Sex Work Diaries: I Don’t Give Discounts

In this edition of Sex Work Diaries, M. Nicolosi, a transgender escort, recounts an experience with a customer confused about the ethics of paying people for their work. Hmmmmmmmmm.

I’ve been an escort for three years, two months, and eight days. Unfortunately Richard Gere hasn’t showed up yet but I haven’t ruled it out.

I’m also transgender. I haven’t had any surgeries, but I have long full hair, a naturally soft face, full lips, a petite physique, and with my hair and makeup done, I feel attractive and confident. Essentially what I’m saying is that I pass. The notion of passing irritates me immensely. The pressure that (some) trans people feel to hit that benchmark and the pressure I feel from society, from men—especially in the sex industry—can induce anxiety and bring many of my insecurities to the surface. But in saying that, being able to pass lends itself greatly in my work as half the battle is keeping nervous men calm, especially if it’s their first trans experience.

As you’d expect, this job attracts a varied and interesting array of men. I’ve reiterated to many that there is no ‘type’ of guy that comes to see me, it ranges from ex-con (or future con) to nerdy public servant, and everyone in between. I’d say under 2% of bookings go sour and become category 5 situations, but it happens, and when they do, to say they suck is a gross understatement.

I often start to wind down for bed around 6 am as it’s generally more lucrative to be awake throughout the night. It was as around 6:20 am that I received a call from a husky but young sounding voice on the other end: “Where are you? How much?…” “$200 in the city,” I replied, and in less than a minute, it was locked in.

We agreed to meet at 7 am. Forty minutes to get ready. I was thankful I had a bit of time for once to get myself sorted, as getting my work environment ready and functioning is half my battle, but with forty minutes, there was hope. But after a mad rush, 7 am comes, an “I’m here” text, and I invite him to come inside and take a seat while I finish what I need to do. He obliges.

All up, I probably made him wait somewhere between 10 to 20 minutes, which, for me, is actually not too bad, but my anxiety was kicking in regardless because guys have a subtle way of being pushy but polite at the same time, passive aggressively nudging you along.

I walk out of the bedroom finally and get a good look at him for the first time. He looks really young, early 20s, pale skin, kind of bad skin, and he had a bandage patch on his forehead, I  don’t hesitate to ask: “What happened to your head?”…. He looked trashy as fuck.

He’s nice enough and produces the money, so there was no reason to hit the eject button. I take the money, slink off into my room, quickly put some music on and invite him in.

He was very nervous, it was his first time with a trans girl, but I’m good at soothing people in these moments, especially when they realise how amazing my blowjob skills are (I’m essentially a cock whisperer). So I launch into head straight up and, as predicted, he zones out in pleasure for a good ten minutes or so and then I ask if he wants to have sex. He does, I pass the condom, he penetrates me, two thrusts, and done. That was easy.

Everything seems normal and then he asks,

”So… seeing that we didn’t go that long, can I have some money back?”

Overwhelming anger instantly incited a cold sweat as blood rushed to my head.  My blood was literally boiling. The nerve of this kid!

“Um it doesn’t work like that, you agreed to an hour, and I’m allowing you an hour. If you’d like to leave at this point that’s your choice, but I’m not kicking you out. You’re welcome to go again so if you want to leave that’s up to you,” I retort.

Very quickly the air in the room shifts.

“But that’s not fair, we only played for 15 minutes, you’re ripping me off,” he said with such aggravating immaturity.

“But I’m not ending the session, you are.”

“Yeah but I didn’t do the hour! You’re ripping me off. This is bullshit, I want half my money back.”

“Are you fucking serious? I’m not giving you your money back.”

“Then I’ll call the cops and tell them you’re running an illegal business.”

The nerve of this kid, I felt so insulted, worthless, disrespected, and unsafe. At this point we were both screaming at each other, I was so angry I was trembling at the entitlement of this little shit!

If you go to McDonalds and order a Big Mac, and eat half, will they give you a refund for the remaining half? If you hire a cleaner and you offer them half of their asking price, will they accept that job? Sex work is real work and our prices should not be questioned, discussed, or negotiated!

At this point I was fuming. I barricade myself in my room in the hope that he would realize that I was disengaging from the situation and leave. A few mins go past with no interaction—until I hear talking coming from the lounge. He’s literally calling the police.

I walk out and start screaming to get out of my house and he just keeps yelling that he isn’t leaving without his money and that an illegal escort is ripping him off. He’s got tears in his eyes so clearly he wasn’t prepared to take it this far, but he’s not backing down, and all I can see is red!

I’m not a fighter, I’ve never been hit, I’ve never hit anyone, I don’t want to ever hit anyone and vice versa. I only know how to handle a situation like this using my words so the fact that he wasn’t budging was so terrifying but I had to act.

I lock myself in the room again, pacing, randomly shouting “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE,” my eyes are like pinwheels and in a moment of desperation, I throw half of the money at him. He quickly scurries away, still half on the phone and still half crying. What a complete jerk.

I still don’t know if he was actually on the phone to the police but I heard someone on the other end: I’ll never know who it was, but nobody appeared at my door so I think it’s safe to assume I got bluffed.

These instances are soul destroying. They challenge my faith in humanity. They make me feel worthless. “How can people think so little of me to treat me like this?” I thought to myself as I lay on my bed for hours in silence, stunned. I kept my end of the deal, but doing the right thing by people doesn’t always mean they’ll return the gesture.

Escorting taught me that. It’s taken away my faith in people. It’s jaded me. But that’s ok, I know that these creeps frequent this underworld I live in, and one day these moments will no longer be, but until then, having thick skin is essential.

Don’t become an escort if you don’t have resilience, because honey, you’ll need it.



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