The Strange Things Men Pay Prostitutes To Do

Photo Credit: Rodrigo della Favera via Flickr

Editor's note: This is Part III of a series in which the author chronicles her life as a street prostitute. Read Part I here. Read Part 2 here.

The lives of women who trade sex on the street for survival is very different than the idealized Hollywood treatment of sex work: less Pretty Woman than Monster, the story of Aileen Wuornos, for whom hooking was a kill-or-be-killed situation.

Survival prostitutes are the most easily and frequently killed of all women. They lack the glamor of call girls and the “victimhood” of trafficked women since their pimp is their drug habit itself. They have been abandoned by their families, their communities and the other people on the street. Even law enforcement and social services slighted them until recently.

The author spent time as a survival prostitute driven by her drug habit until she found recovery in a 12-step program. This is the second excerpt from a diary she kept while getting in cars.

A Lexus stops. The guy is dark haired, maybe 40, a little too distracted for my comfort. I go with him to a room though I worry he is a nut. We get to some small room on the West side and his thing is making me wear a negligee and act like I enjoy it. Why does he pay for this? I don't relish this silk, lace, oohing and ahhing routine but there is nothing perverted about it. You'd think he'd get a girlfriend. He says he's single. He is a medical supplies salesmen and I let him pay me in syringes.

It's like the guy who comes to my apartment Saturday mornings with bagels and lox. His thing is setting up the brunch spread and having sex before we eat it. Where is the trick?  Sure this food makes me sick, especially because I am a speed freak, but there is nothing inherently tricky about this. Not like the extremely icky guy I had yesterday whose house I had to go to. Even though he had a nice house and seemed like he might have a normal wife, he wanted me to strap on a dildo and tell him how tight he was. I could not do this work straight.

Another one that makes me sick is Jim W who operates out a roofing office in uptown. He actually created a peephole so his buddies could watch while I was working on him. He is missing digits on his fingers. He says you was and yeeewww for you. He's the kind of person you would cross the street to avoid.

I have had two trips out of town. Dick K. who is a client of my printer took me all the way to California with him on his business trip. I can't figure out why. He doesn't touch me though we sleep in the same bed. Does he think I have a disease? He moved his seat on the plane on both trips and wouldn't even talk to me. Why did he bring me? One night we went to a party with normal kids my age who were watching videos, eating a stir fry and barely drinking. I felt like a ridiculous idiot in my hooker garb, all dressed up with no johns in sight. I couldn't even manage the most basic small talk with these kids. I didn't fit in with the wholesome set even when I was straight. I got really drunk and he conveyed he was disgusted. He has a New York accent and is cute.

Then my printer Keith took me with him on an all expense paid trip he was given by his paper mill. It was in the middle of the woods, very pretty but very stinky from the wood pulp. There were a lot of people there in a lodge and we all ate elaborate meals together. There was also a pool table and an open bar. I didn't bring enough speed and began crashing. I drank too much and began saying and doing embarrassing things. He told the group I was ill and he was going to put me to bed. I thought when we got the room he was going to hit me but was amazed that he didn't. In fact he was really nice to me and we even did it. Now I like him.