1. As a special gift – perhaps for a birthday or an anniversary – my partner hires an escort who is trained in the fine art of cunnilingus. While I lay there blindfolded, my partner gives explicit verbal instructions to our guest for the evening, first on how to tease and arouse me, and later on how to lick and suck my clit until I’m an incoherent wet mess.
Later that night, after our new friend has left, we lie in bed together eating ice cream and debriefing. I feel safe, supported, and loved.
2. I’m at an upscale lingerie store, staring longingly at a deep red lacy bra and its matching panties and garter belt. The price tags, when I glance at them, set off a spike of adrenaline in my body due to their sheer lunacy: $440 for the bra, $250 for the panties. I don’t even want to look at the price of the garter belt.
“Excuse me, miss,” says a random man I hadn’t noticed skulking in the stockings section. He’s tall and handsome in a nondescript way, like a detective in a film noir. “If you don’t mind me saying so, those would look wonderful on you, and it would be my honor to pay for them.” He holds out a credit card, golden and heavy, nodding toward the cash register, where the bored-looking sales clerk seems to already know this man’s M.O.
I smile coolly, take the card and the garments to the front, and tell the clerk, “These are on him.” My smirk makes him visibly tremble as he signs the sales receipt.
3. I submit an application to join a house of elite London escorts and subsequently find myself invited in for an interview. As it turns out, the “interview” is really a rigorous test of sexual technique, aimed at ascertaining my skill level so as to figure out how to price my services, or indeed, whether to hire me at all.
The house has invited some beloved regulars to be our test subjects for the day. Surrounded by other brothel hopefuls, I suck cock after cock, showing off my blowjob skills, possibly my greatest asset in this hiring process. After a particularly satisfying orgasm, one of the men says to the madam of the house, “You should hire this one – her tongue is magic,” and I glow with pleasure at the vaguely dehumanizing praise.
4. A client flies me out to his city for a long weekend date. As I climb out of the Uber he sent to the airport and begin dragging my suitcase up the steps to the fancy hotel where we’ll be staying, I get a text from him. Sorry, darling – something came up at work. Can we raincheck until next month? Make yourself comfortable and get whatever you’d like from room service, on me.
I smile serenely in the elevator, let myself into the clean white room with a shiny keycard, and collapse happily on the enormous bed. Later, I take a sex toy or two into the massive bathtub that overlooks the city, and get myself off decadently like no client ever could.
5. I catch the attention of an influential congressperson so as to pitch them on the importance of rights and protections for sex workers, they subsequently make an impassioned speech on the house floor, and every politician in attendance wipes tears from their eyes as they vote to repeal SESTA/FOSTA and decriminalize sex work permanently at the federal level.
Okay, that one isn’t so much a sexual fantasy… but it’s definitely something I ponder ardently from time to time.
Write to your local politicians and make it clear to them that you care about sex workers’ rights. Sign petitions, donate to SWOP Behind Bars and Red Light Legal, and advocate for people to respect and decriminalize sex work. People in that industry may be hot as hell, but they’re also human, and they’ve suffered more than their fare share of discrimination and stigmatization. It has to stop.
This post was sponsored. As always, all writing and opinions are my own.