I’ve moved my bed against the other wall in my room, so I can sit by my window. I put three cheap tea lights in three glasses stolen from my dining hall - they are lined up against the sill. This is essential, somehow, in creating a mood of romance and productivity.

Do you ever feel so far from who you are? Like there is a fundamental disconnect between the person you imagine yourself to be, and what you see in the mirror. I’m very pretty, and I know this. Men go crazy over my body (girls: not so much). But I’m not thin enough to wear pretty clothes, and I’m not delicate, I don’t have that careful charm that I wish I did. I buy sophisticated things, like little bottles of kenzo flower that I can keep in my handbag, but the feeling of control they give me only last a while.

I wish I was that girl who read the new york times, flipped through Poetry magazine sipping soy lattes. I wish, when I sat by my window, that I felt elegant. That I fed myself healthy things like words and ideas, rather than frozen mars bars.

Let’s face it - I want to be thinner. I went over to my friend’s house the other day, and she and another friend were trying on dresses. They just pulled them over their heads, and the fabric fell to accentuate all the right places, they looked so effortlessly beautiful. I want that. I don’t want to feel like a clunky, round-shouldered, big-chested oaf of a girl. I want to blow people away.


I like a boy, and sometimes I think I have a chance with him. I don’t know much. I know that he likes music, and that he’s popular. He is friendly and sweet and his friends say that he’s mad in that flaky genius sort of way. I’m a little crazy, too, and i need someone uncomplicated and social to cancel out my isolation. I can count my good friends on one hand. I have no talents, I’m a slacker and let’s not forget - a hooker.

Once I made up my mind to become a prostitute it just came naturally - am I unnatural to separate sex from emotions, or can all women do it, and we’ve just been brought up to think they can’t? Whether I end up with this boy depends on class schedules and my confidence and our chemistry, but if we did somehow manage to meet - would I tell him? Sometimes I think I’ve destroyed any chance of that fairytale romance. No matter what, in any future relationship, I would still have been a whore. Or, I just wouldn’t tell them, and would carry this huge secret with me to the grave. Already I have conversations about the strange guys I meet, and people will ask how I found them and I’ll make up some lame story about chatting at a bar. Already people think I’m a recluse and a drunk.

I guess that’s ok. I was never destined for that kind of happiness. I tell my friends that I’m probably going to end up alone, and I can see that already, I can see a bitterness forming. But it’s not that that terrifies me. More so would be ending up with someone I didn’t love, or falling out of love, being trapped.

I already feel trapped. I smoke cigarillos out my window, but there is nothing glamorous about my life.

Here are some of the people I’ve fucked this week:

  • An obese indian gentleman, skinny legs but gigantic belly that oozed out onto the bed. He face dissapeared into the rolls of his neck, and he wheezed as he came. He didn’t talk. His dick was tiny. The fucking was mechanical.
  • He was in his late thirties with that shave-head-pot-belly-stupid look about him. He pulled me up against the edge of the bed, and fucked me yelling “Do you like it? Do you like it? Tell me you like it so much you’ll see me again!” I can’t remember what I told him, but he came after one minute. After a bit of canoodling, he was hard again, and tried to fuck me. After about two minutes he gave up and went to the bathroom, tired - “that was a marathon!” he said.
  • A man with a Santa Claus beard, who was as old as my grandfather and acted like it. When we kissed, I could feel and smell my pussy in his facial hair, and when we fucked his tits jiggled in front of my face. He tried to make small talk, but when he mentioned his daughter, barely older than me, it was over.
  • Early thirties, Spanish/English mix, witty, tall and with a perfect body. Not sure what he was doing seeing a whore, but I couldn’t wait to get his clothes off. After we fucked, we lay in bed. “I want to go to Mumbai and teach english,” he said.  ”I don’t usually come so fast, it must be you,” he joked. “Your pussy is so tight, this feels so fucking good,” he moaned,  when we fucked for the second time, wet and slow and sweaty.

Sometimes, I love my job.


Perhaps one of the most demoralizing things about doing this is the number of wedding rings that get removed to stand lonely on my nightstand. One man called himself Lucifer, and paid me eighty dollars for a half hour of oral sex - giving, not receiving. He was obese, with two chins and eyebrows that curved in a way that did make him look other-worldly. I was repulsed by him, couldn’t touch him, but even now I can’t help but be a little turned on by the way I quietly just placed myself on the bed, slid off my jeans and pushed his head down. The oral was okay, he flicked my clit fast and hard as most men do, I came faster than I wanted to. When he was moaning into my pussy, though, and grabbing my hands so I could run them through his hair - that was good, and the memory of this older gentleman, aware of his physical presence and desperately wanting what was on his tongue to be on his dick, humping the bed in arousal at my young teenage pussy… It is better than how I felt when getting it done.

I could see he had been turned down before, even when paying girls for their time. Afterwards he suggested hopefully that we could meet again, and this time, perhaps, I would have sex with him? “I have to be discrete,” he said, and then wiggled his eyebrows and motioned to his wedding ring like we were in this together, “Married.”

I told a friend a few days ago that all men are cheaters and liars. I had just added the  army officer I’m fucking (and this is unpaid) as a friend, with a fake facebook account. He had a girlfriend, she was not pretty but not ugly. They seemed happy, too, someone had even tagged them on a picture of mickey and mini mouse hugging -  ”the cutest couple,” it said. This was not a guy I was emotional about, but it was still funny. “You really can’t trust men,” I wrote to her. She had just gone through a breakup and I knew she would appreciate the comment. “Yeah, I was about to hook up with a lawyer,” she typed. “I added him with this account, turns out he was dating a girl down the street.”

Cheating, it seems to me, is inevitable. My friend says that maybe as a prostitute I have just been exposed to the worst and most unfaithful demographic. I still don’t know. I’m imagining, now, my hypothetical marriage, and my hypothetical spouse breathing in the scent of someone much younger. I am nowhere in their mind, and they resent me for my age and my body. I think I’m becoming a realist: more casual about sex, more cynical about love. I know we can’t be attracted to one person our whole lives, and that relationships survive infidelity. Dan Savage always talks about this on his podcast - he says that people cope with these issues, whether the attraction is acted upon or not, by telling ourselves necessary lies. I guess that could work.

Except:  I know what goes on behind the scenes, and if it ever happened to me, I can picture every moment with an unwelcome clarity. I wonder whether at that point such knowledge would break my heart, or worse, whether I’ll ever trust someone enough to let it get broken.