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Sat here for a way too long saying master-worm. 

(Source: plannedparenthood)

Currently emailing some new possibilities while a river of snot drips out of my nose.

Seriously, the front of my shirt is wet from me rubbing my nose on it. I wish they could all see how fucking sexy I am right now. 

Please reblog this if you are a sex worker.

theprimlesslife:

secretlifeofjennifer:

xxlexaj:

I wanna follow you sexy peoples!

*raises hand*

oh heyyyy!

I swear this means I’m actually updating this thing again.

Jezebel Blogger Saves Unwitting Women from Accidentally Prostituting Themselves “in Fucking Thailand or Some Shit” →

con-dulce:

One more reason to love Tits and Sass. One more reason to hate Jezebel. 

Hahaha. I swear I don’t have sex for money. It’s an “allowance”. I have sex with them because I’m just so fucking attracted to balding, corporate lawyers in their sixties. 

Accidentally wrote “whoring” instead of “working” in a cover letter.

Freudian slip indeed.

Obama singing Sexy and I Know It. 

Before I got into this work, my then boyfriend would call me a “filthy little whore” during sex. I fucking loved it, along with any other derogatory, terrible name he could think of. 

After I started working he asked, “Do you still want me to call you a whore? I’m not sure how I feel about it.” 

I was fine with it and I guess he kept using it. I’d talk more about how great of a relationship it was and all that bullshit, but I very suddenly fell out of love with him and I’m a little drunk with 100 pages of reading and an episode of Mad Men to watch. Who gives a shit about old relationships anyway. 

sexworkerproblems:

DO. NOT. CALL. ME. A. FUCKING. WHORE. DURING. SEX.

UNLESS YOU’RE PAYING ME OR I’VE ASKED YOU TO, IT’S OFF LIMITS.

Walking around in my heels again.

Going to school in bumfuck nowhere makes me forget. 

I think I was first exposed to the idea of sex work at nine or ten.

I have no idea, but that sounds right. It was summertime and my mom was driving us to the pool. We stopped at a red light. The same tan brick building with faded teal awning stood on the corner, and for some reason I decide to ask my mom,

“What’s that building?”

I’m not looking at her when I ask the question, but at the blacked out windows and the worn sign advertising a happy hour. She’s silent for a moment.

“It’s a place where women dance and take off their clothes.”

I nod. I already knew what it was, my friends and I would share looks when we passed it, but I still wanted to ask.

“Do they want to?”

“Well,” she began, “some woman can make very good money doing it.” 

“That’s good.”

At this point my memory wanes into the normal blankness of the past. But I remember my mother in that moment, not telling me that these were bad, slutty women, but instead women who were making money. Everyone made money, everyone had to. That was just how they did it. 

Sure, I could be attaching meaning onto a brief conversation that might not have stuck with me at all. Maybe if I hadn’t chosen to do the kind of work I do that memory would have faded away with the rest. But it stuck for some reason.