It Happened To Me: I became a Black trans sex worker in DC I'm a stone cold money maker wrapped up in a second-hand babydoll slip, and they can't get enough.

I am one godamned successful sex worker and I don't even have a vagina. In only 3 weeks of offering myself up in our nation's capitol I've hauled in over $14000 cash. That's big money.

It's so much money in fact that it requires a serious re-think on my priorities. I've had to ask myself questions like: how much money do I WANT to make? In an economy of such plenty, how much is "enough"? Are there dreams that previously seemed out of reach?

And: can it last? Is this just the "new girl" phenomenon – will they grow tired of me?

My goal was to raise $6000 for a filmmaking project. I blew past that goal after 2 weeks and I'm now considering my next steps. It's strange to face the decision about whether to just keep milking this cash cow or get on with the life I had planned out until this turn of fortune.

Imagine asking yourself "Shit, is this dance party worth a thousand dollars to me?"

Because that's how much it costs me not to slobber all over some Republican politician's staffer schlong on a Saturday night. (About 70% of my clients are from the so-called conservative party. Then again, almost all clients are introduced to me from other client friends.)

The feeling that I can't have a personal life any more because I'll lose out on so much green is surprising and bizarre. I can't think about it too much or I'll never leave the house again except to shop my bussy around.

Did I mention that this is SLOW SEASON? Mother of god! It's raining benjamins!

Clients love me. I'm a stone cold money maker wrapped up in a second-hand babydoll slip. The blonde highlights, heels, nails, friendly smile, and "cute Canadian accent" are all carefully designed to extract the maximum amount of money possible while still providing a friendly and competent service. It's all a winning combination for a Black transwoman.

I'll seamlessly slip into slave mode if I get the feeling that kind of roleplay is their style. Yes, masta, punish this bussy. No matter how much I "degrade" myself, I'm the one in control. I'm the one walking away with a higher net worth.

I love sex work. Specifically I love being a big bussy whore who craves dick and ass deeply and makes big stacks from it. I don't know if there's any other form of sex work I'd enjoy as much as this one. Sometimes I'll catch myself in the mirror while some guy is sniffing coke off my lady penis and smile. It can be such a riot, especially for someone like me who isn't even remotely tempted by the alcohol on offer and just enjoys the adventure relatively sober.

Every single booking is different and because I need to stay on my toes and "manage" the experience. I'm forced out of my head and into the moment – unlike much other work I've done where I might be planning, researching, editing, writing or ruminating on something for weeks or months. When I just stay present and ride it, I find there are so many unexpected moments of humor, tenderness and always, always learning.

Being a sex worker feels like mad power, like bliss, greed, glee, defiance, strength, skill and pride. It's a power game and I'm always perfecting my skill, working on my game. The goal is to be able to create just about any effect I want – from lust and trust to generosity and deference. I'm the one that comes out on top in the end.

I love sex work because I love power. I love the way it tastes, smells, looks, feels, sounds.

The Taste: Of his freshly washed ass. I make them scrub them real nice for the big bussy whore's big Black lips eager for that watermelon.

The Smell: Of cash money. Crisp new bills have their own scent, especially in this city.

The Look: It's one that never lets go. The look that says I Want You. That says fuck. That laughs and winks and sparkles.

The Sound: "Hi handsome, what's your name?" The soft burn of his joint as I look at him across the bed. "Oh my god you're beautiful" or, anxiously "how was I?"

The Feel: When I run my fingers over his chest, down his thigh, kiss his cheek and then – only then – ask for more money. Of squeaky-clean skin from showering up to 10 times in a night. Relief that there is somewhere I can fully express my lust for power and money. The sweetest laughter, sharing stories about the night before with other big bussy whores.

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1 thought on “<span class="entry-title-primary">It Happened To Me: I became a Black trans sex worker in DC</span> <span class="entry-subtitle">I'm a stone cold money maker wrapped up in a second-hand babydoll slip, and they can't get enough.</span>”

  1. That was fascinating. Thanks so much for sharing your experiences. I already knew the republicans would be into it way more.

    Whatever kind of work we do, the money we earn is to pay our bills and then ENJOY what’s left. You need to go and do things that feed your soul or you’ll eventually be deeply unhappy in your job.

    I’ve had a job I loved and one I hated and figured out pretty quickly that you spend too much of your life in the work place to do something that makes you unhappy 99% of the time (no job is perfect), so if some is in the fortunate position I was in to choose work that made me mainly happy then it’s a no-brainer.

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