Thursday, November 09, 2006
Sex Workers Are Really Virtual Boyfriends
About a week ago I underwent a fairly serious eye operation correcting a botched surgery that had taken place some fifteen years ago. To pick me up from the hospital and stay the night with me, I chose one of my emeritus sex worker, that is, one who had retired from active service but stayed a close friend. While I was resting at home, the first phone call he answered, came from one of my present workers who wanted to know how the surgery went. The next day, another of my emeritus workers took me out for lunch.
I have discussed in my books the advantages of not hiring professional workers, or as they style themselves these days, "Elite Escorts." The latter charge a lot more, watch the clock with great exactitude, and practice detachment from their clients. My workers are just guys who need some financial help and with whom I am happy to exchange favors, like writing their resumes. Of course, these arrangements don't always work. But the ones who stay with me, sometimes for a whole decade, become real friends.
A lot of clients want to know as little as possible about their workers (and vice versa) in order to avoid getting involved in their mercurial lives. It may make for good sex but, in my opinion, lacks a human dimension. I have been accused, probably justifiably, that I am confusing sex workers with lovers. What I have noticed is that with lovers one tends to bicker about trivial matters, whereas with sex workers, where the encounter has a beginning and an end, both parties try to be pleasant to each other.
In the numerous questionnaires about the performance of a specific sex worker, clients are asked, "How long did the session last?" As soon as I recovered enough from my surgery, one of my regulars came by. First he prepared a melted cheese sandwich for himself; then he checked his e-mail on my computer; then he told me in great detail the sad news about having lost his job. Finally, when the time came to do what he had been hired to do, we spent a lot of time in bed. (Since neither of us watched the clock, I have no idea how long it lasted.) We genuinely like each other and are there to pleasure ourselves, not just get the sex thing over with. The time spent in bed is not relevant to our encounter. In this case it was I who told my sex worker that we had to end the our session because it was getting late, and before going to sleep I still had to apply an ice pack to my eye.
About a week ago I underwent a fairly serious eye operation correcting a botched surgery that had taken place some fifteen years ago. To pick me up from the hospital and stay the night with me, I chose one of my emeritus sex worker, that is, one who had retired from active service but stayed a close friend. While I was resting at home, the first phone call he answered, came from one of my present workers who wanted to know how the surgery went. The next day, another of my emeritus workers took me out for lunch.
I have discussed in my books the advantages of not hiring professional workers, or as they style themselves these days, "Elite Escorts." The latter charge a lot more, watch the clock with great exactitude, and practice detachment from their clients. My workers are just guys who need some financial help and with whom I am happy to exchange favors, like writing their resumes. Of course, these arrangements don't always work. But the ones who stay with me, sometimes for a whole decade, become real friends.
A lot of clients want to know as little as possible about their workers (and vice versa) in order to avoid getting involved in their mercurial lives. It may make for good sex but, in my opinion, lacks a human dimension. I have been accused, probably justifiably, that I am confusing sex workers with lovers. What I have noticed is that with lovers one tends to bicker about trivial matters, whereas with sex workers, where the encounter has a beginning and an end, both parties try to be pleasant to each other.
In the numerous questionnaires about the performance of a specific sex worker, clients are asked, "How long did the session last?" As soon as I recovered enough from my surgery, one of my regulars came by. First he prepared a melted cheese sandwich for himself; then he checked his e-mail on my computer; then he told me in great detail the sad news about having lost his job. Finally, when the time came to do what he had been hired to do, we spent a lot of time in bed. (Since neither of us watched the clock, I have no idea how long it lasted.) We genuinely like each other and are there to pleasure ourselves, not just get the sex thing over with. The time spent in bed is not relevant to our encounter. In this case it was I who told my sex worker that we had to end the our session because it was getting late, and before going to sleep I still had to apply an ice pack to my eye.
Labels: Real Virtual Friends
