Desperate Times Call for Desperate Measures

Fuck. No one is home. Annnnnd the internet's been out for over a week! I'm pornless and I need to get off and I need to get off now. What's a girl to do?

I lay back on my disheveled bed and close my eyes real tight, lift my dress and stick my hand down the front of my flower-patterned underwear. Who needs porn when I can replay the images in my head? Look I'm already wet and all I had to do was think about the last scene I watched: a blonde silicon-enhanced milf-type is bound on the floor of an immaculate kitchen getting face fucked by a perfectly tanned tribal tatted ab-guy. Black make-up streams down her cheeks with tears, fake eyelashes flutter as she gags and chokes on the big dick shoved down her throat again and again. He grunts, grabs her hair and thrusts, deeper down, demanding that she take it all while knocking her back on the shiny kitchen floor...

And there. I've lost it! And it's all because that damned floor. If only he hadn't pushed her back and caught the floor in the shot, the same as mine, but exponentially more shiny! I've gotten distracted and now I have to start all over again...huff.

I really settle in this time, tossing my panties to the floor, spreading my legs and digging my heels into the mattress. If I think about a hotter, more explicit scene it'll happen. I'm sure of it.

Rubbing my swollen clit wildly I think about a long scene I have bookmarked on my computer. Though I've seen it a handful of times I can only remember it in bits and pieces: it starts with three bears fully clothed tongue kissing on a bed, which eventually turns into three naked bears licking each other's ass's and sucking each other's cocks. They're sweaty, hairy and sensual beasts pumping and stroking each other fiercly and tenderly.

Goddamnit, this isn't doing it either. I'm jonesing now. If I don't get some mental stimulation to fix my physical situation I just might explode.

I run through the contacts on my phone and send a frantic sext to my boyfriend. "Want to know what I'm thinking about? I'm thinking about you pounding me on the table in the middle of that sushi place we went to last night."

Anxiously, I await a reply. One minute, then five go back. Strung out on untapped orgasms I send another text: "baby???" Seconds later my phone chimes and my hopeful hand is again rubbing between my legs, but I'm soon disappointed when the response gives me nothing.

I'm frustrated. I know you're at work, but couldn't you just sneak into the bathroom for one much needed dick shot? I'm starting to lose hope.

If I can't concentrate on scenarios I've seen and everyone is too busy doing more important things I'll just have to trick myself into having an orgasm.

I turn on music, real loud. I can't have the new neighbors overhear. Then I strip down completely, lay back on my bed one last time determined to drown out the distracting thoughts with my own voice. After a moments pause I stick a pillow over my face as an extra precaution. Deep breath and here I go...

"Oh yea. OH YEA! Take it just like that. You like it like that? Huh? HUH?" A torrential outpour of sex-talk streams out of mouth so fast, so loud that I can't think of anything else but their dirty connotations and my hot cunt. "Fuck me. FUCK ME! I want you to shove your fingers in and out of me, make me take them all. Shove your fist in. Make me wet, make me squirt all over you. Make me a dirty girl, you're little fuck toy. Just like that. Mhmm..."

Though heard a thousand times before in real-life banging and in porn-viewing situations these words hold no meaning now. They aren't describing any kind of real sex they are vessels of sex, dripping the gooey spirit of live-action when I am so desperately without. Pillow-muffled emissions of the feel, the essence of lewd and lascivious might just be the placebo I need to get me through the rest of this day.

I slap the tender inside of my thighs, squeeze my tits, run my fingers the length of my body then shove my fingers as deep inside my pussy as they will go, never lifting the fingers of my right hand off my clit. I stroke - slowly then faster and faster as the words echo about the room, bouncing off the bare walls and back at me, writhing bare and nearly broken on the bed.

Getting closer I let out the loudest, porn-saturated fake orgasm sound I can muster and  I cum, for real, real hard, forcing a satisfied whimper out of me nearly inaudible over the music and the pillow still stuffed over my head.

Tips and Quips for Peepshow Patrons

Having witnessed hundreds of patron's experiences behind the glass and visiting as a customer a time or two, let me give you a few bits of advice on how to get the most out of your trip to the Lusty lady peepshow.

Follow the rules: Whipping out your phone, fancy iPads and cameras makes us buck-naked ladies way nervous, even if you are only checking a text. Most of us are not out about our jobs and would like very much for our images to stay right were they are.

Don't pretend you're at the zoo: Remember when Tatiana the tiger mauled that obnoxious guy at the SF Zoo a few years back? Beware of harsh reprimands and flying stilettos if you dare bang on the glass or taunt us.

Find a girl you like: We want you to be happy! If the shade lifts and the girl in front of you doesn't suit your fancy by all means move to a section that works better for you. Just be sure to close your door securely behind you when you leave!

Stay a while at the main stage: You'll have more bang for your buck (and I truly mean buck since it only costs $1) if you put in $5 or $10 at a time. Positives: more free hands for play, no stop and go show, ladies will be drawn to you since you're paying attention and you'll get a better, more explicit show.

Don't make us play Wack-A-Mole: Be patient with us! There are 12 booths surrounding the main stage and 3 of us on stage, which means the ladies have 4 windows each and we can and do entertain all at once. You will not get the most explicit show or 100% of our attention in the first $1. If you bop around from window to window only putting in $1 at a time you'll find it's the same at every window and you'll tax the girls on stage who are trying their best to make sure you're satisfied.

Become a regular: Ladies love regulars! Familiar faces are always welcomed and the more we get to know what you appreciate the better prepared we are to give it to you. I used to have a regular customer who liked to dirty talk about me baking; anticipating his return I brought a cupcake into Private Pleasures to give him an extra special show.

Tip!: Think we are awesome customer servicers? Give us a little extra somethin' somethin'. (Little known fact: we don't make much over minimum wage. That's about $10/hour to dance around naked for lots of eyes!) You tip for service at bars, restaurants and barber shops, don't we deserve the same?

Ladies, be nice: Women patrons make us more self-concious than anything! If you're uncomfortable being here, then so are we. If you are talking negatively about our bodies or shaming us for the work we do we often absorb those comments much more than if they came from your male counterparts. 

We like variety: Lusties love to do one-on-one spread, masturbation and toy shows in the private booths, but do you want to know what else we like? Fetishes! Whether you are an amateur or hardcore shoe, stocking, age play, sneezing or golden shower fetishist we appreciate your excitement and willingness to explore.

Take a trip to VIP or Private Pleasures: These booths offer more intimate and interactive shows with one or more of the girls and give both parties a chance to get to know each other a bit more. If you've only been to the nude stage you'll learn it's a completely different kind of show, one that can't be seen anywhere else in San Francisco. Hell, we offer a kind of show and experience that can only be found in a few locations around the country.

Girl On Top

Remember that time I had you bent over the couch? I tell you sweetly, politely to "stick your damn ass up in the air." I say I didn't know what I wanted to do with you yet so you should just stay that way until I did.

I don't go into toppy mode often, usually preferring to be the receiver, the bottom, the accepter of other's efforts and aggression. But sometimes...sometimes I want to be the one who is obviously calling the shots, not passively taking all you can give me or controlling from the bottom. That day was like leap year, the rare blue moon, and I wanted to wear a cock and watch you ache for it.

I choose to sit on a wooden chair facing you, watching you waiting, expecting something more, but you get nothing. You turn your head to look at me, wild-eyed in wonder as to whats to come. Or cum. My legs are crossed and my dress is still on so you haven't seen my big silicone cock yet.

Smiling, I unzipper the front of my green dress, letting it fall to the floor next to me. I unhook my frilly pink bra and discard of it quickly. There's no need to be froofie today, all a girly-girl with a dick needs is lipstick and high, high heels.

Spreading my legs wide so you can see the wetness on the inside of my thighs I slowly start to stroke my cock. You get hard at my hardness. Pumping up and down with my manicured fist I groan and ask "do you want it baby?" Your hurried nod and stream of pre-cum underneath your swollen dick is all I need to know it's time.

I kneel behind you, one hand searching between your legs to start tugging, pulling on you hard and fast while my other hand directs my lubed-up extension all over your ass. You're exposed, totally and utterly vulnerable like I usually am with your pretty little hole shining for eyes to see, for tongues to explore and fingers to disappear into. "All eyes are on you, honey, and this girl's going to take real good care of you."

Snaking my cock next to yours my hands grasp your waist and I pull you into me, pushing my skin onto your skin, my hips into your flesh, reminding you how far I can go in. I adamantly think "I can take yours so you should take mine" and while you have the nicest cock I've ever seen mine is chosen, made of an ungiving composite that is wider and almost inhumanly longer than yours. I remind myself I must be gentle.

Hot skin erupts into goose flesh as you arch your back to run your ass up and down the rubber shaft that's standing ever erect in front of my cunt. I need to feel your pressure against my pelvis almost as much as you need it deep inside. I take your gym-calloused hand in mine and direct it to your cock, whispering "jerk it" in your ear.

For a split second you hesitate and I can imagine a million thoughts galloping through your mind at once: uncertainty and fear of defenselessness and pain creeps into your muscles and for a flash of an instant I think you're going to stand up and tell me you need me to take off my strap-on, that you need to play with my slit and have me suck your cock like you're used to.

But you don't. You grit your teeth, slowly squeeze your cock with your fingers and lean back until the tip of my cock slides easily into your wanting hole, taking it like a man.

Hands outstretched to your shoulders I drive it all the way inside, making you moan and shake. Gently, I ask if you can still take it. Unable to form words you say nothing, but your hand on my hip holding me in place screams "Yes. Like this." A rush of blood rushes to my clit and I have to get off.

Releasing one hand from your skin I delve into the front of my harness, finding my cunt slick and wet with want and my clit hard and ready. I rub my clit in small circle strokes watching you face down in the cushions, hole filled with my girl-meat, which is making you harder than I've ever seen before. Your strokes are tight, incomplete and I know you can blow any moment.

I cum, fiercely and fully, driving myself forward into your ass, sending my cock as deep inside as it can go, setting off a chain reaction. You cum, shooting streams of sticky white jizz all over the uncovered couch and your taunt stomach. You gasp with release and oxygen.

Slipping out of your ass and out of my still stiff dick, I roll in between you and the couch, covering myself on all sides with your cum and sweat. Your grin and flushed cheeks are toxic and I can't help but squeal with girly delight, planting light kisses all over my big burly man.

Dating the Transboy

I met my boyfriend Ethan as Ethan. I was one of the first, if not the first, person to only know him by this name. We met via OkCupid.com a few months after he transplanted himself across the country, out of old relationships, configurations and presentations, and into, what I have witnessed, a stronger sense of self that's grown under the warm California sun.

Both of us baby-faced and soft spoken, we sat awkwardly across from each other at Phil's Coffee on our first date, asking a mix of superficial and intimate details of each other's lives. I think we both felt like we had a lot to unload. Polyamorous with minimal dating experience and a sex worker, I regularly opt to divulge all the complicated bits upfront as a litmus test. He did the same, expressing his uncertainties around his identity and gender.

Casual encounters quickly turned into codependency (ok, the word choice might be a bit strong) and all those hopes, fears and concerns of the individual turned into those of the pair. Having a front row center seat view of my partner's ftm transition has been an amazing and hard thing to witness and be part of: feeling the anxiety followed by elation of the first testosterone injection, the apprehension surrounding coming out to old friends, parents and work, the anger directed at people who use the wrong pronouns and gendered bathrooms, the indecision and titillation of having tits, the happiness spurned by people who use proper pronouns without prompting, the mixed feelings that emerged after the discovery of peach fuzz, and the awe at the differences between the voice heard now and the voicemail recording made four months ago.

With all that we've collectively anticipated throughout the last year the one thing that we didn't plan for was how normal it would all feel. Maybe not all of the above examples are easy and incomparable, but our responses to each other have always been unequivocal support and devotion. While Ethan has only known me and accepted me for how I am, I have him. I think we're both used to saying "duh" more often than not.

And while I know there are times when Ethan feels he hasn't shown his whole self to me because I don't recognize him by any other name or any other gender, I know that whole self is there and, I'm conjecturing, probably more easily discernible than before. I mean, who can resist a hat wearing, saggy pants boy that sings show tunes like a freshman in high school and can teach me about lesbian culture, sports and his understanding of the world around him?

Law School Updates!

This post is just going to be quick and messy, but totally and utterly necessary for me to function.

I GOT INTO LAW SCHOOL! 

Last week I received the acceptance letter from Golden Gate University Law not only announcing my acceptance as a full-time student for this coming Fall semester, but they also want to give me a $35,000 scholarship for the year, which can be renewed the subsequent two years if I keep my grades up. They want to give me money to go to their school! It won't quite be a full ride (tuition is *wait for it* $42,000/year), but I won't be up to my ears in debt by the time I get out, which is more than I ever dreamed when I started making my law school plans.

I feel so fortunate. Lucky, even. I knew going in being open about sex work and my activist intentions in my application would be a risk, possibly, if not probably, something that could teeter admissions officers biases against me on a number of levels. I am taking my acceptance to mean that not only am I, a sex worker, being taken legitimately and seriously, but that they also see room for improvement in our legal system regarding sex worker rights. 

Maybe I am reading too much into my acceptance, naively stapling major intention onto the pages of the letters sent by GGU, but damnit, I feel the wind in my sails and I am so excited for what's to come this coming August!

Coming Out: Sex Work

When asked the seemingly innocuous question "So, what do you do?" with my mouth open in the dentist chair or sopping wet in front of my hair stylist I tend to respond boldly, yet vaguely with "I'm a sex worker." This all-encompassing word is plastered all over my blog, in which I say time and time again that I am proud and rooted in what I do, while at the same time hiding it, or at least part of it.

Y'all know that for almost 3 years I have been a peepshow dancer, a sometimes porn performer and fetish model and a now-and-again stripper and cam model. What I've been most hesitant to disclose is that I am also (insert your alternative term of choice: escort, call girl, ho) a prostitute.

Before I go into more details about why and how I decided to become a professional sex-er, what my partners think/feel about it and how we interact around my job, or my unique intersectional experiences (I promise I will go into them in other posts), I want to make some blanket statements about myself, my work and what it means to be out.

-I am a sex worker by choice. No one and nothing coerced or forced me into doing anything ever. My job is my own because I want it to be and it affords me the time to work on academics, activism and personal projects and allows me to sustain a lifestyle of my liking.

-I am not ashamed of my actions and projections because I am in full control of what I do and who I meet. The only shame I can ever feel is that which others betroth upon me. If you feel shame of what I do I am more than happy and willing to help you to get passed your feelings. If there is no end to your feelings of shame then we have a problem.

-Being out about my work is also a choice I am consciously making and I hold no prejudice against sex-workers who cannot or choose not to be. I hold our sex/female bashing society in judgement for pushing people (all people) in the closet and know that activism isn't something all sex workers are into.

-"Sandy Bottoms" is a sex work name I use, but not for ho-ing. Anyone messaging me about those kinds of services through that name will not get a positive response. Treat it like my pen name. Or, better yet, my real name. (If you spotted "birth name" me in a restaurant you wouldn't ask "Sandy" for a lapdance, would you?)

-All my old public agreements are true: I will never out another sex-worker or customer and I will never sensationalize or share stories for shock value. I can only honestly attest for my experiences.

-Lastly and most importantly, I am normal. I am still the same friend, ex-lover, acquaintance, classmate, coworker, daughter, granddaughter I was before you knew. (Inspired by Robyn Few's video statements which can be seen here.)

Coming Out. Again.

To return to the original purpose of this blog I needed to take a hiatus. At first just a month, then two, this break was meant to get me back on the track of writing for me, for my own self-reflection. The last 6 months or so I found I needed to censure everything I wrote in one way or another to keep myself from giving away parts of my identity I hadn't and didn't know how to come out about. Part of my hesitation to come out while my new personal and professional developments occurred was to protect the thoughts and feelings of others, and in short, to protect myself from having to deal with them. Alas, my attempts at self preservation were ill inclined and I ended up enacting some serious self-destruction. Giving some things away and not others, I ultimately burned myself out on self-reflection as a whole, but with both time and private writings under my belt I do believe I am back for good.

So hello again dearest diary (and friends, family, strangers, patrons, and acquaintances).

Get ready for some serious coming out.