The weirdest injuries an ex sex worker has sustained during sex
As a former sex-worker, I’m often asked ‘what were the most dangerous aspects of your job?’
It will often come from skeptical interrogators who are just desperate for me to spill all about perverts and pimps, street hustles and unsafe sex.
In fact, the most dangerous aspects of sex work come from the difficult laws surrounding it (where women are not allowed to work together, and are often targeted by police instead of their abusers.)
Oh, and the injuries.
Sex work doesn’t come with a health and safety course. We have no friendly advisor in a high-vis jacket or instruction manual to turn to.
Instead, when it comes to the more weird and wonderful fetishes of this world, we have to use our initiative, and make it up as we go along.
So invest in some arnica cream, and stock up on heat pads because your joints may never be the same again.
After seven years of being a sex worker and several more of talking about it, I’m so far down the rabbit-hole now that I’m not sure if you’ll be surprised to know there’s such a thing as Erotic Wrestling or not.
Well, there is. And it’s glorious, and you too could spend several hours watching it online.
Being a bit of a fan and right up for re-enacting some of my favourite moves, I thought I could re-create holds a client had suggested. Also, it was very clear that I was to be the aggressor.
He was lying on the bed, face down and flailing, and I climbed on top to attempt our first position.
I have to stress that he wasn’t trying to hit me in any way – it was more squirming.
However, he appeared to have gotten a tiny bit confused and thought we were in some kind of Thunderdome situation where two step into the bedroom, and only one steps out.
At one point, I had his feet under my armpits (don’t ask) and he was trying to shake them loose.
I had to gently remind him that he was paying for me to do this, and would he please allow me to do my job. The squirming lessened but I spent the next week unable to lift my arms further than my chest.
The lesson? Spending my formidable years watching Saturday morning wrestling does not make me a professional.
Awww, but how can such a sweet, innocent past time such as tickling be considered erotic or injury inducing in any way?
Rule 36 of the internet states that: ‘No matter what it is, it is somebody’s fetish. No exceptions’.
My advice for anyone into this – especially if you’re hiring someone who has no idea that you have this particular fetish – is to tell them about it. Maybe drop the hint that the whole reason you have paid them is so they can tickle you.
Then, perhaps, you won’t get so over excited that when it finally happens, you knee your friendly local neighbour sex worker right in the lady garden.
Yes, after 50 minutes of being tied up and expecting me to read his mind, one client kneed me as I kneeled over him and gently dragged my nails down his naked sides.
I don’t blame him, we all have various reactions to people finding our sweet spots. But a kick to the clunge really can take your breath away.
This was literally a daily bugbear.
When I first started, I thought stilettos with an 8-inch stripper heel would be the norm. I’d go from a comfortable 5’7 to a giant 6’2 in an instant.
At 23 stone, that really upsets your centre of gravity.
It’s safe to say that when I answered the door to a client, tottering like a rhino on a unicycle, neither of us were impressed.
I tamed it for out-calls a little, and went for a smaller heeled knee-high boot.
This, I thought, would be a little more covert. But when you’re flying through the air in a hotel lobby, well aware of the contents of your handbag spilling out before you, it’s not the sexiest sight in the world.
Soon enough, high heels were left to gather dust, coming out only for photos and clients who specifically asked for them.
I know I wasn’t the only one disappointed to see the 2014 change in porn laws ban depictions of facesitting from being made in the UK.
Their reason is because they think it could be potentially life threatening.
I would contest this, and say they’re thinking of the wrong person in the whole scenario.
Instead, spare a thought for your average professional facesitter.
Anyone who has spent anytime in a squatting position will know it’s murder on your thighs. Your knees are not going to escape any kind of strain when you’re trying to hover over someone’s face for a prolonged period of time.
The stress and strain on the thigh and knee muscles is one thing, but let’s discuss the real danger: Movember.
Opening the door to well-meaning, stubble-faced chaps in November always made my heart sink.
All too many times did I watch a client run his hands over brillo-pad bristles as they made the sound of iron filings on sandpaper, and say, ‘Oh yeah, I didn’t think about that.’
Let me tell y’all – there is not enough money for that amount of chaffing. It’s like sitting on a hedgehog that’s swallowed a football.
Another thing that civilians don’t seem to realise is that, fortunately, independent sex workers can turn down anything (and anyone) we don’t want to do. We have full consensual control over any and all activities.
Most people expect me to tell them about violent pimps, aggressive clients, or maybe turf wars over the mean streets of Finchley, but it’s more controlling our clients as they squirm beneath us.
The solution? Remind them they’re the ones paying to get a short, sharp visit from the slap fairy.
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