Prostitution Part One: Getting into the Life
by Beverly Fisher, Slut at Large and Woman of Easy Virtue

Note: the following is a work of fiction. Any similarities between the story and real life are coincidental. Beverly Fisher is a companion paid for her time only.

Prostitutes refer to their chosen profession in a variety of ways, from “hooking” to being in “the Business.” Many of us call it “the Life.” And when you’re in the Life, you know just what that means. It is a life. Prostitution affects every aspect of your existence, changing it forever. Even if you leave the Life, you can never get all the way away. It becomes a permanent part of your history, and that history has to be confronted.

Most of us don’t realize the profound impact of this choice, until it’s already been made. We “fall into” the Life, and only later deal with the consequences of the decision.*

A Lousy Groupie

People have asked me how I became a prostitute. I tell them that prostitution is a lot like drug use – you start with the lightweight and move on to the heavier, more dangerous stuff.

The first time I ever exchanged sex for something of value, I was 16 years old. I got backstage to a rock concert by sleeping with a member of the band’s entourage. It was horrible. I would have made a lousy groupie. I was frozen with fear and guilt the whole time, literally the proverbial “dead lay.” The poor guy was actually trying to make sure that I was enjoying myself, and I was just lying there, miserable and terrified. I didn’t even enjoy being backstage afterward; I left the area and melted into the crowd, filled with guilt, shame, and horror at what I had done.

I knew what prostitution was. I knew that’s what I had done. And, like all good little girls, I had absorbed society’s judgments and shame about the act I had committed. Why did I do it? I suppose it had to do with a lot of things. I was living in a world where date rape hadn’t been invented yet – sure, it happened, but it didn’t have a name. It was just something that happened to girls sometimes. It was a bad date. Nothing more. Certainly, we felt violated and shocked and had nightmares about it, but you didn’t talk about it. You just warned your friends that so-and-so was a real asshole.

Then there was the whole sex-for-pleasure versus sex-because thing. By the time I was sixteen, I’d had sex for pleasure and enjoyed it immensely. But I’d also had sex for other reasons – and every woman I’ve ever met can relate to this. Sex because. Sex because he wants to... you don’t really want to, but you get it over with to make him happy. Sex because he took you to a nice dinner and a movie... you don’t really want to, but you do it anyhow. Sex because he’s angry, and it’ll calm him down. Sex because... well, just because. At sixteen, I had experienced this kind of sex too.

So when that leering member of the Grateful Dead’s entourage suggested he pick me up and take me back to his hotel, I thought, why not? I’d only had “sex because” with teenage boys, not with 50-year old men... but I figured it was all the same. It wasn’t. Not because of his age (though I think that made it harder), but because I wasn’t really having “just because” sex anymore. This was an exchange, a trade, something that bad, bad women did. There’s a difference with having sex with Bill, who you know, because he bought you dinner and it’ll make him happy, to having sex with a total stranger you’ll never see again, in exchange for something of value – in this case free admission and a backstage pass to the Grateful Dead.

What can I say. It was the Grateful Dead. Hell, I don’t even own one of their albums now. (Oops, CD... I’m showing my age.)

A Lousy Waitress

It wasn’t until I was 18 that I began officially working in the “sex industry.” I had only worked two other jobs in my life up until that point; I had been a maid in a motel, and the world’s worst waitress at a 24-hour Perkins restaurant. At 18, I had moved out of my parents’ house, and needed money right away. That meant three jobs were open to me: delivering pizza (I didn’t drive); waiting tables (A dismal failure at 16); and stripping. I had a friend who had worked as a stripper and that gave me courage.

I started working in a peep show. I danced nude on a circular stage surrounded with little windows. Men would enter a booth through a private door, and drop quarters in the slot to make the windows go up. Tips could be pushed through a slot to reach me on the stage. The windows were all one-way mirrors – they could see me, but I couldn’t see them. This worked great for me, and helped me overcome my shyness. All I saw were 10 reflections of myself, gyrating naked to the music.

Even then, there were rumors that some girls would meet the men outside of the peep show, for something more. The management was very stern when they explained that this sort of behavior wouldn’t be tolerated. At the time, I swore that I couldn’t imagine why any girl would let one of the clients touch her, anyhow. My experience at the Dead show weighed heavily on me, and I couldn’t bear the thought of selling myself.

And yet I was. The peep show also had three separate booths for “private shows.” For $20, plus quarters, the gentleman could go into a different kind of booth. This one had clear glass. The girl would enter the booth on one side, the gentleman on the other. His quarters made the lights go on. His $20 tip went through the slot. And the girl would gyrate, naked, miming masturbation without ever touching between the folds of her vagina, while the client watched and stroked himself.

This was the beginning of prostitution for me, really. While without touching, it was in every way an exchange of sex for money. I would pretend to masturbate, and pretend to enjoy it. But more importantly, I was becoming enculturated to a new way of thinking about men, and about myself. I was not doing private shows “just because,” I was not doing private shows with men I knew. I was coming face to face with a stranger, and watching him pleasure himself. At first it bothered me, but gradually I came to like it, even to find it arousing. And it was somehow easier to do, knowing that I likely wouldn’t see the man again. I was learning something most men already know and few women understand: the toleration, and even stimulation, of anonymous sex.

All of this was going on a subconscious level. I was not self aware enough, not old enough, at the time to truly understand the psychological repercussions of my behavior, or to understand that I was entering a whole new world. A world that can hurt people, if they aren’t careful. If they don’t know to be careful. I still held myself above the lowly prostitute, believing that there was a big difference between what I was doing and what they did. I thought as long as I wasn’t having sex with them, letting them touch me, I was still pure, still innocent, and certainly not a prostitute.

A Lousy Hustler

Emboldened by my experiences with the private shows, I took another stripping job, this time at a club. Now I would be dancing not for mirrors and myself, but for the watching eyes of hundreds of men. Touching was still not allowed, other than to slip a tip into my g-string. I could see them watching me now, and I liked it. Teased throughout elementary and junior high, the “ugly girl” was suddenly beautiful. People were paying to look at me. There was power in that, and I liked it very much.

The next stage in my development as a prostitute came at this club. The girls were required to “hustle” the clients, to get them to buy us drinks. There were regular drinks, and there were “girl drinks.” A “girl drink” cost twice as much as a regular drink, and usually consisted of watered down Coke. After our turn on stage, we were supposed to dress and get back out into the bar area, make friends with the patrons, and get them to buy us “girl drinks.”

Now, I was not necessarily allowing a man to touch me – at least, not my genitalia, for they would rub a hand intimately on my thigh – but I was talking to these strangers, getting to know them, learning how to keep them talking and keep the “girl drinks” flowing. I hated it. I hated it because I felt like it was dishonest, like I was tricking these men into something, men who were lonely and simply wanted a pretty girl to talk to.

One night, a big guy with a soft face came in. It was a slow night, and I had him all to myself. He spent hundreds on me, buying me girl drinks all night long. We talked for hours. I got to know him. I really, really liked him. He was sweet and funny and treated me like a nice girl, instead of the bad girl I now believed myself to be. At 30 minutes to closing time, his money ran out. And the manager ordered me – ordered me – to walk away from him and go try to hustle somebody else in the remaining 30 minutes of business. I was outraged. I had come to know this man. I liked him. It felt to me like if I got up and walked away, it would be the equivalent of telling him that the past few hours had meant nothing to me, that all I cared about was his wallet. And that was my view of prostitution at the time. Taking while faking caring and pleasure. I quit the job that night.

It would be some years before I learned that one could be a prostitute and also care, feel pleasure, give back as much or more than you’re taking.

My parents had offered to pay for college if I quit stripping. So I tried a few straight jobs, while I started school. But I was a minimum wage employee, working for overworked, underpaid bosses with solid gold chips on their shoulders, and I found myself doing menial work that I hated, for little money and no respect. I truly felt like I was whoring myself. I was selling my brain and my physical labor to someone who didn’t give a damn about me, and who treated me badly. And I missed that power that I had while working in the sex industry.

My prostitution prep school was only beginning. So far I had learned how to deal with strangers sexually, and how to talk to them as well. Next I had to learn about male sexuality, the fantasies and hopes and dreams of men. I had to learn to understand the male psyche.

Clueless Phone Slut

I ended up doing phone sex and working as a tele-psychic. I loved that job. Best boss I have ever had, a woman named Sandy. She was truly an incredible manager and had a way with the girls. We had so much fun at that job, the hours were good, in between calls I could do homework, and the pay was superior to a straight job. And, of course, I comforted myself that the men weren’t “touching me.” I was still not a prostitute. Really.

Doing phone sex was like this whirlwind education into the deepest fantasies of men. The anonymity of phone sex brings men to discuss things they’ve only dreamed about when alone, things they’ve always wanted but could never ask for for fear of rejection or worse. I learned about BDSM. And foot fetishes. Greek. Feminine ideals. The need to orgasm. The desire to be loved. The vast importance of blow jobs. Cunnilingus. The way they like to look at a woman; the way they want a woman to look. Garters and stockings. Latex and leather. Crossdressers. Every sexual fantasy that could be explored, was explored. And all I had to do was listen, and talk. And pretend to masturbate into the phone. I began to ingest some of these fantasies, take them into myself, until they became a part of me, a part of my personal sexual landscape.

It was a funny job, though. Picture five fat girls sitting around the phones, smoking cigarettes and flipping through back issues of Cosmopolitan magazine, moaning into the phone for all they were worth.

I took a job on the side with a company called “Wives For Hire.” I was told that I would be giving topless massages. And that of course, I wasn’t supposed to be doing anything else. Wink, wink. I was too young and naive to catch the wink. I honestly thought that all I was supposed to do was give topless massages. I reasoned it out. I’ve stripped before, right? So I don’t mind showing them my breasts. And I’ve talked to them, at the club and on the phone, so I can make conversation and understand them, right? So what’s wrong with going one step further, and giving them a massage, too? I couldn’t understand why they kept trying to tip me, to get me to do things that were against the rules. Looking back, I have to laugh at myself, my naivete. Wives for Hire was an escort service, and I was supposed to be (behind the boss’ carefully turned back) taking those tips and giving those gentlemen a “happy ending.” A hand job at the very least, sex if I’d wanted to. I just didn’t know, didn’t understand. After a while, the lady who ran the business stopped sending me calls. I imagine that she had some complaints. Probably pretty vehement ones.

Doing the Deed

Then my life changed completely. I was accepted to college in Northern California. I moved out to California in January of 1989, with everything I owned crammed in the back of a bedraggled VW Bus. I didn’t cope with the move well at all. I was terribly lonely, being away from my friends and family. I’d never left Denver before. And I was broke, too. My father was sending me $300 a month to live on. Never mind that the cost to rent a room in someone else’s house was around $400 per month. Gone were the days of my lovely one-bedroom Victorian apartment in Capitol Hill. My father was of the opinion that I just wasn’t stretching my dollar far enough. My father also says the sky is orange, and you can show him the blue sky and he’ll tell you the sky is wrong.

So I was back in the same position as when I was 18: desperately needing a job that paid cash immediately. Only one problem: this small college town didn’t have a phone sex emporium. They also didn’t have a strip club. Carrying a full courseload in college, I wanted a sex industry job, not a straight job. I knew I’d need time to study, time that sex work jobs provide. Still, I scanned the want ads every day, hoping to find something that would get me out of my predicament.

Then one day, I saw that a massage parlor was hiring.

I thought about the topless massages I gave at Wives For Hire and thought about the phrase “massage parlor.” I was pretty sure I knew what that meant. And by this time, being so far away from home, I was pretty starved for sex. My boyfriend back in Denver was a long, long way away. And I thought: “what if it is, a place where there are hookers?” And I wondered if I could do that. All of the previous experiences in my life had brought me to this point, where I had begun to wonder if I could let them touch me after all, let them fuck me and lick me and all of the things I knew they wanted. Could I do it? Could I do something society despises, something that I was coming to believe might not be that bad?

I decided there was no harm in going down to the massage parlor for the interview. The massage parlor was in a dirty storefront, with an entrance in the alley. It had a small waiting room, two working rooms with massage tables, and then a smaller room for the ladies to watch television and hang out. It was a total dive. The woman managing the place took a liking to me, and started explaining to me exactly what was required of me, in every detail. Down to bringing the man a hot washcloth after he’s finished – the only piece of that early education I still use today.

I told her I’d think about it and come back the next day.

The next day, I was working in a massage parlor, and my first client was sitting on the massage table. He had to be at least 70 years old; he was small and wrinkled all over. And I looked at him and thought: if I can do this, this one client, I can make it. I can do this job. I made the choice. And I got through that first client. He left with a smile and my kiss on his cheek.

At the time, it was explained to me that we weren’t supposed to enjoy our work. These men were “tricks,” that was all. You got them into the room, you took their money, you stashed the money someplace else, and then you got it over with. As quickly as possible. You weren’t to care about these people as human beings, you were just there to take their money and get them off. Under no circumstances did you kiss them, that was something you saved for your lovers. Blow jobs were always with a condom. To have an orgasm was verboten. You were not to enjoy yourself, this was work. So I enjoyed myself in secret, cared about the clients in secret. I talked to them, cared whether they’d had a bad day or not, cared about them as a fellow human being. I was berated for taking too long while I was in with the clients. But I did it anyhow. I felt bad about myself on one level, because I knew I had actually become a prostitute – and the shame of that was still there – and yet I also felt that curious sense of power, stronger this time.

How many times had I had sex “just because,” to make a man happy? I was date-raped once when I was 17. As I said, back then, there wasn’t a name for it. But it made me angry, and scared me badly. These men had all the power, and I had none. All I could do was give them what they wanted, so they’d be happy. But what did I get?

Now, suddenly, I was choosing with whom I would have sex, and when. And he was paying me for the privilege. I was making him happy, but he was doing something to make me happy – giving me money. Money is the great equalizer in sex.

Contrast this with how I feel about myself, my work, and my clients today. Gradually, over a period of years, I came to naturally develop “the Girlfriend Experience” even though I had never heard the term. I spent time with these men, kissed them, cuddled them, talked to them, listened to their lives, stories, fears, dreams, and fantasies. I worked on my own, as an independent, and made my own choices and decisions about my business. Part of those decisions involved how I felt about the men I met, and how I chose to gain pleasure from the encounters.

Within the last five years, I’ve come to view my encounters with my clients as deeply personal experiences. This is certainly not true for all of them, as for some the anonymous sex is their primary purpose in visiting with me. But for many, if not most, connecting on a deeper level is a powerful and important part of the experience for them. And to the naysayers, I tell you that this is possible between two strangers. Have you ever sat at a bus stop and just talked to a stranger? Listened to their day, their thoughts, and then shared yours in return? Have you ever made a connection with someone you’ve never met? This is what I do.

Slut Survey

I talked with other ladies about how they got into the Business. One met an escort through an online dating service, who suggested that if she was having casual sex anyway, why not get paid for it? Another researched on the Internet, emailing independent escorts and asking for advice. Many, like me, had mentors in the Business, who taught them the basics of how to do the job, and how to protect yourself from the darker elements. One woman writes, “When I had my first it was amazing. It was exhilarating... what a rush. The money was great. It was fun to do. I was having a ball. Over time, my mentor helped me with website and advertising. I got better and better. It was almost like I was meant to do this.”

Others sort of “fall into” the business. Another woman writes that, after being nearly homeless and penniless, she saw “an ad in the paper for a ‘hostess’ job right down the street. I called set up the interview and freaked when I got there... it was an “amp” [Asian Massage Parlor], but their girl kept telling me just try it, see if you can do it. I just kept telling her I wasn’t raised that way. Well, she talked me into a nightgown... the first couple of hours later I had $300 in my pocket... Hell yeah I could do it. I figured I had always been a freak, now I could get paid for it... what the hell...”

Many ladies get involved in the Life through accidental discoveries on the Internet, finding escort websites and groups, that lead them to wonder... what if?

La Vida Loca

Yet there are those that would recruit women into the Life. All of the ladies I spoke with, and myself included, are horrified by the idea of recruiting. In a newspaper story interviewing the owner of an agency, she bragged about going to strip clubs, dance clubs, and anywhere, looking for girls that had the right “look,” that could be convinced that they could be making far better money by becoming an escort.

I found that utterly despicable, slimy beyond belief. I find the whole idea of turning girls out into this business simply hideous. Because they don’t call it the Life for no reason.

Once you’ve taken the step to escorting, there is no turning back. You’re taking on something huge, something very difficult, something that will, once done, become a part of your life forever. This can be a strong, proud, honest profession. But we are also taking risks, risks that may affect us far into the future in ways we can’t begin to imagine now. The Life is not for everyone. Not by a long shot.

I’m not talking about “slavery” here, which is beyond evil. I’m talking about convincing unsuspecting women that the choice to enter the Life is a good one... when, for that individual, it may be a very, very bad choice indeed. Or that individual may not know the ramifications of her choice, what will be expected of her, and how the choice will affect future decisions, future choices.

To do this job, and do it well, one has to be able to separate out their personal lives and sexuality from what they do every day. Women, in general, are raised with certain notions about sex and sexuality, about men and our relationship with them. Living the Life, in many ways, runs counter to this cultural upbringing. We are taught from when we are very small that we are supposed to be “in love” when we have sex. We are taught that women who do it too much, or with too many people, or outside of a love relationship, are “sluts,” “whores,” and many other exciting, culturally-charged, esteem-damaging words.

Once we are in the Life, it becomes a part of us, for the rest of our lives. Even if we retire, it is still there, part of the permanent fabric of our past. If affects everything we say and do, our whole lives. Dating becomes a problem. Do you tell your lover your profession, or keep it a secret? How do you keep a whole world secret? Further, when you quit the Life, the question remains. Do you tell your lover you used to be a prostitute? What if you don’t and he finds out later? What if your boss at your new job is a former client? How do you explain your income to your family, the IRS, your children? Who can you trust with your secret life? What happens if a client rapes you, or beats you up, or even murders you? What if someone blackmails you? Reports you? What happens if you go to jail? Worry about diseases, about getting pregnant accidentally through a broken condom, worry about the police, the neighbors finding out, the kid’s school finding out. Worry.

You don’t necessarily have to be ashamed of what you’ve done with your life, to still feel the pain of society’s judgments.

Some women don’t realize what they’re getting into. The difficulty in making a healthy separation between personal self and professional self may be too great. For a few, drugs or other self-destructive behaviors help dull the pain, when the personal self internalizes the shame society places on her.

Our reaction to our fears, the worry, the danger, the esteem issues can cause some women to become hard, to close ourselves off from what remains of our innocence, to age before our time. I’ve seen the 20 year old girls with 60 year old eyes. Or, like the woman who mentored me, taught me the business – “turned me out” to use the vernacular – who was an alcoholic, a pothead, and had a face and attitude that were hard as nails (but I thank her, for the gifts she gave me – thank you Kira, wherever you are).

I’m not saying these things are true or typical for all of us, or even most of us. But I am saying that they are possibilities that cannot be ignored.

My lady friend writes: “I would not necessarily recruit girls into this business unless I was sure of their frame of mind. It has to be strong. I personally believe you have to be able to function clearly without distraction, i.e. jealous boyfriend, drugs, alcohol. I still believe first and foremost your are still providing a service. So you are no different than any other service industry.”

Another says “too often young girls are led astray and into other things to deal with it mentally, physically, and emotionally. But I do feel if you meet someone that appears that they need this business, inform her honestly and let her make the decision without any pushes from elsewhere.”

All agree that mentoring is very important. Writes one woman, “If it’s just a person who eased into it the way I did, or something of that nature, I don’t mind helping them to get started.”

Choosing the Life

When a woman joins an agency, or in some other way becomes an escort, it is a choice. It is not like anyone is necessarily forcing her into anything. And I do believe that, once a woman makes that choice for herself, it is important for her to find a mentor in the Life, a woman who can truly “turn her out,” teach her how to do the job and do it well, how to enjoy what she does and make it the wonderful giving experience that it certainly can be – and how to mitigate the damage when something negative happens. The woman who mentored me taught me many, many things. She had nothing to gain from teaching me. She never made a penny from my work.

So I made my choice with my eyes open. Many of us do. I, in turn, have mentored other ladies myself, ladies who have chosen honestly to be part of this honorable, and oldest profession.

I still have some internalized shame. I wish I could shed it completely. Mostly the shame I feel comes when I have to tell others what I do for a living, or more to the point, don’t tell them. I feel proud of what I do, knowing that it is a good thing. Men have no where to turn to really explore their sexuality, their fears and desires. Prostitutes provide a place for them to do that, in a non-judgmental atmosphere.

And yes, I am a prostitute... but over the years, with many intervening straight jobs, I’ve come to re-look at my definition of prostitution. The Random House College Dictionary defines “prostitution” thus: n. 1. The act or practice of engaging in sexual intercourse for money; 2. Base or unworthy use, as of talent or ability. Now surely the first part of the definition cannot be misunderstood, and must be applied to what I do. But can that not also be applied to people who marry for money? The difference between myself and a trophy wife is simply that she only has one client, that she can’t say no to.

It is the second part of the definition which fascinates me. I’ve worked straight jobs where I’ve used my talents and abilities in an unworthy manner. Many, many people do. How many of us go to work every day for a boss we despise, a company we don’t respect, doing work we don’t enjoy? This is prostitution at it’s lowest level. For while I may fit the classic definition, I enjoy what I do. I feel good about what I do. I choose this Life. And my talents and abilities go towards making people feel good, making the world a little better place, one client at a time.

* footnote: I use the word “choice” and the word “decision” very deliberately. The vast majority of women involved in prostitution chose the Life. There is a very small minority of women that were tricked, bamboozled, threatened, and otherwise forced into prostitution. This minority is, for the most part, in third world countries. There are some Asian massage parlors operating in the United States that have forced labor, and the police are diligently rooting them out. People taking advantage of prostitutes, or forcing women into prostitution, is another Rant. Sleazy people are everywhere, but especially in illegal businesses. Were we to legalize prostitution, there might be some controls over this sort of thing... but legalization is yet another Rant.

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