I recently read an article on Sexis discussing the issue of rape, and it prompted me to share my own experiences with various forms of unwanted intercourse.
Yes, I am a sex trade worker an erotic masseuse who also specializes in toy play and prostate stimulation. Many in our society even though we live in so-called “first world” countries sadly and mistakenly believe that it’s not possible to rape a sex worker. Others believe the same about husbands and wives.
I’ve reached a point in my career where I can afford to say no to FS (full service, in other words, intercourse). But of course, any sexual activity with strangers carries not just the risk of STIs, but also safety risks.
Boundaries are my biggest ally. Stating them clearly in my ads and in any communication with clients before and during appointments makes everything smoother and a lot more enjoyable for everyone involved.
It’s taken me over 37 years to learn how to have strong boundaries (I have another article in the works entirely about boundaries) because I spent most of my life sacrificing my own in order to appease others.
It all began in 10th grade one night when my friend’s brother came to town. He was 17 years old, and since I had such a huge crush on his brother, I instantly found him attractive. We were left alone while my crush went upstairs with his. We didn’t say much, but I had just lost my virginity, a fact I think he was aware of. It only took one move on his part to get his tongue down my throat. Within seconds I was on my back, my pants were down, and by the time I realized what was happening, it was over.
I do not consider it rape. What I do think it was, was a matter of me being young, naïve, and taken advantage of. My mom and some of my friends called it date rape as I’m sure some of you will agree. But rape is such an extreme word to me that I didn’t feel right using it. Whether that was because of his reputation or simply because I was thinking of women who had been forced violently, I’m not sure. Either way, it was upsetting but not traumatizing. I’m a strong girl.
Many fun years of monogamy and hookups followed, and though I was highly sexual, I must admit that I often had physically uncomfortable sex and occasionally sex I wasn’t interested in at all simply to keep my partner interested. I remember one drunken (him, not me) night in particular with an ex. I had snuck into his bedroom, motivated by intimacy and an ego boost, while his motivation was purely coital. That night I came to realize the other side of sexual power. His drunkenness made him clumsy and forceful, and I chose to stay, tears streaming down my face in the dark as he painfully thrust in and out of me. Normally, sex with him didn’t hurt our anatomies fit well but my inability to relax and his inebriated lack of caring made all of that irrelevant. It definitely was NOT rape, but it was not wanted intercourse either.
After that, I had a few serious relationships and even fewer one-night stands. And though I spent countless nights totally messed up on various drugs, I somehow managed to avoid assault and luckily, I’m not the type of woman who attracts abusive men.
Fast forward to my downward spiral into drug addiction. I was addicted to methamphetamine and heroin for years, while still managing to hold on to my prostitution virginity/chastity.
By the time I ended up on the street addicted to cocaine and working a corner, I quickly found out what it felt like to force yourself to accept money to get molested which is exactly how it felt. The first trick I turned was so quick and easy. As soon as I got out of the car, I braced myself for the shame and hurt I expected prostitution to bring but it never came. That in itself was devastating, and I finally burst into tears.
A few weeks later, while I was staying in a shelter, a girl asked me to come spot for her which means writing down license plate numbers while she worked the corner (something I had only done myself a handful of times).
A jeep pulled up with five Middle Eastern guys inside. The girl asked me to go along with her in the car, thinking it would be safer than her going alone. We parked, and while she got out and did her thing, I gave one of the guys a blowjob in the back seat.
When they dropped us off, she told me she had been paid in drugs. Neither of us knew that the drugs were laced with roofies (Rohypnol). Ten minutes later I knew we were in trouble. I was passing out and could tell from experience it wasn’t an opiate though even if it had been, that would’ve meant I was overdosing and needed medical attention.
The jeep pulled back up, and the five guys asked if we needed a place to stay. We thanked them and went along, thinking we’d be safe. Several hours later, I woke up in extreme pain. There was a penis in my vagina, one in my ass, and another attempting to enter my mouth. I struggled and freaked out, but a fourth guy pushed my head to the floor and told me they weren’t finished. Luckily, I passed back out which I think was better than the alternative: being conscious for a gang rape.
In the morning I was understandably upset and accused my attackers of rape. They laughed, got mad, and kicked me out, calling me a whore.
Roofies mess with your memory. Not only could I not recall the night before, but for the next couple of days, I couldn’t hold on to anything I was saying or doing. I went to a sexual assault center and then to the police, but I couldn’t remember enough for much of a case. When I left the house and tried to return minutes later to check on my friend, I couldn’t even recognize which house it was. Thankfully she was fine, though strangely she later denied that anything bad happened that night.
I spent three days in a transition house, scared they would come after me, and left only because I didn’t feel comfortable comparing my situation to women with children hiding from abusive husbands. Like I said, I have a tendency to sacrifice my own needs and boundaries.
I later met a guy who recognized me from that night he had delivered drugs to them and witnessed them having sex with my unconscious body. He said he tried to intervene, but they convinced him I had agreed to it.
Five years of prostitution followed, and I must have had horseshoes up my ass, because I didn’t have any other bad dates. Still, I must say that nine out of ten tricks felt like I was being molested. Looking back, my self-sacrificing tendencies made me consider how unfair a position I put the johns in. I mean, I offered my time and body to these guys. They had a certain expectation that I was okay with it and could handle it if not enjoy it. Ha! I’m sure many of them (as they often expressed) actually thought I was a nympho or that I loved “sucking cock” for money.
Life on the street was a repetitive, violent cycle of self-inflicted abuse: sex work, followed by self-medicating with poison to anesthetize the pain, followed by hooking for more drugs, etc. Somehow, eventually, my significant other and I managed to get clean.
Fast forward again to four years with a wonderful guy who would tickle me just to see if I was in the mood and never pushed further if I didn’t respond. We parted ways incredibly amicably (in fact, I just had dinner at his house last night). I mention his demeanor because I want to point out that I’m not attracted to abusive men or to violence. I am also not scarred for life.
Just because someone is involved in sex work no matter how degrading or objectifying, or whether they’ve been sexually assaulted or molested in childhood does not automatically result in promiscuity or frigidity. (Not that either is something to be ashamed of, but I’m proud of my healthy sexuality.)
Yes, I’ve gone back to sex work but this time with boundaries. I don’t need the money to fuel an addiction. I can pick and choose who I want to see, when, where, and how far I go. I love what I do. Every successful appointment feels like sexual healing, and I’m almost giddy walking clients out the door. All except one so far…
Last year, a client asked if I wanted to meet a Dom he thought I might do doubles with. She later asked if I’d be willing to take her husband out dancing and then back to my place, for whatever I was comfortable with. I made it very clear: I was not willing to do full service. She understood and was fine with that.
Soon after, her husband texted me and we set a date for Saturday. Again, I repeated that I was NOT agreeing to intercourse when I say “sex,” I mean penis-in-vagina intercourse (I don’t do anal either). I was very clear about what I was willing to do, direct and upfront no coyness, no games.
By Saturday, I was actually looking forward to a night out. I’ve been dancing most of my life, but it had been over a year since I last went. Maybe it was a mistake, maybe just bad business judgment, but I agreed to go without being paid upfront, trusting that I’d be compensated the next day. Anyone who knows anything about sex work knows you always take the money first.
Still, we went out and I admit it I had fun. I even posted a picture on my personal Facebook page. A couple of hours later, we went back to my place. I talked about my work without telling him directly that his wife had hired me. Once again, I told him I wasn’t interested in intercourse just oral and toy play. His wife might be a Dom, but he wasn’t into that lifestyle, and honestly I didn’t expect things to go there.
But then came the begging. “Just the tip?” he kept saying, like some cliché. I told him “no” more than ten times, firmly, not flirtatious, not playful. When he whined, “Why you gotta be like that, girl?” I looked him straight in the eyes and said: “Because I don’t want to have sex. Those are my boundaries, and I said no.”
But he didn’t stop. I kept weighing the situation if things escalated, I wasn’t going to get paid, but it wasn’t just about money. It was about control. About avoiding violence. I don’t do violence. And I realized that one way or another, this wasn’t going to end cleanly.
So no, I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw him out. I didn’t call it rape in the moment. Instead, I reached into my toy drawer and pulled out my trusty JimmyJane Form 2. Maybe it was symbolic maybe not but it shifted the entire scene. Within seconds, I came. That almost never happens for me during sex. But I know my body, and I know the limbic system the same part of the brain that controls fight-or-flight also controls arousal. Women can orgasm during assault not because it’s wanted, but because the body uses it as a defense mechanism. For me, years in sex work had taught me how to reach for pleasure instead of trauma. And I refused to let this man leave me scarred.
In the morning, he had the nerve to ask for seconds. I refused, and this time he actually listened. Later, when his wife came to pick him up, I told her what had happened. She didn’t freak out she apologized. Stranger still, she begged me to let them adopt the baby if I had gotten pregnant from the encounter. People call me schizophrenic, but honestly some folks are just flat-out crazy. Thankfully, my period came a couple of days later.
Not long after, I moved into a new basement suite with a great landlord. One of my neighbors later confided that she was related to one of Robert Pickton’s victims. Pickton was convicted of second-degree murder in her sister Andrea Joesbury’s death. Andrea was last seen in 2001 the very same year I was drugged and raped just two hours away from where she was likely tortured and killed. Her remains were found in a bucket in his barn.
And maybe this is why I hesitate to call my attackers “rapists.” Survivor’s guilt, I guess. I lived, and others like Andrea did not.
I’m writing this for a few reasons. Yes, partly for catharsis, to put my sexual adversities into words. But more importantly, because I want people to understand: sexual assault does not automatically destroy someone for life. Don’t get me wrong each incident hurt like hell, and yes, I still cry when I’m touched with real love. But I am not broken. I am not wasted.
Society may not treat survivors as ruined, but it still treats sex workers that way. Few people understand that street work is survival sex. Even fewer respect an escort’s choice to participate in the oldest profession there is.
I love what I do now. But I can only love it because I have strong boundaries.
Stay tuned for my article on boundaries.
Thanks, friends and readers.
Sangsara (Julie to my clients)