I’ve been with a number of couples. Each time, it’s been almost ineffably sweet. I get this big sense of full-circle. And I feel a tremendous respect for the woman. She’s being so strong and enlightened. She’s understanding her man. She’s loosening her grip, she’s letting him play, there’s just one big rule, they’ll do it together. That’s usually the reason they’ve called me. That and her “bi-curiosity”…

He was an average-looking man, relaxed, with a robe on. His eyes held a mischievous twinkle.

And here she was, well-proportioned, five-four, and she still wore all her clothes. She was demure and gently pretty. A subtle little smile graced her face.

Later on, I would realize she was like the Madonna.

He was attempting to run the show. Though his house was all spaces for lounging, he herded us into the heart of it, the kitchen. We seated ourselves on retro stools at a free-standing granite counter.

She was perched next to me. He sat across from us. He poured us all generous goblets of wine.

She remained rather quiet, but her eyes were telling me volumes. I needed to pick up on that; every moment, I needed to read her. I smilingly looked her way, over and over.

Because whenever I’m with a couple, I completely defer to the woman. No matter what the man does, as far as I’m concerned, she’s the one in charge. Usually the man understands that, too. It’s a potentially dicey situation. She’s letting him touch another woman. He and I watch her feelings, every step of the way.

Well, this gal was looking quite peaceful. While she sat there in passive, contented-looking repose, her man and I avidly chatted. I could tell that all this was natural. He and I were both
Every few minutes or so, he would shut himself up, and leer. His eyes would roll from her face to mine, and back to hers again. He was waiting for the two of us to say something, negotiate something, get this thing going, just do it.

He didn’t seem to quite get it: she and I were all set.

He made me think of a business meeting. He was tensed up for some kind of contract. Whenever he stopped talking and bore us with his eyes, to please him we turned to each other, and smiled. But she and I didn’t discuss things. We didn’t need to. We understood.

We remained there a little while longer, bestooled in his neutral kitchen, not ready to move to The Place Where It Happens, and not worried about it, either, at least not us girls, that is. He anxiously poured us more wine. He and I small-talked, she and I glowed, and we listened to the ocean make her own love, we heard her heaving and frothing with her passion for the moon.

I don’t recall how we got to the bedroom. At one point, we were just there…


The true whore is loving, the clergy of Goddess. She knows that her sexual service is holy. She’s known it forever and ever.

I define the contemporary true whore as an independent agent, totally self-employed. She’s also emotionally healthy.

A true whore performs a sort of magic on men. She creates an immediate intimacy. So whenever an encounter meant to be stress relieving gets somehow tainted with hate, I call that professional failure. That isn’t the work of the true whore.

I’ve come to understand that the key to well-being lies in giving myself with joy. I’ve tended my clients with the same sense of right as whenever I’ve mentored a child, or whenever I’ve taught exercise, or whenever I’ve worked in my garden, or whenever I’ve written a story. Something simple, yet tremendous, has occurred to me. In spite of the fleeting nature of certain intimacies, and regardless of societal infliction of shame, our genitals are a major gateway to joy. That is not an opinion. That is an absolute truth. Some may choose to ignore, despise or shrink from that truth. Regardless, that truth stands.

To be a true whore is to embrace that absolute….

As I raked in the head-swelling money, I saw the importance of sustaining compassion. I saw that the money alone wouldn’t keep up my sense of worth. Without a high standard of customer care, I would lose respect for myself. I would cheat the goals of nurture that had always shaped my self-esteem.

I knew it was easy to not care. To cease being human in sex work. To grab the money, perform like a robot, and run. It looked easy on the surface, but in truth it was self-harm. To cease being caring in sex work would be a path to internal decay---a path to the loss of my nurturer identity, the core of my life’s deepest meaning.

I also came to understand that the true whore inspires others. She understands that she’s vital. She thoughtfully shapes each professional encounter with a customized serving of sex and soul. She sets a high feminine standard. She responds, at least subconsciously, to an inkling of feminine deity.

In America, the true whore rebels against her depressive surroundings. She resists the American obsession with self-indulgent excess. Like everyone who tries, in this stuffed-face culture of glut, to “stay straight,” “dry out” or “eat right,” she knows that the toughest of battles lie within. She grapples with the threat of unhealthy addictions brought about by the temptations of our world of gross consumption. She works at remaining well toned in both her body and her mind.

In our high-fat, sugared and drugged, lethally sedentary culture, such physical and spiritual feats are supreme. As a victor over the toxic way of life that makes Americans fat, pharmaceutically dependent, barroom-fixated, seeking drugs, sucking on smoke, and chronically morose, she understands that the point of sex work is to reunite people with their natural joy.