I’m used to instant gratification with money, and to a direct correlation between the amount of labour that I put in and the money that I make. Fuck this many clients, walk away with this much cash—immediately.
I often decide on a purchase based on how many men it would equate to me screwing. Through years of brothel and parlour work I’ve become used to the juggling and justifying of extras; if I have two more half-hour bookings or if I have one 45-minute booking, and do kissing, I’ll hit my goal for the day. I keep a tally of what I can do with my body, how much more money I can make, how much time is left in a shift, a week, a month. I am constantly preoccupied with how much money is out there, circulating, and feel guilt when I miss an opportunity to make some. I will beat myself up over picking the Tuesday shift when, apparently, Monday was the busy one.
I have a scarcity mindset, and like a lot of people coming from financial disadvantage, I’ve often felt that money will somehow keep me safe. Hoarding it and watching it grow has reassured and calmed me. But sex work is so uncertain: I’ve done nine-hour brothel shifts and walked out with $0 because no clients picked me, but there have also been weeks where I’ve made $10,000. No wonder I haven’t learned stability with that level of fluctuation. It’s meant I’ve always felt as if I have to make money while it’s there, in case it isn’t there later, and I’ve tried to build a reserve to see me through the times when I’m not able to work, for whatever reason (thrush, period cramps, debilitating mental health issues). It doesn’t help that looming over me are the spectre of ageing out of the industry and the fact that sometimes there are more girls than clients. It’s hard to have faith, in that context, that the money is there to be made and will come back around.
I’ve often felt that money will somehow keep me safe
After 10 years of working, my relationship with money has started to shift. I finally feel that I’m beginning to loosen up and let go of the fear. Largely, that’s because I’ve finally saved enough that I’m more than one bad month away from having nothing. (Obviously, the easiest way to be unstressed about money is by having more money.) There are other factors that play a part, though.
My savings have enabled me to help my dad, who is in his seventies, to buy a home—something that hung over me through my twenties as he grew older and frailer. It has released me, in some way, because I had felt that I had a duty to him but also because his age meant I felt the pressure of time, which I don’t feel in the same way on my own behalf.
Also, as I’ve written about before in this column, I recently lost a close friend who was also a sex worker and who had parallel life plans to my own. She had hustled hard since she was 17 and finally bought herself a house, only to kill herself a few months later. It made me realise that all the financial goals that I was striving for meant nothing; the thing she achieved, which I found so aspirational, hadn’t brought her happiness. What is this mirage that I stretched for? I had turned down so much spare time, that I could’ve spent with her, in order to work more. What was I working so hard for? There’s no point being the richest person in the graveyard.
