on street corners, right?
You need good aim. You can position your fingers in just the right spots to make sure you don’t piss down your own leg (I mean, haven’t we all done that a few times while peeing outdoors while drunk?) but people want you to pee on different things! You may need to pee on their feet or their dick or their chest or on their face or directly into their mouth. Once I had to aim directly at a client’s bellybutton. Another time I had another girl upside down with a speculum inside her and I had to pee down into her vagina. All the while you need to make sure you’re not peeing on yourself. I mean, it really doesn’t matter. And sometimes they want you so down and dirty you end up splashing around in it anyway. But it’s best not to piss into your patent leather stilettos if you don’t want blisters for the rest of the day. I’m not sure if this is common knowledge but if you’ve got 100% leather shoes and you need to break them in, it’s good to pee in them and wear them in the shower for a couple of days. Most stilettos are cheap pieces of shit nowadays, and usually have polyester or vinyl lining which absorbs the pee and makes them reek after you wear them for a few hours. But if you can find non-synthetic lined leather stilettos you can wear them in like that. For the cheapies, wear really big hiker’s socks and kick your feet up and read a book on the couch for hours at a time. Anyway, back to the bladder talk.
I get asked to pee in weird positions a lot. And its something that you aren’t really designed to do, because in toilet training you do it on a toilet in a sitting position and that’s about it. So unless you’re desperate to pee, you’re going to only be able to do it sitting down to start with. But your brain is play-doh, it’s malleable and it can take different shapes and you can definitely teach yourself to pee in different positions. Squatting, sitting, tied upside down (for the dyed hair creatures amongst us, pee tends to make your hair colour run), lying down. In underwear, in the shower, on the bed, in your underwear, in THEIR underwear, in huge adult diapers that go up to my chest. They want me to pretend to be desperate to go. They can force feed me water until I am actually desperate to go. Experienced Dominants can, in a sub session, catheterise me and make me hold the bag up myself so it drains straight into it. And then I can do the same to them. I can catheterise someone, drain their bladder, and pour whiskey down the end of the tubing. I can twist it slowly inside their urethra. I can make them so desperate to pee while they’re tied to the suspension rack that I force them to pee on their own feet before I let them down. I pee in bowls, pee into Pump water bottles (fuck you Coca Cola Amatil), pee on towels and make them sit on them. I pee during sex. I pee while being fucked with dildos. I pee on tampons and shove them into noses and mouths and butts. In school uniforms. In puppy costumes. Dressed up as a kitten into a box of kitty litter. Onto a vinyl bed so it sits there in a puddle and someone can drink it right off the bed.
Pee is pretty tasteless. Usually. And most of the time I drink lots of water before these sessions so the client enjoys it the most. But I have a few clients that are just absolutely vile, and I despise them because they’re pathetic and they just want to worship me and that’s what they want. They want it to be horrible. So I get up to the most evil things possible. It depends on if I’m in a good mood or not as to whether I get really creative or if I just walk in, piss on them, and walk out.
The best way to fuck with someone who enjoys pee is to eat things that make it taste weird or downright disgusting. Asparagus is the easiest thing, if you can stand to eat it. My kidneys are fucking ruined so if I eat beetroot I pee bright pink. Vitamins are a big one, with the B vitamin groups making it not only fluorescent yellow, but smell faintly of mildew. My pee also smells of coffee if I’ve been drinking it, which is invariably every single day I go to work.
I actually enjoy water-sports as far as sessions go, they’re good fun and you just shower at the end and it’s all over. Plus, there is always pee around. If I drink lots of water and coffee before a session I could pee three or four times in an hour if I have to. So it’s easy money, good fun, and generally pretty light-hearted fun. Splashing around in urine isn’t what I planned for a career but it sure as fuck beats working shit-kicker jobs in retail.
And besides, being able to be catheterised (it actually isn’t really very uncomfortable for me, which is handy) and have the tubing fed through a huge 12inch black dildo so you can piss up some guys ass while he’s tied to a bench with your pee-soaked underwear in his mouth- it’s a nice way to feel like queen of the entire universe for an hour or so.
Granted, when I get home that night I still have to clean the kitchen sink of dried spaghetti, and sift cat shit out of the kitty litter, and I slump on the couch wearing track-pants and my hair in a topknot. But that’s just an illusion. I’m really at my finest when I’m at work doing perverted things.
PS. If your boyfriend tells you he doesn’t pee in the shower, he is absolutely lying. Just be grateful yours doesn’t pee on your leg in the shower- mine does.
Water-sports in fetish terms are anything to do with pee. This includes drinking pee, watching pee, playing with pee, rolling around in it, gargling with it, pretty much anything you could ever imagine you could do with pee and SO MUCH MORE. And the joys of this fetish is that it’s so very varied that it’s actually one of the more enjoyable ones. First up is the gross factor. ITS URINE DAMMIT EW OH GOD. Right? It’s horrible. Well, not really. Turns out its sterile when it first comes out of your body unless you have a bladder infection, which is handy, although it’s probably bad for you to drink only urine for your water consumption because you’re re-ingesting all the crap your kidneys filter out of your blood. The real nasties are filtered out with your liver, so try not to assume you’re going to get some guy drunk because you’re so hungover you see stars whenever you stand up. Also, it’s kind of warm, which is a little bit creepy at first. But in this blog entry I will discuss all the lovely things you can do with PEE.
The most important thing to remember is that if you have a shy bladder, do not pass GO, do not collect your $200. Don’t even bother. When I first started, I would have to turn a tap on while I did a wee on the guy so I could get it all started. Turning a tap on mid-session makes it a bit awkward and breaks the mood a bit so I recommend against it. Just think of waterfalls and pee away. But it’s never that easy. It’s a high hourly rate, if all you have to do is pee, you’d be doing it for free on street corners, right?
You need good aim. You can position your fingers in just the right spots to make sure you don’t piss down your own leg (I mean, haven’t we all done that a few times while peeing outdoors while drunk?) but people want you to pee on different things! You may need to pee on their feet or their dick or their chest or on their face or directly into their mouth. Once I had to aim directly at a client’s bellybutton. Another time I had another girl upside down with a speculum inside her and I had to pee down into her vagina. All the while you need to make sure you’re not peeing on yourself. I mean, it really doesn’t matter. And sometimes they want you so down and dirty you end up splashing around in it anyway. But it’s best not to piss into your patent leather stilettos if you don’t want blisters for the rest of the day. I’m not sure if this is common knowledge but if you’ve got 100% leather shoes and you need to break them in, it’s good to pee in them and wear them in the shower for a couple of days. Most stilettos are cheap pieces of shit nowadays, and usually have polyester or vinyl lining which absorbs the pee and makes them reek after you wear them for a few hours. But if you can find non-synthetic lined leather stilettos you can wear them in like that. For the cheapies, wear really big hiker’s socks and kick your feet up and read a book on the couch for hours at a time. Anyway, back to the bladder talk.
I get asked to pee in weird positions a lot. And its something that you aren’t really designed to do, because in toilet training you do it on a toilet in a sitting position and that’s about it. So unless you’re desperate to pee, you’re going to only be able to do it sitting down to start with. But your brain is play-doh, it’s malleable and it can take different shapes and you can definitely teach yourself to pee in different positions. Squatting, sitting, tied upside down (for the dyed hair creatures amongst us, pee tends to make your hair colour run), lying down. In underwear, in the shower, on the bed, in your underwear, in THEIR underwear, in huge adult diapers that go up to my chest. They want me to pretend to be desperate to go. They can force feed me water until I am actually desperate to go. Experienced Dominants can, in a sub session, catheterise me and make me hold the bag up myself so it drains straight into it. And then I can do the same to them. I can catheterise someone, drain their bladder, and pour whiskey down the end of the tubing. I can twist it slowly inside their urethra. I can make them so desperate to pee while they’re tied to the suspension rack that I force them to pee on their own feet before I let them down. I pee in bowls, pee into Pump water bottles (fuck you Coca Cola Amatil), pee on towels and make them sit on them. I pee during sex. I pee while being fucked with dildos. I pee on tampons and shove them into noses and mouths and butts. In school uniforms. In puppy costumes. Dressed up as a kitten into a box of kitty litter. Onto a vinyl bed so it sits there in a puddle and someone can drink it right off the bed.
Pee is pretty tasteless. Usually. And most of the time I drink lots of water before these sessions so the client enjoys it the most. But I have a few clients that are just absolutely vile, and I despise them because they’re pathetic and they just want to worship me and that’s what they want. They want it to be horrible. So I get up to the most evil things possible. It depends on if I’m in a good mood or not as to whether I get really creative or if I just walk in, piss on them, and walk out.
The best way to fuck with someone who enjoys pee is to eat things that make it taste weird or downright disgusting. Asparagus is the easiest thing, if you can stand to eat it. My kidneys are fucking ruined so if I eat beetroot I pee bright pink. Vitamins are a big one, with the B vitamin groups making it not only fluorescent yellow, but smell faintly of mildew. My pee also smells of coffee if I’ve been drinking it, which is invariably every single day I go to work.
I actually enjoy water-sports as far as sessions go, they’re good fun and you just shower at the end and it’s all over. Plus, there is always pee around. If I drink lots of water and coffee before a session I could pee three or four times in an hour if I have to. So it’s easy money, good fun, and generally pretty light-hearted fun. Splashing around in urine isn’t what I planned for a career but it sure as fuck beats working shit-kicker jobs in retail.
And besides, being able to be catheterised (it actually isn’t really very uncomfortable for me, which is handy) and have the tubing fed through a huge 12inch black dildo so you can piss up some guys ass while he’s tied to a bench with your pee-soaked underwear in his mouth- it’s a nice way to feel like queen of the entire universe for an hour or so.
Granted, when I get home that night I still have to clean the kitchen sink of dried spaghetti, and sift cat shit out of the kitty litter, and I slump on the couch wearing track-pants and my hair in a topknot. But that’s just an illusion. I’m really at my finest when I’m at work doing perverted things.
PS. If your boyfriend tells you he doesn’t pee in the shower, he is absolutely lying. Just be grateful yours doesn’t pee on your leg in the shower- mine does.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
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.
…
…
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.
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.
…
…
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.
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