Hello sexy people. Some, though not all of you know how this whole thing began. The TL:DR is did sex work, wrote a book about it. What you don't know is why. So, while I wait for this thunderstorm we have been promised and SH is snoozing on the sofa, I thought I would treat you to the introduction in the hopes that you buy the book. Summer is pretty much here and let's face it, reading material can be a bit stale sometimes so what better than to have a memoir written by your fave sex blogger that you can ask me questions about at a later date. Because, I am looking to do an Ask Me Anything (AMA) at some point. Also, if you have a friend who you think would like this stuff, but it is a bit, you know, out there, you can get them the book and have a giggle about it. And learn things too. Like I had to learn about what, well, you'll see.
So here it is, the introduction. Link to purchase (it is very reasonable) is at the bottom. FNAR.
Dear Reader, let me introduce myself. My name is Dee Dickens and as well as being a student, a writer, a poet, mother, and wife, I am a sex worker.
Sex worker. Conjures up an image. Whore, hooker with a heart of gold, street walker, call girl. Fur coats, no knickers, leaning against a wall in a dark and dirty city alley. Madame Cyn, Christine Keeler, the criminally young Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver, Joanna Lumley in Shirley Valentine; whatever springs to your mind, I promise you that the reality is nothing like the telly.
We’ve all heard the rhetoric round sex work. How no one ever chooses it, that it is only ever because of low economic status. That no little girl ever dreams of being a sex worker, but what can I tell you? As a small child I either wanted to be a sex worker or an opera singer. We listened to an awful lot of opera in my early years, my parents played it to us in our cribs, and I was enthralled, still am, by Maria Callas. She had an incredible voice, incredible coats and incredible presence. I used to parade up and down singing arias and pretending that I was on my way to my yacht post-concert feeling glam and fabulous even in my pining for Aristotle Onassis who had just left me for the frigid American Widow. I had quite the immersive imagination as a child, maybe I was always destined to be a writer. Maria was a diva, The Diva, and as a child who always felt like an ugly duckling, she was something to aspire to. La Divina was not a conventional beauty, she just had something about her. I wanted to be like that.
As for wanting to be a sex worker, I had seen them on childhood Saturday night treat, Kojak and though I didn’t know exactly what it involved, they looked exotic and self-sufficient; badass. They were beautiful to me and had someone who really cared about them. Yes, I understand about pimps now and how they are not a Good Thing, but my life has always been held together by duct tape and daddy issues, so I knew no better. Besides, I really liked the shoes. I still really like the shoes. Not that I wear them for work now, it is usually pjs, messy hair, a cat in tow and unbrushed teeth. I’m a real catch.
You have questions, I know. Once they get over the initial shock, everyone does. That initial shock can be funny as hell too. My dad asked if I was making good money. My mother-in-law straight up screamed. She then made me a packed lunch for my train journey home, so I think she still loves me. My sister was just worried about how I pay my taxes. They all wanted to know the same things though. How did I get into it? Why did I get into it? When did I get into it? How do I do it without laughing? Happy to explain. Grab a cuppa, this may take a little while.
It all began in the summer of 2018 when I was turned down for a job at the cheap supermarket, Lidl. Yes, that Lidl. Where the staff seem to be asleep or brain dead most of the time. That Lidl. And they didn’t want me. This is a bit embarrassing when you think about it really as I have worked in retail, hospitality, and customer service for 30 plus years, am very intelligent and a hard worker. To be fair to them though, if I had read the responses, I gave to their psychometric bullshit tests, I wouldn’t have given me an interview either. I answered honestly, which was a massive mistake as it means that I answered like someone who was used to dealing with a well unionized workplace. Based on some of the questions they asked, I am assuming that Lidl is not a well unionized workplace. I probably scared the crap out of whoever had the thankless task of reading my application. I make no apology for this; I believe that workers are the means of production and that we should be organizing to make our lot better, together. Join a union folks. I have. Oh yes, sex workers have a choice of unions, and I am a proud member.
So, where did that leave me? Broke. Like, proper noodles and ketchup broke. Being a student is difficult enough financially, in the summer it is a killer. You still have rent to pay, you still have to eat, and you are absolutely exhausted physically and mentally. I know that us students have a bad reputation for only getting out of bed to eat noodles and beans, but this could not be further from the truth. Sure, there are those who only fall out of their pits to party or watch Jeremy Kyle but most of them are conscientious, thoughtful, and up to the eyeballs in depression and neuroses. I’ve just finished my second year and we have had two deaths by suicide on my campus and many, many other attempts. If the government want people to apply to university and get good grades, education should be free. As it isn’t then the student loan should be quarterly; and enough to live on. I have opinions on this stuff. If students are going into debt anyway, it might as well be for an amount that would actually keep them alive and able to concentrate on their studies.
But where was I?
I was, broke. I’d written a couple of books but as I was yet a million miles away from the Booker Prize shortlist, I wasn’t making anywhere near enough to pay rent and bills etc. I wasn’t making enough to buy a coffee to be honest, and though I love that I sold any copies of my other books at all, if I wanted to eat, I would have to make more than £2.26 per month on royalties.
Starving for your art is over romanticized and overrated. I live in an age of internet and Wi-Fi, not freezing garrets and laudanum candles or whatever, and though there was a part of me who thought that dying of consumption Puccini’s La Boheme style would have some sort of artistic beauty to it, in reality, I don’t even like having a cold; so I did what any self-respecting student who likes eating does, I hit my dad up for some dosh.
Unlike my two sisters, I had never asked my father for anything before. For some reason, probably to do with my autism, I was always proud of the fact that I hadn’t but, fuck it, he hadn’t had to pay for university for me like he had my brother, that had to be worth something right? I gathered my wits and failing pride around me and skyped him. Wouldn’t you know it, the first time I ask him for anything, my usually minted dad didn’t have any money to bung my way as he is building a house in Tobago. Because of course he is. Why wouldn’t he? Apparently it is for us kids after he is gone. Honestly, I would rather have the cash now, but there you have it. I made a joke to him that I would end up talking to dirty old men on the phone for money and he was outraged. Though, it should be noted, not outraged enough to get his chequebook out, because, you know, house in Tobago. That I will never see, because I am broke. It is his money though, so it is up to him what he does with it. Hopefully, one day I will make enough of my own to build a house. I doubt it though. Should I ever have that much money, knowing me, I will probably spend it on shoes, coats and a fabulous yacht for pining after a Greek shipping magnate on. Not sure what my husband will think of that, but he knows me well enough to expect it.
As is often the case because of my nature, the more I thought about it though, the more I thought that actually it wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world. I wondered how hard it could be. I was good at drama at school, the only reason I didn’t end up with an O’Level in it was because I was busy playing Pregnant Teenage Harlot After A Council Flat when I should have been learning soliloquies. This spontaneity is also how I ended up being a ring card girl for the World Kickboxing Championships, drunk skinny dipping in the River Avon in December and riding a horse along Brean Sands in the middle of the night. I’m impulsive and have an overdeveloped sense of fun and adventure. I also have a deep sexy voice and I understand men, the cute simple creatures that they are, so I did some research, chose a persona, created a back story for her and went to work for a phone sex company for the princely sum of 12p per minute.
I have always had an open mind, my sexual tastes are, shall we say, varied; and I have never kink shamed, for who am I to take the piss out of anyone for what floats their boat? However, there are things I have heard, things I have been asked to do, just things, where I earn my money by simply not laughing. Unless it is at the man who likes me to literally guffaw at his penis. That was a good day at work. More of that later.
What I soon realized is that for every type of strange folk out there, there are some sweet ones and some rather scary ones. I realized that every single caller has their own story, and it would be selfish of me to keep them all to myself. Plus, I am broke, and it would really help me out to write a best seller. I have shoes and coats to buy, and out of everything that sells, sex is at the top of the list. So here are the heroes and villains, the sweet and the unsavory in all their unabridged morning glory.
I hope you enjoy them. I have changed the names, just in case, but every word of this has happened. Yes really. Even the stories of Howling Wolf and Microwave Boy.
Grab the lube and butt plugs, get ready, strap yourselves in, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
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