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22-Jun-2016 08:10

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I made the arrangements days ahead of time, emailing back and forth multiple times before we’d actually meet. I became less interested in getting to know them ahead of time and more interested in making it happen, as quickly as possible, so I could get on to the next. Night after night in the same dress, the same ad, the same scenario — two and a half months into it, it was becoming harder and harder to bill myself as “non-pro.” I was crossing boundaries I hadn’t even known existed.

At the time, I might have told you I was screening my clients. I once met a guy who said you can buy anything on Craigslist.

James was in his mid-30s, a little too old and far too normal. In the weeks and months after our breakup, I slept with anyone who’d have me — most of my male classmates and some of the women — until I’d alienated many of the people who had once been my friends. It was one of those nights where no matter how much I drank, I couldn’t get drunk. This was so surreal.“She’ll feel it,” one paramedic said to the other, “when the vodka wears off.”Back at James’ place, I made myself comfortable. GFE meant the encounter would feel like a “real” date. Becoming someone else’s fantasy really turned me on. We can’t do this again, he’d say every time just as soon as we’d finished. He’d make me promise I wasn’t doing it with anybody else and so I would, even though we both knew it was a lie.

He was not the kind of guy who’d approach me in another situation, at least that’s what I thought when I saw him. A lady that speaks GREEK, possibly, a road of possibilities, a chance encounter, no strings attached. No one would talk to me either; I went home alone, pitiful and unsafe in my own skin. The driver lay slumped over the steering wheel.“Do you have anyone to call? His home was nice in a Crate and Barrel sort of way. I drained the glass and returned it to its coaster. I’d show affection for the guy and act as if I were attracted to him. In my eyes, I was a non-pro — not a professional, not a prostitute. The fact that there was a “good” part of me — a part of myself that I was proud of, a self-esteem still salvageable — just as there was still a good part in him is what made me appealing to James, which made it all the worse.

I remember the cab stopping at an intersection, our green light, and two bright white lights — headlights — coming straight at me. The taxi was facing the opposite direction when it finally stopped. Normal being what I wanted, normal was what I sold. The picture was taken by my mother a few Christmases back. After just one month of selling sex online, I had already accumulated a literal pile of money — tax free, in cash — that I kept it in a desk drawer at home. If the offer was sweet enough, I’d skip class altogether.

I’m sitting at my computer, wearing a sweater, a knitted scarf wrapped around my neck. In the beginning, I scheduled dates for evenings when I didn’t have class. I’d take it out some nights and I’d count it just for fun. I spent all my free time sitting at my computer, posting ads, responding to ads, emailing back and forth.

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It was just as she’d described: SWM seeks non pro, GFE, a little fun. I had his phone number and address written on a scrap of paper I held in my hand. ” I asked, as he reappeared with one glass.“I don’t drink.”“You own a bar and you don’t drink? There’d be kissing, petting, cuddling, oral sex, sex. The hospital where I worked had spyware; I didn’t care.

The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous describes the fellowship as “people who normally would not mix.” That’s a good way of describing James and me. ”I looked down at the scrap of paper still in my hand. When James arrived, I saw that he was not bad-looking. He was not my type, exactly — he had a beer gut and was wearing a Red Sox sweat shirt and a matching baseball hat — but he was a normal guy. When you’re getting paid by someone, you become his employee. I set up two dates with another man and met James later that week. The part that had hung the plaque in the hall decorated with geese that read, “Bless this house.” Part of him felt guilty, ashamed: the part of him that would always offer me the ride home that I’d always refuse.

I was 27 years old, a grad student, bored and curious — just like my ad said. It was a Tuesday night after class, and I’d had three or four drinks at the bar. As James helped me fill out the police report, I couldn’t stop laughing. I had just survived a near fatal accident without so much as a scratch. I sold the Girlfriend Experience, or GFE for short. I was aroused by the fantasy of getting paid to do all this. Then there was the other part of James, the part that contacted me like clockwork nearly every night an hour before he got off work, cryptic texts that would inevitably lead to my coming over, if I didn’t already have “plans.” This part of him was excited by the very things that brought him shame. It was the part of James I knew best, maybe the only part of him I ever really met.

I could tell you the good parts: the nice guys I met, like James, and the fancy restaurants. No one forced me to have sex for money, and no one could have compelled me to stop. I haven’t seen James since I stopped selling sex, months before I stopped drinking and long before I became a teacher.

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This wasn’t my “You know,” James said one night when we were done, “you don’t have to do all that you do.” He meant, I understood, my giving a blow job without a condom. “Or they’ll charge more.”I’d never given a blow job with a condom but, having been to the dentist, I knew that latex tasted gross. He’d say, part of him meant it: the part of him that put potpourri in a little jar next to the sink in the bathroom.

I didn’t know what I was doing, and I didn’t want to know. I don’t let you come in my mouth and if you did, I’d just spit it out.”James looked at me like I was nuts, like he felt sorry for me or like maybe he wanted to help. James told me all the time that what I was doing was wrong.