The Story of a Sex Worker

June 09, 2004

A Beginning

Call me asshole. Two years ago today I answered an ad in the Hollywood Press for, "Models wanted. No experience necessary. Call Monday thru Friday 12-7." Next to the ad was a woman in lingerie with a finger to her lips as if keeping a secret. I was very low on money at time. When I say low I mean I had none, my last dollar from a string of mind-numbing and, in some cases, hurtful waitressing jobs had gone to rent. I didn't even have enough money left for one meal. Rent always came first. I could live hungry but I never wanted to live on the streets in the rain.

I was at a particularly low point in my life. Straight moms and dads and politicians and even rednecks might say that I was even lower now. Low, I mean so low that your feet burned because your were so close to hell, was being raped by your boss during a stint waiting tables at the Sizzler while out front families ate their ten-dollar all-you-can-eat shrimp. My boss raped me and then denied me a raise. In my best day I never took in more than thirty-five dollars. Everybody had to work and most jobs were dull and insulting to the mind and didn't pay any money. I was an educated person and that didn't seem to get me anywhere. So I swallowed the butterflies in my stomach and dialed the number in the ad and found new and better work.

A man named Bernard answered the phone and conducted the interview on a Tuesday morning in his small office, the walls a shiny yellow. He was a large, muscled man with a thin beard. He had kind blue eyes, but a voice that bellowed even when whispering.

"You know, this may be for X-rated pictures," he said.

"Bernard," I replied. "There are posters behind you." I pointed above his partially balding head to two posters. One was of him, much younger, naked from the waist up, and standing with a beautiful redhead wearing jean short-shorts and a halter top. The second was of a blonde wearing a hard-hat and a blue-checkered shirt, holding a jackhammer into another girl's lower parts.

Bernard laughed and said, without looking at the posters, "I know. I just wanted to make that clear. This isn't only for modeling but for videos. Whatever you feel comfortable doing."

He smiled soothingly. He wasn't the sweating pervert I'd expected. Not at all like the men who came to me when I whored briefly in New York.

"Have you done any modeling before?" he asked.

"No. I thought you didn't need experience."

He held up his hand in defense. "You don't. I was just asking. You're pretty enough to have been a model."

I thanked him.

"Let's go into the other room," he said.

We walked down a short hallway covered in the same yellow paint which shined like light. He brought me into another room. This room was light-blue. An off-white sheet hung over the back wall. The room was bare except for a brown leather arm chair and two umbrella lights standing next to a camera on a tripod- just as I had imagined it, just like when you saw a TV movie about a fashion model. Bernard flicked a switch and the umbrellas sprang to life, giving off a fiery heat and a white light as bright as two stars.

Bernard seemed pleased that I was struck by the lights. He shook his head and looked at them as well.

"Let me take your measurements," he said. He went to a red toolbox sitting in the corner of the room and searched through it. "Shit. I don't know where the soft tape went. Damnit. We'll have to use this." He held up a metal tape-measure. "It'll have to do."

He stared at me for a second, up and down, and I wondered if I should have been posing. "You're very pretty," he said absently. "Take off your clothes."

My body tensed up. It's not like I was opposed to stripping in front of him. I knew when I answered the ad that I was going to be asked to take off my clothes or something more. It's just that when you heard those words, "Take off your clothes," part of you wanted to resist no matter who you were.

Bernard saw that I was uncomfortable. "I've seen four thousand naked women in my time," he said. "I'm like a doctor. Don't worry about it. I'm here to help you."

I took off my T-shirt with an advertisement for Frank and Tommy's Pizza and my short blue skirt- I wasn't wearing too much anyway.

"Can you take your bra off?" he said.

"Sure," I said and unstrapped it with one hand revealing the perfect body I'd had since I was twelve. My breasts were perfect, not too small, a bit more than a handful but not too big either, not swollen like two huge bee-stings like I'd seen on other women. My skin tone was even, white like milk. I didn't have any tan lines. I was a rare combination of blonde hair and white skin. I had inherited my mom's skin: she was allergic to the sun. I wasn't proud of many things but I was proud of my body. Not many women could boast a body like mine. It had got me into a fuck of trouble but it also had people looking at me like Bernard was looking at me now.

"You're beautiful," he said.

He took my measurements with the tape measure. The metal tape bent awkwardly as he tried to round the curves. But he got the job done and measured me 35-24-35.

"I need to take some pictures of you for the files," he said.

I walked to the white sheet and umbrellas.

Bernard struggled with the tripod, trying to separate the legs and make it level. And then he began taking pictures. I stood in front of the camera for a moment, frozen. I felt awkward, more naked than I already was. Then I relaxed and slowly started moving. I used the body I had been given and I posed. I imagined an audience, silently awed.

The sight of a healthy woman's body could bring joy to people. People liked to surround themselves with beauty in the same way they surrounded the warmth of a campfire. Sex was as important as shelter. Some people were afraid of sex because it could be overwhelming if used wrong. Like the sky could be beautiful and blue one day, make tornadoes another. I myself never forgot the blue. This didn't mean that sex never did me wrong. I had been abused and misused throughout my life. But even the sun caused cancer to some, made other things grow. I never forgot that sex was a beautiful thing, a serene kind of beauty like a painting or the ocean. So I was happy to be a part of it by posing for the camera. Like a perfect glove made from lights and lenses. I didn't feel guilty or immoral posing for Bernard. I was a sexual creature as much as I was human. I had been my entire life. Plain and simple, I liked fucking. And I was taken in by the camera eye. Each picture was framing my young body forever. I was happy to be part of some long-standing dirty tradition, a world that I had always heard about and was curious, but now was seeing first hand. So many other girls had come into Bernard's office to do the very same thing, smiling and eager and proud and doing something daddy would frown on but every other man would lust after. It wasn't any cold, callous waitressing job. Small beads of sweat were beginning to form on my body, a hot, arousing, sexual sweat. This felt like a beginning.

Bernard took pictures of my tits and my face where I gave my best pouting looks. And when he thought I was comfortable enough he told me to sit on the armchair and spread my legs. I opened my legs and smiled. Bernard mumbled, "Good. Real good. You're a natural." He looked up from the camera. "Jesus, that line must sound stupid and standard but, by God, I really do think you're a natural." He took a few more pictures of me spreading my clit with my fingers and said, "That will be enough."

He thanked me and I thanked him. My heart pounded. I was feeling more than a little high from all the heat and activity. We left the room, went back down the yellow hallway, and sat back down at his wide, wooden desk.

"I want you to know what you're getting into," he said, picking at a pencil with his fingernails. "I don't want to ruin people. This business is very hard and if you're not prepared for it, it can fuck you. I don't want my girls to get fucked, as it were. That's why I never hire junkies. If they become junkies after I hire them, there's nothing I can do about it, but I don't look for girls who are easy to control. I like a girl who seems to know what she's doing. I'm in the business of beauty. I sell health products. Only healthy girls can sell health products. There are other people in the business who will hire anybody and don't give a shit if they lose their mind or drown. Now, I'm not telling you this to get anyone in trouble. I just want you to know that you're in good hands with me. I've been around. I know the scene. I've been in two-thousand fuck films myself. I'm one of the smart people in this business which, to be honest, can sometimes think at a third grade level. I will be good to you. You're probably lucky that you called me instead of someone else. No, I'd say you are definitely lucky."


"But I don't think you're going to have much of a problem. You seem like a strong girl."

He finally paused and took a breath. Bernard was a talker. He took a drink from a mug that read, "If fucking's a sin, I'm going to hell."

"I'm strong because my life hasn't been the smoothest of roads," I said.

"You want to tell me about it."

"Not really."

"I'd like to know something about you." That was less a request than a command.

"Shit, you know, I've been abused."



"By your father?"

I looked at him crookedly. Some things needed to be covered slowly. "It's not something I necessarily want to talk about," I said.

"Look," he said. "As I was telling you, I'm like a doctor. I've seen five-thousand women naked. I've also heard their stories. Many, many of them overlap. The girls that I hire are like my daughters. I want to take care of them. I want to know what they've been through so I can help with what they're going to go through. So you won't ever find me asking you to give me a little blow-job on the side. Other guys will do that as part of the audition. I don't fuck my daughters."

I was silent.

"All right. You don't have to tell me."

"No, no. I will. I was thinking about what to tell you." I closed my eyes. "I wasn't sexually abused by my father. He tried a couple of times but only when he was drunk and then he was so wasted that he couldn't do anything without falling all over himself. Once he said, 'Suck my cock,' and pulled it out and then passed out in one movement."

"I see," Bernard said.

I went on to tell him that a friend of my father's named Peter, of all fucking things, screwed with me a few times from age eight. That, and the fact that I had a woman's body at twelve, caused me to start fucking the boys of the 7th, 8th, and 9th grade. When I was fourteen, Peter came at me again. He was actually a pretty good-looking guy, the best looking of my parents' homely friends. He had kept all his hair and it had turned a dignified gray. And he wasn't round in the middle like my father. By the time I was fourteen I was already world-weary and ready to deal with him. He came into my bedroom when my dad was in the bathroom taking one of his long shits. My mom was off somewhere else. Peter sat on the bed and pulled me onto his lap. He pulled out his little Peter and was about to shove my head down when I poked him in the eye with a finger, hard enough so I stuck my finger halfway inside his head. He let out a scream, so loud and so genuinely fearful that my dad screamed from the bathroom, "What the fuck?" and ran out half-shit with his fly open. Peter, my father and I stood in the hallway. "What the hell happened, Peter?" my father asked. Black blood was trickling down Peter's face like a thick tear. He looked at me with his good eye and said, "I fell on a candlestick," and walked calmly into the living room. He couldn't tell the truth. He had a wife and kids. His daughter, a pretty girl named Rhonda who was almost a rival of mine for taking boys, was in my class. My father took Peter to the emergency room and never seemed to wonder that there wasn't a candlestick in our house. I learned later that I had blinded Peter completely in his right eye.

That was all I told Bernard. That was about all I could handle in one sitting. It was difficult to go over these things, especially out loud. And I didn't want to dwell in the past. There were too many dark closets there. I was happy to think about the future which seemed as bright as those umbrella lights.

"We're outlaws," Bernard said. "From a brutal, brutal society." He looked somberly at his desk. "I think I have a job for you now."


"Yeah. Is that all right? Can you start today?"

"Sure, I just didn't think I would be starting today."

"Well, this isn't a normal job."


"There's a movie being filmed at Dick's house in San Fernando that needs another girl. Are you ready for it?"


"Five-hundred dollars."


"Five-hundred dollars. That's what it pays."

"Sure as hell, I'm ready for it."


  • At 4:38 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    nice work of fiction, hats off to whatever 30 something screenplay writer came up with this idea.

  • At 7:24 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    This girl can really write well, I love these stories!!

  • At 10:12 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    First he said he'd seen four thousand and then later on he said five thousand? ;o)


  • At 3:48 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    good story so far , i wonder how she is going to turn out , m .

  • At 12:12 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    i thought it was real until I cam to the part where she said something about "My perfect breasts" and that was it. I know its either someone writing this, making it up for:

    (a) school creative writing - i.e. post a ficticious blog and try to make it realistic
    (b) a tired screenwriting guy in his late 30s, trying to see if people will like his writing if they dont think its him
    (c) some bored housewife....No, it wouldnt even be that.. A HOUSEWIFE even knows that women dont think abuot their bodies in that way.

    I feel disillusioned now.


  • At 10:04 AM, Blogger Elisha said…

    i wouldnt say it was fiction just cuz the girl thinks her breasts are perfect. not every woman hates her body, i love mine, imperfections and all and most of the time i think my breasts are perfect. i will admit it's rare but not impossible.

  • At 10:04 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    your blog is great. you are an excellent writer. Tell me about what made the transition from private sex to commercial sex for you. How did that happen?


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