“Can I see you tomorrow at noon?” Racist Dad asked.

Christmas is far from my favorite holiday. I’m a Jew whose birthday falls the day before Jesus’, and I’ve always felt he encroaches on my special day. There’s very little that could make me like Christmas less, but seeing Racist Dad would definitely check that box.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get my unemployment checks for late November and early December, and on top of that, it was slow.

The holidays are a hit or miss season for most sex workers. Sometimes you get the bag and sometimes you don’t: It all depends on the vagaries of male desire and the state of their bank accounts.

Clients are funny. Men overall take less care of their health than women, and the fact of a pandemic didn’t make a dent in their conceptions of their boners as utter emergencies that deserve several hundred dollars in illegal attention.

To judge from my inbox, you would never know a respiratory pandemic was on: I never stopped getting emails from clients. It didn’t matter their occupation either—my last client before I took the pandemic off was June 2020, a nurse who worked at the hospital by my house and walked over before his shift. I’d told him there was a $200 upcharge to see me without a mask, which he didn’t want to pay. He showed up at my door, no mask in sight. I gave him my blankest stare and shut the door in his face. Bye, Brad.

I was lucky: I was able to take most of the pandemic off because of Pandemic Unemployment Assistance (PUA), the independent contractor’s unemployment. But like I said, my checks for late November and December were missing. After six months of semi-retirement there I was, the day before my birthday, weighing the peace of financial security against the peace of not being viscerally repulsed in a way that clings to me for days.

I opted for the peace of financial security. It lasts longer.

“I would love to! See you then :)”

I do hope to be retired before clients start being young enough to understand “:)” as the passive aggressive “fuck you” that it is.

RD is a boomer though, and boomers eat that shit up.

“Wow! Brilliant! Thank you!” I held up a red satin teddy with no boning and not enough fabric or underwire to hold up my considerable rack. I could already tell my tits would hang like bags of pudding over the fake white fur at the edge of the cup in the most unflattering way. It had to be the ugliest and cheapest lingerie that Yandy or howdoIdisgustmymistress.com had to offer.

“I wanted to get you something special to wear,” he told me, “but wow! Look at you! You always look so good! You take such good care of yourself. You always take such good care of yourself.” He started nuzzling my neck and didn't see my eyes roll back into my head. “Not like some women. You’re so thin and curvy.”

I was in a tight-laced steel-boned corset with lacy black Cuban heeled thigh highs and garters. I looked like someone cosplaying Moulin Rouge and I felt corny as fuck about it, but I knew him: He likes his whores so classic that we’re just this side of dying of consumption.

Initially our sessions consisted of him straining not to get off immediately while complaining about his adopted son (thus his moniker), but since his son left for college he switched to complaints about his wife. His wife is a good two to three decades older than me, and I have a financial incentive to cater to his lust for shapewear. There are solid biological reasons his wife doesn’t look like a 36 year old in a corset—excuse me, 27 year old—but fuck me if he will ever face any of them.

He redirected my head away from his dick. “Not yet, not yet.”

RD is one of the many, many men who can’t make their boners last a whole hour. It’s actually much more unusual to get a man who can last a full thirty minutes than it is to get one who comes in 15, so poor old RD is utterly normal, but he doesn’t give a shit about that. He’s paying for an hour and by god! He believes he should be hard for as much of that hour as he possibly can, biology be damned.

This is actually why sessions with him are so miserably blood curdling: In his effort to hold out and not ejaculate, he veers wildly between almost coming and… losing his boner. There have been days where after 45 minutes of trying not to get off “too fast” he loses his erection entirely—his body as over his maneuvering as I am—and he leaves without having gotten off.

That day he got angrier and angrier the longer his body refused to operate exactly the way he wanted, huffing out great puffs of frustration as his dick went limp and refused to go hard again for a solid 10 minutes. I was so bored and annoyed I started distracting myself by imagining how many viral particles might be in each puff of his breath. When he finally did start to get hard again, I pretended not to hear him—“Slow down! Not yet!”—and didn’t slow down.

Happy birthday! He came into the condom.

I saw him out and then tried on the teddy he got me. Good thing I didn’t put it on while he was here, it looked just as unflattering as I’d guessed. The fake fur was barely visible under the creases of my boobs, the demi-cups not holding them up at all. I gave it to my dog, who loves having new things to chew. I count the money: a third of my rent, taken care of, and no clients for the foreseeable future.

Happy birthday for real.

Editor’s note: The author of this piece is using a pseudonym to protect their privacy.