That time I paid for sex

I’m not really one to keep secrets. Not anymore anyway. As a comedian, with a touring show that literally highlights most of my (tragic) dating history from the last decade, there aren’t too many interesting stories that I haven’t shared on stage with rooms full of strangers. That process has been cathartic.

But this story has always felt a bit more personal. A bit more unique. Maybe sharing it will make me realise that it’s actually not unique at all.

It’s about the time that I paid to have sex with a sex worker.

Sex, shame, and curiosity

My story happened over 20 years ago. I was a 23 year old woman, eager to have my first female to female experience. I didn’t tell anyone about it for at least 10 years. Not my closest friends. Not my partners. And not because I held personal shame about it, but because I felt that other people wouldn’t view the experience in a healthy and positive way, like I did.

I grew up in a small country town in central Victoria. The kind of town where everyone knew everyone, and it was still considered unusual to have same-sex relationships, or even experiences. Lesbians were referred to as ‘lezzos’, and the ‘butch-lezzo’ stereotype was all we knew in the public eye.

Back then, I didn’t even tell people about the men I slept with. I was what people would have considered a highly sexually active young woman back then – a ‘slut’, if you will. And I didn’t need the judgement. I wasn’t going to change my behaviours, so I just kept that part of my life quiet. Of course, people knew anyway. People talk.

I have always been turned on by the female body, but I don’t actually remember if the idea had been on my mind for long, or if it was more of a spontaneous decision. Spontaneity is generally how I make decisions around sex, so I would say the latter is more likely.

The decision

I’m not sure that it had ever crossed my mind that I could just pay for the experience until then. But on this night I had decided. I can’t remember the exact way I went about it, but back then the internet wasn’t what it is today. I imagine I just looked up the options in the Yellow Pages.

I phoned an escort service who said they could send someone to my house. I lived over an hour away from where they would be coming from. There were two options: the woman that was available to arrive at my house by 8.45pm, or the more ‘highly recommended’ woman – I assume because of looks – who wasn’t available to be at my house until 11.30pm. I went with option A. Love an early night.

The arrival

When 8.45pm came, I got the knock at the door. Opening the door I found the woman and her security person standing there. I felt strangely confident. I can be a quite socially anxious person if given unfamiliar social situations to deal with, but the rules here were clear: I was paying for sex. She was providing sex. He was checking that I wasn’t a danger to her, and was going to head to the pokies at the pub nearby, and probably spend his night’s wage. You-do-you, mate.

It was a cash-only situation – everything was back then. So I gathered up the cash that I had in the house to avoid having to go to the bank at night. This meant I handed over a few notes and a bunch of change. I was more ashamed of that than the actual process.

I handed over the cash – at a guess, around $170 – and invited her in. The first few minutes, I wasn’t sure how to start, so I offered her a cup of tea and she accepted. It couldn’t have felt more normal, although we were both conscious that the clock was ticking.

My time with her

We headed into my bedroom. We chatted comfortably, as she showed me all of the different toys and sexual health products that she had in her kit. She talked openly about some of her other customers. I remember her pulling out a dental dam and explaining that if I wanted to go down on her, she highly advised using the dam because she had just been with a man who… I can’t remember her words, but she indicated that he was gross.

The thought of that alone made me decide that there was no way I was going down on her. I don’t think I had ever intended to anyway. I was happy for her to take the reins on that.

She seemed genuinely happy to be with a woman for this booking.

I explored everything I needed to. Touching. Kissing. Basic vibrator play. Nothing wild. Nothing felt uncomfortable and nothing felt wrong.

When the hour was up, the knock came at the door. It was the end. Her final words were: ‘If you’d ever like to do this again, I would come back for free.’ I never took her up on that but I’m still proud of it.

The whole process felt very normal.

Paying for sex: the aftermath

I didn’t feel shame. If anything, I felt empowered. I felt in control. And I felt safe. But I didn’t tell anyone, because I know that that’s where the shame could creep in. The judgement from others. ‘What kind of a woman would do that??’ Well, me! I would. A sexually empowered, independent woman who is determined not to die wondering.

Shame is an interesting beast. There are things in my life that I’ve carried shame for good reason. Times when I’ve caused emotional pain to others. Things I’ve said that I couldn’t take back. Shame, in that regard, helps you reflect, learn and change.

So many of us make decisions based on what other people might think, and miss out on a world of experiences because of it. Who are we living for?

The rule I live by: If you’re not hurting anyone by your choices, then your choice is good.

If reading this has reminded you of that experience that you’ve always wanted but have been too shy to ask for – I highly recommend you go get it. Who you tell the story to is up to you.

Read more: Oral sex is like ice cream by Vanessa Mitchell.