Love, Professionally Speaking: On The Nuances Of Dating A Sex Worker

Can money buy what love can't?

By Karma Said

When I told my father I was the consensual sex slave of a professional Dominant, one of his first questions was: “do you pay him, or is it love?”

Ok, it wasn’t one of his FIRST questions. That statement was truly a lot to unpack. My dad’s first questions were if my husband knew about this (not initially), was he ok with it (not initially), if our kids knew (not yet), and if I was getting divorced (no). Then he asked if I still loved my husband (yes, very much) and if I loved this “Master Joshua” person (yes, very much). Only then could dad take a swipe at the whole “sex worker” thing. 

“So what are you to him? Do you pay him? Are you a job, or is this personal?”
“There’s no money involved,” I reassured my father, “it’s true love.”
This conversation took place about two years ago. It crossed my mind again today, as I handed Joshua a thick wad of bills for his services. Oh my, what would daddy say now?

I am Joshua’s client now. This new twist came about just a few weeks ago, when he told me that instead of leaving their Harlem studio, he and his partners would expand into the larger apartment upstairs.  “You will need money for the down payment,” I observed. “I have a suggestion. Take what I was saving for our vacation, and give me our time together. Our time and your undivided attention.”
“Interesting,” he replied. “Tell me more.”

Two years ago, when I first told my father about our lifestyle, he expressed many concerns. The major one, of me losing my family, never came to pass. Joshua and I weathered many of the others, and  always came out on top, eventually. But on the issue of time dad was dead on point.
“You say he has other lovers, aside from you,” he noted.
“Five or six, usually. Plus the occasional fly-bys.”
“In between everything that goes on in his life and everything that goes on in yours, when will you even find time for each other?”
“In between,” I retorted.
My father smiled, mirthlessly. “Then I hope you’re prepared to spend a lot of time missing him.”

Can money buy what love can't?
Can money buy what love can’t?

Dad was right.  Our life together is like a great big frothing river, and while we’ve been sailing it in tandem, it’s in separate boats. Me and my family in one, Joshua and his in the other. Sometimes the currents push us together, and sometimes they pull us apart. When that happens, I really do miss him. Missing Joshua feels gray and weak, like a sickness. Sometimes it feels like a chronic sickness, that will only get worse with time. Sometimes the suffering of his absence outweighs the joy of his presence. 

Last year I abandoned the title “slave” for a more open-ended one (TBD). Because, among other things, the way I missed Joshua  was unsustainable. It was a “cut off the arm to save the body” situation, I reckoned. It did nearly kill the relationship all together.  It also gained me a measure of independence. I now enjoy the labor of setting my own course, carrying my own weight. I take pride in the feeling of growing myself into my own Master.  But though missing Joshua doesn’t feel like an affliction anymore, I still want more of him. And he wants money. Which I have.  After all we’ve been through, together and apart, trading my money for his time doesn’t feel too transactional a solution… Not in a bad way, anyway. Right now It actually feels kinda fun.

“I’m not your slave anymore, and you’re not my Master,” I imagine telling him, on my train ride over. I picture myself deliberately placing the $50 bills on the table as I speak, one by one, like a fucking G. “You work for me now.  We’re gonna have all the time in the world… to do whatever I want.” This idea is so pleasurable it actually makes my toes curl. I keep giggling at it, right up to the moment I cross his threshold. He’s been away for a week; standing naked in the doorway, he looks as beautiful and intimidating to me as a wild predator.   



"You work for ME now."
“You work for ME now.”

“Hi,” I say, breathlessly. He cocks an eyebrow at the site of the cash in my hand. “Are we on the clock?” He asks. I can’t tell if he’s joking, serious, or mad.
“Um, I don’t know,”  I fidget. “Do you want us to be, Sir?”
Gee. So not a G.
He stares me down a moment longer before breaking into a grin. “First let’s fuck,” he suggests, bending me over, “this one’s on the house.” 

This is probably how we all feel, I think, as he pushes into me from behind. The sensation of his body filling mine must feel as unique, as deeply personal, as rare and real to all of us, all of the hundreds he’s fucked over the years. And while Joshua doesn’t generally fuck for money, he IS a professional, and this is part of what I will now pay him to do. It’s a job. The thought is bitter, till I look over my shoulder and see his face. Love, lust, care and need are clearly etched on it. They’re real, or if they’re fake then so are the sun and the sky. His need is different from my own, though. It’s HIS need. If I were to put words to his expression, they would be:  “Stay. I want you to be ok so you can stay with me. Keep taking my soul in, keep taking my dick in, and keep on staying with me.”

What he actually says is “I missed my little not-slave.”
“I missed you too, my not-Master”, I reply with a grin. I like that we can still call each other Master and slave this way, and I also like the “not”. He pumps into me several more times, in increasingly broader, harder strokes, but then slows to ask: ‘What is it about this that you need so much?”

You, inside of me, comes the instant reply. But my lips can no longer form the words. All I can do is clench around him as I cry out, and hope he feels the magnitude of this simple truth as much as I do.



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