Apparently in the areas of comic books and literature (like there can't be crossover) I'm a nerd, and in computers, science and math, I'm only kinda a nerd. I can live with that.

Calico, as usual, has spurred me into some thought about masochism, self-harm, and, of course, "Secretary", the movie that brought the two together.

I was a self harmer. I have never been a masochist. To me, one could easily be a precursor to the other, and I'll explain that in a moment. But, call it my martyr complex- when I take pain in a kinky session, it's because I want to be absolved of guilt or to prove I can do it, not because it's sexy for me.

I have self-harmed off and on since I was about 12 or so. It started as a vent- a way to release some steam when it seemed like things were too much for me. Then, it became a way to feel better, to reclaim my body and control in a way that kept others at a distance- I could cut my breasts and inner thighs, and yes, I felt blissful. It was painful, and unpleasant, but I felt in control of myself afterwards, focused, clear. Later it was because I felt like I couldn't speak what was in my head or heart- cutting was easier than telling someone how I felt who would then be apathetic to my pain.

When I discovered BDSM, I read a lot about being suffering and finding bliss within that suffering. Many of them took pain for the pleasure of their partners. I tried to find the erotic within that sort of pain- tried to blend it with sex and make it more enjoyable. But it never was- pain just hurt, and I resented those inflicting it on me.

It took me a while to realize this didn't mean I was a bad submissive, it just meant I wasn't a masochist, and that was ok. Later I realized that I enjoyed pain only if I was in control of it- and, to me, whether I was cutting my breasts or someone else was piercing them, the feeling of release and relief was the same. I began to realize that I didn't need to cut myself- I could use that desire for suffering and give myself over to someone who desired to give pain- I could channel that energy into something clear and powerful instead of hiding it away and being ashamed. I found myself able to ask for a severe flogging or a piercing ritual, and through that, the ability to scream and cry my way out of the dark hole I found myself in into relaxation, almost meditation.

Now, I guess one of the questions would be what constitutes self-harm. I suppose that cutting your flesh when you're not feeling great is self-harming. It's never been erotic for me. But it's been... freeing, I guess? So to me, it was self-harm, and I felt guilty about it, because OTHER people would see it that way, OTHER people would medicate me and tell me I was crazy. It wasn't what I thought at first, though I ended up feeling that way eventually.

Now, however, I begin to think that cutting was a way for me to inflict on myself the trials that people going through adolescence have gone through for centuries. It was a way for me to find who I was, in those flashes of clarity. It was a tunnel I felt I had to go through to come out the other side. And I wonder if there's a deeper, primal reason for people to do self-harming activities- this need to go through something difficult and painful, full of blood and sweat and tears, so we can realize our own humanity.

This whole idea will take a lot longer for me to put together, and I know there's a thesis in it somewhere. But I look at my small scars with a little bit of pride. Other people may judge me for that. But for me, I see it as a symbol of who I was, and the fact that they're healed, a symbol of who I've become.

So I was tempted to find "Secret Diary of a Call Girl" rather off the mark, sensationalized, etc etc.

So far, I've found it somewhat realistic, at least to the sort of experiences I've had.

The men vary in attractiveness both physically and personality-wise, many of the johns are anxious and unsure, some are demanding and dangerous, some just don't click with you. A bad review means you may end up taking clients you aren't sure if you can handle... or want to.

There's also a lot of people out there who want to profit from what you do and don't do with your body. Pimps, madams, agents, agencies, brothels, club owners, security, drivers- all of these claim that they'll help keep you safe at work, when usually they'll put in the minimum effort for around 40% of your income, sometimes less, sometimes more. To me, it doesn't matter if they wear a velour suit or Armani, a leech is a leech. I may not get as many clients by doing it all myself, but I also benefit directly and it's all between me and my client- the way it should be in my opinion.

Then there's feeling like you can't talk about the bad bits with anyone or they'll just say you should quit, and it'll justify every bit of bad press they've ever read. It's hard to find people who understand burnout, who get how fun and how frustrating it can be, how rewarding and how awful.

One thing it's brought to mind is the question of how far I want to go with this work. If I really wanted to go the next step, I'd get a personal trainer and work hard at toning up and losing weight. Feminist and fat-activist that I am, I also know that a chunky girl in this line of work is going to have to remain stuck near the bottom of the money-heap.

I want this to truly be my profession- I want to get the sort of clients that will review me, say, on punternet, so I can get more clients, maybe even a few regulars. I don't want to be in the position of scraping the barrel of AW to get a couple of clients who may or may not be nutters. I want to be the sort of woman they see and say "wow, that's the one for me". I'm intelligent, affectionate, and I know my job inside and out- I just don't want to be judged and found wanting just because I'm happy with my round belly.

At the same time, would I rather have clients who wanted me, the real me? Or clients who were looking for yet another slim escort? I'd never be that skinny anyway... I'm not sure if I have the passion to want to lose weight just so some clients would like me more. That sounds stupid, when I type it. The sorts of clients I want like my body and my mind, as is. I would probably do better to take language classes instead of spending money on personal trainers.

Anyway, "Secret Diary" was not bad. I thought it was a good summary, and I'd watch another season, if it comes out.

Thank the GODS, I'm back in the UK, comfy and safe in London with my lovers and my toy bag. It feels like the promised land after Krakow, a place with seedy sex shops, Catholics, and undercover gay men.

I think the trip to Amsterdam I went on for a few days before coming back (in case I had to try to sneak in on the ferry- luckily I got my visa) was just what I needed. I was there for Pride, which was glorious in a lot of ways, though rainy. The canal float parade was brilliant and beautiful, a lot of fun, and we had some great seats. Plus the hotel we were in was lovely, the bikes we rented were smooth, and the ferry ride home was amazing- my boyfriend got us the comfort class so we had a bed big enough to snuggle on and a window. I was thrilled.

I will say I found a month's worth of bitch to unload on him though. I think it's all that energy I normally get out of my system with sessions, just dwelling within me, waiting for its moment. Poor guy. We did work shit out and things are ok again, but I was just going MAD for some time there. Climbing the walls in my own skull. Now, I just need a boy to beat and I'll be A-OK.

I'm sure I'll write more later, but man oh man, is it time for dinner!

So, I've been silent on this blog for a while.

This is, in part, because I've been trapped in Poland.

I got denied entry to the UK, due to my volunteer work (which apparently counts the same as paid work, which means I was working illegally) and sent back to Krakow, where I've been cooling my heels and trying to get a visa.

Being in a country where the women are still unable to get birth control or abortions regularly and safely, and where homosexuals have a Tolerance March instead of a Pride Parade, has been sort of hellish for me. I desperately miss my sex work, my friends at the volunteer gig, my lovers, and my home. I feel like I haven't been able to truly mourn the loss of Greebo yet. I don't know if I'll be getting a visa or not, but I feel fairly confident I'll have enough paperwork to enter the UK.

It's just been a huge financial drain, and a bigger emotional one. I thought I'd be able to do some phone or cam work, but I've felt so out of whack that I decided I would wait on it. Maybe this is a big kick in the pants to take time off, or just to do something different for a while. I was having burnout before, and then all this was a totally different burnout. Time to take a deep breath..?

I'll be returning to California in September, for sure, if not before. I dread it, but I feel a little excited as well. Being in Krakow has reminded me how open and free California really is.

Just so you guys know... I'm going be bringing Greebo to the vet tomorrow to have him put to sleep. Hes not in enormous pain yet, but he's very very weak, struggling to jump up things r even walk very far, and while he's still slightly mobile, I think he'd be in severe pan while I'm away in Poland and I'd rather be there when he passes than have him suffer in my absence. It's been really hard to come to this conclusion, and it'll be even harder to go on vacation when I feel miserable about this. but I knew I'd know when it was time, and it feels like it's time. I'm going to give him the snack he liked most recently- kitty food gravy- and my girly is going to be kind enough to clean up the flat and remove the cat stuff so when I get home I'm not a mess seeing his toys or dish. I'll have some good support this weekend and when I get home, but love and well wishes, especially prayers to help Greebo get to the Summerlands, would be appreciated. And, you know, nice energy to help me heal.

Warning- this blog post discusses some serious stuff- might be triggering if you have an abuse history. It's not pretty.

************************************

"I am not a pretty girl.
That is not what I do;
I ain't no damsel in distress
and I don't need to be rescued.
So put me down, punk.
Wouldn't you prefer a maiden fair-
Isn't there a kitten, stuck in a tree somewhere..."

I got my Hookers For Jesus shirt today, along with a letter from the woman who left her life as a sex worker and gave her all to Jesus. Now, I can respect leaving the corporate working world and putting your faith in a higher power, or following your heart instead of your bills. When I investigated the website, I was pleased to see that while they're pretty Christian focused, they do try to be open to all religious affiliations (at least in theory) and aren't looking to "convert hookers". They support women who want to or need to stay on the streets while offering shelter and help to those trying to get out of the business or away from pimps.

However, when I got the letter and read it, I saw phrases that didn't reflect this attitude- things like "rescue these women and give their lives divine purpose". I've seen that sort of thing before, when I researched Magdalene asylums/laundries.

Never heard of these institutions? I'm not that surprised- it's very hard to find information about them and even harder to find scholarly works on the subject. It was mostly the Catholic Church that turned these places into their horrific final stage, seen in movies like "The Magdalene Sisters" or the documentary "Sex in a Cold Climate"- and they keep it pretty quiet, even denying the existence of these places at times. They were places where "fallen women" were sent, basically to work and die- "fallen women" covering women who were pregnant out of wedlock, survivors of incest or rape, and women whose main crime was being too pretty or flirtatious for the restrictiveness of the (overwhelmingly Catholic) society. Some have only recently been brave enough to speak out.

The last Magdalene laundries finally shut their doors in 1996 in Ireland, though many of the girls were sent then to "mental asylums" that were just as bad (read "Kathy's Story" for some harrowing personal experiences in these institutional systems). Don't think this was just an Irish boonies thing, either- these Magdalene hellhouses thrived there and survived there the longest, for sure, but also popped up in Scotland, England, and even in San Francisco.

When they began, they meant well. They weren't even particularly religious. They started in the 1700s but really came into their own in the 1800s with the rescue movement, trying to give prostitutes work training in other jobs, medical assistance, food and shelter. In a society a woman's income derived from being married, worked to the bone in a sweatshop, or whoring, this sort of support was flooded with women needing help. But slowly, the government was less and less able to keep these places afloat- they turned to the one place that had good, stable income- the Church.

This was really the time of the rescue industry. Women do-gooders flocked to these institutions as workers and recruiters. Women ran these places for other women.

However, soon it wasn't just prostitutes in these places... women who were otherwise disadvantaged, like women with developmental disabilities, or women with mental health issues, women that were otherwise left in family attics and never spoken of. Families realized they could unload these women on these newly named Magdalene Asylums, and they did. And, of course, soon more Magdalene Asylums were appointed to cover the demand. Especially as the Church got involved, these went from drop in clinic style places to makeshift convents, with restricted speech, early wake up times and work throughout the day. Problem was, these places cost a lot of money to run.

Then, the women running these places came up with an idea. Why not take in laundry for the community? It would give the penitents (as the women were called) work to do, and help the villages nearby, along with making money for the Church. Soon, the churches were making money doing laundry for these communities, while the women toiled for free.

As the political and religious climate changed, so did the asylums. No longer needing to leaflet for their rescue cause, and now wanting to keep this free labour as long as possible, the nuns and priests running these institutions made the communities aware that they were now taking in women who were "fallen" in some way, or soiled. These women were no longer allowed to come and go as they pleased, because they were looked at as being unable to make their own decisions. Once you had "tempted a man into" rape, or unwed pregnancy, you no longer were seen as being able to handle agency.

Men would send their daughters, wives, or sisters into these institutions, and only a male member of the family could remove them again. Often, brothers or friends of these girls were never informed where they were going, and so the women waited for release. Many of them died in these places, in unmarked graves, after being worked for 16 hours a day, 7 days a week.

These women and girls were sexually, physically, and emotionally abused on a regular basis. And other women were the ones who brought their household laundry to these places- other women were the nuns who abused them- other women stayed silent as their husbands and fathers drove their mothers and sisters away, perhaps to be gone, forever.

And it only ended in 1996. Only in Ireland, as well- new Magdalene style homes are popping up now in Asia and Africa, run by the same orders that ran the ones in the UK.

Even now, the women for whom this was a reality deal with being questioned, blamed, and ignored. "Kathy's Story", that I mention above, has had another book written about it, called "Kathy's Real Story" where the author claims to prove it was all made up. An ITV debate on the story didn't provide satisfactory answers one way or the other. One of the main reasons the journalist writing against Kathy says it couldn't be true because it's too horrific. Cause if it's too gory, it must be made up... right?

Read more, if you'd like, in "Do Penance or Perish".

In the beginning, the women wanted to rescue prostitutes. In the end, they were keeping women imprisoned for their perceived sexuality. Is Hookers For Jesus one of many groups following in
these historic footsteps...?

"I am not an angry girl
but it seems like I've got everyone fooled;
every time I say something they find hard to hear
they chalk it up to my anger, and never to their own fear.
Imagine you're a girl just trying to finally complain,
knowing full well they'd prefer you were dirty
and smiling...
and I am sorry
but I am not a maiden fair-
I am not a kitten, stuck up a tree somewhere."

It's what drives me crazy, really- anti-prostitution feminists and Christian groups saying that what sex workers really want, nay, what they NEED is rescuing. They site women on the streets, or trafficked women, as examples of all sex workers, and as examples of women in bondage, in terrible situations they can't escape. Cause, you know, all whores are depressed, on drugs, struggling with poverty and abused, or with a history of abuse. And, of course, all whores are the same. Met one you've met 'em all, yeah? Just like every other stigmatized or minority group.

Well, no, actually. I'm a hooker too, and I'm not high class or low rent. I advertise on Craigslist or other internet sites like a lot of sex workers. I don't have a fancy website, but I do have a site outside of the advertising ones. I make probably middling for my age, and on the slightly higher end of my body type. I don't always like my job. Sometimes I don't feel like doing sex work. Sometimes I resent that the most financially viable thing a girl without a degree can do other than sell drugs is sell sex. Sometimes I resent that almost exclusively men are seen or see themselves as customers of prostitutes and other sex workers. Usually, I see it was a job like any other job, except I set my own price and I set the boundaries. I didn't get that luxury working retail.

"and generally my generation
wouldn't be caught dead working for the man-
and generally I agree with them...
trouble is you gotta have yourself an alternate plan
and I have earned my disillusionment.
I have been working all of my life-
and I am a patriot...
I have been fighting the good fight...
and what if there are no damsels in distress;
what if I knew that and I called your bluff?
Don't you think every kitten figures out how to get down
whether or not you ever show up?"

I'm white, and was brought up middle class, sure- and I lived most of my teens in residential living homes, came out in poverty, so don't tell me that I was brought up privilaged. I scrabbled my way into school and retail on my own. I'm not a sex worker because of poverty- I worked two retail jobs and was fine with that, but discovered the world of sex work meant shorter hours and more enjoyable work, so I quit. I didn't get brought up with sexual moralities that suggested I should save my body for someone special, or that I would be a horrible person if I had sex. I was brought up to be safe and aware of sexual risks, and to make informed decisions based on the consequences of my actions.

And right now? I'm not working for the man. I'm working on my terms, my hours, my rules. A john doesn't like it? He can go elsewhere. And I accept that if I want to do something fancy or have something nice I'm going to have to drum up someone to pay for it. It's not convoluded the way the 9-5 gig is. I know what I'm renting myself out for, and I get to say stop or go.

So what I'm saying is- I have agency. I have as much agency as anyone living in a capitalistic world can have. It's not surprising that in "Selling Olga" many of the trafficked women aren't bothered about doing sex work, but rather that they end up brutalized and used by pimps. Don't get me wrong. I'm just as angry about the trafficking of women as anyone else. I think that type exploitation is unacceptable. And I'm also not blind to the fact that we're exploited every single fucking day.

Maybe if women made loads of money doing sport (which they don't, in comparison to men) they'd give that a go instead- but we make big money on sex and suggestions of sex, whether sex work is legal or illegal. If I feel exploited, it's not by the little things- the johns or the work. It's the big shit, the important shit that I get angry with- capitalism, sexism, racism, classism, big business, and religions that make sexual desire out to be the scariest most dreadful thing a person can have. But that's a lot harder to tackle and take on than shooing streetwalkers inside or kicking them outside. You wanna rescue me? Save me from patronizing attitudes and give me a goddamn voice. I'm tired of being exploited by women who say their feminists and then tell me to pipe down because my experiences aren't valid.

What if there's no damsels in distress, huh? Maybe we're not all fallen women. Maybe we're making choices like everyone else does- with what we've got. Kittens have claws. Hookers have blacklists.

And maybe, just maybe, the way to help the women in sex work who want it is to ASK THEM HOW THEY CAN BE HELPED. We've got perfectly good mouths, and we exercise them plenty. We can speak for ourselves.

Are you ready to listen?

(lyrics quoted, "not a pretty girl" by ani difranco, which inspired this rant)

...because dying the curtains to match the drapes or whatever it's called is a lot harder than it sounds in the phrase, for sure!

I never used to feel this concerned about picking colors and stuff. I'd go with whatever I liked, dye my hair green or blue or pink to match what I was feeling at the moment- and, well, most of my life I've shaved my body hair, so having a muff now is an experience.

I decided to match my body hair to each other, not that it's terribly noticeable. And the color I choose was a red color that'll hopefully hold up well, though trying to put on a white sweater was a bad idea- it got some dye on it (though I confirmed my opinion that, if you're going for almost-natural colors, Feria is the best- I got dark red dye out of a white sweater, dye that had set for an hour, with just hot water and white soap!)

When I was at the beauty shop, I realized I didn't know if it would affect my work badly or not, having unnaturally colored hair. Some guys have said they love my wacky color choices, like hot pink or purple, and others prefer me to look discreet, I think. Not that it matters that much to me, cause if someone doesn't want to see me because of my hair color, well... ::shrug::

However, the other thing affecting it was- I always felt that the snappy hair came with the snappy hair cut, which for me has been a bobbed one. Now that my hair is a bit longer, it seems harder to do highlights and stuff the way I did it before. But maybe I just need to get it razored or something, make it look a little more fashion-y.

Now that I've almost completely lost everyone reading this blog... ::laughs::

So for now, it's a glossy red. Maybe in the future, purple, or pink, or blue, or all of those...

So, for all of you who kindly sent me well wishes on my kitty cat- thank you, it was much appreciated.

And apparently, all that good energy went to at least 3 weeks longer than he should be alive- his lump in his tummy is the size of his head, and it's a miracle that he's still with us, much less eating and wandering about the house. As I type, he's settled on the bed having made an (unsuccessful) bid for freedom via the bedroom window. He was very good at the vet's, taking his shots like a champ (and I got him more antibiotic, though this time as a shot- I'm stupidly relieved not to have to try and give him pills!)

I'm a little worried he'll pass while Clear and I are on vacation in Poland. I remember with Disco it was very quick- called the vet Friday and he passed away Monday or something. However, Greebo has already given above and beyond his pussycat duty to me as a mummy, and I'm grateful for every extra second I get to spend snuggling into his furry lumpy belly.

This month, any type of sex work, minus, perhaps, the Domme sessions, has felt like work. I have to drag myself up, force myself to log online and turn my phone on, and I'm just... not feeling it. In fact, I'm not feeling it to the extent that I just go watch some shit on the Iplayer instead. Sometimes I'll leave my phone on, in case, but webcam? Can't be bothered to prance around in lingerie for a bunch of men to wank off without even a "thanks".

Why is that? I mean, I've been online less this month than I have been in the past three- I just get ready to log in and can't be bothered. I even had one call where I desperately wanted to yell "well, if YOU don't know what you want how the hell am I supposed to work it out?" There's this apathy mixed with frustration and irritation... and a hearty helping, I think, of being pissed off at male privilage. Where's my sex worker to come and give me an erotic massage? Where's my webcam tramp of a boy who will hurt himself to please me? Where do I get mine, exactly?

I think it's in part because the last couple of calls I've had didn't leave me feeling inspired or excited, but rather bored. I hate having to do all the work, having to guess your fantasies or having you be annoyed that I didn't get it right. I know not everyone knops as much about their sexuality as me, for example, but there's SOMETHING you watch/read/imagine/talk about when you wank. Tell me that, right? Or have you not even worked that bit out...

It's also partially because I've had, still, lingering reminders to the cold from hell, and so I don't feel sexy, I feel like I'm dragging myself to work when all I want is another sick day. But looking at my finances, I realize that 18 days worth of sick days is going to take its toll, and it's time for me to get back to work. And my cat is still rattling around death's door... and I'd rather be snuggling him than pursing my lips for some jackass who wants to pay the absolute minimum for his wank.

Maybe I've just always lacked discipline. When I worked retail, I was kind of spoiled- I either got to do displays and things I liked, or I'd sulk, and potentially not show up. I figured that I wasn't getting paid enough to care, or to pretend I liked my job if I didn't.

But in the realm of sex work, I AM getting paid to care and to pretend I like my work when I don't. And it's enough for me to put aside my honesty values in favor of some lucrative smiling and batting my eyelashes. And, in the name of honesty, usually I enjoy the dressing up and the flirting and everything. Just not this month, for whatever reason. And yeah, while I have the freedom to not go into work when I don't feel like it, there is some pressure to do it when I feel apathetic when I look at my bank balance and see it slowly drained away.

So when it feels fake, I generally don't do it. And this month I'm suffering for it, for sure. How Kitty got her groove back... I don't know. Wanking is boring. I still enjoy S/m, but feel like my pussy is freeze dried otherwise. I've been trying to maintain the sexy siren thing while feeling more and more like a eunach. Sometimes I don't want to do a session because I just want to get done instead. I want it to be about my orgasm. Sometimes I don't want to do a session because I can't bear to feel passion with a client when it's lacking at home... because then I don't feel in control of my sexuality, but rather, it's in control of me.

However- having just read Bitchy Jones' old post Paying My Due and thinking a bit about such a scene (where the submissive pays far more than he can afford, and has to earn it back through the session, leaving the more reasonable fee at the end) has gotten me thinking I'll be in my bunk. So maybe it's not ALL dead yet. Maybe I just need the right session to get my nethers in a twitch.