“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.