Accepting My Inner Whore

I think "Dirty Reader" is going to be the one to help me accept and love my Inner Whore. (background: why I'm referring to part of myself in third person here, and what I've already written about sluts and whores here)

Before we begin, let me perfectly clear: I am clearly pro-sex. I am clearly pro-sex-workers. I have long been fascinated by phone sex operators, strippers, and prostitutes. I think sex work can be an empowering, fulfilling career choice. 

And I think paying for sexual activities can be a healthy choice. It can be a perfectly valid hobby, not a bad use of entertainment funds. But even as a means of sexual gratification, I can see lots of scenarios where employing a readily available professional can be expedient, fulfilling, and well worth the cost. 

So why do I have a problem with accepting and loving my own Inner Whore?

I think I tend to reject my Inner Whore for two big reasons: because I want to value people for who they are more than for their material worth, and because I don't want to be dependent on men for money.

I can work through the first issue more easily. I will never stop valuing people for their sense of humor, ability to healthily express emotion, ability to verbally express interesting ideas, or the thousand other reasons I value people. I may professionally prioritize my follow-up efforts towards the well-funded, but that's just good business, not a reflection of a personal valuation. I have enough consulting experience to help me sort through this one. 

The second issue is deeper, and trickier. I got the message clearly growing up: never depend on a man for money, because who knows how long a marriage might last, and fortunes come and go anyway (both Dad and Stepdad had salary fluctuations from "can't afford a Coke at the zoo" to "what the hell, let's put in a hot tub"). And there's no family money to fall back on.

So I figured out how to pay for everything. And I felt good about my career. It was part of my identity, my ability to provide for myself, and it feels the same as how men talk about it. Money has never been a factor with who I've chosen to date, and I'm a secretly a little proud of that. (not such a secret now that you're publishing it...)(oh, hush, you)

Intellectually, I understand the difference between depending on one man to meet your financial needs, and depending on men in general to purchase the goods and services I am offering. And I understand rationally that everyone is ultimately dependent for their income: if you work for someone else, they had to hire you, and they pay you; if you work for yourself, you are dependent on customers, or the companies you are investing in. But those cognitive recognitions don't change my gut-level fear of being financially "dependent", whatever that means.

Somehow, I stumbled into this conversation with Dirty Reader. And he started poking around: What if someone offered you as much as you made in a month of phone sex in exchange for a long weekend live? How would that make you feel? What factors would go into making that decision?

I bucked against the idea at first, even just thinking about it. Now, I've met lovers online and I have faith in my safety filters. But wow. Meeting a phone client in person is seriously complicating a relationship that I'm partially relying upon for my livelihood. And would I be more reluctant to uphold my boundaries if I were getting paid? And not to mention: it's illegal! And not to mention: NO. Did I mention: NO? Wave after wave of warning bells went off, which I had to dismiss, one by one, just to sink into the fantasy space of it with him. It took a few tries.

But the math. The math is... attractive.

And when I got to that thought, I felt, for a moment, like a whore. I felt dirty. Unsettled. And... and... what the fuck is that feeling? Valued? Precious? Treasured? Really? Treasured? Where the hell is that coming from?

Right about then, the intuitive bastard said, "I think I'd pay you in cash, by leaving piles of money around the hotel room in small bills, so you'd have to pick it up, handle it, lie on it, crawl over it to get to me. Make you face it head-on, that you were taking money to be with me. I'd stuff fives into your bra and panties as I was undressing you." The severity and absurdity of the mental picture smacked me upside the head, and I found myself laughing and blushing and stammering. And verbally beating against his chest in protest, calling him every mean name I could think of, the dirty filthy fucking pig asshole sonofabitch jerkwad.

But sometimes picturing an extreme helps drive home a point, and the memory of it lingered, and somehow it's helping me to accept that my company as a sexual partner has monetary value to some people (obviously  discriminating patrons with exquisite taste). And it doesn't make me dependent or needy or weak to provide that exchange.

So now, I can feel my Inner Whore gaining strength, courage, and a voice - slowly, but steadily. I'm doing my best to encourage her coming-out, and trust that she won't grow too strong or take over or endanger me.

But I'll admit, I'm a tiny bit nervous about her.