I wrote this in October 2019 but didn’t publish it on here as I didn’t want the family to cut off my contact. Now however it doesn’t matter.
‘Paying for your time??!’ I could almost see the sneer although the text message was sent from hundreds of miles away.
‘Friends don’t charge.’ Another text from the millionaire stockbroker about the one K a month I charge his father for my time which involves companionship, giggles and watching Antiques Road Trip. The one K used to be for spanking, dress up, dinners, going on holiday, companionship, giggles and watching Antiques Road Trip. But that was before the multiple strokes that affected his mobility. I now visit him while his carers are there. They say “knock knock” every time they enter his room as if expecting me up to my elbow in their patients arse. They won’t make eye contact. Their eldest son has obviously told them everything about me. I want to say to them that I used to be a carer. But their manner toward me is that of a person towards a fly during dinnertime. So I make inane small talk until that runs out. I can’t stand uncivil civility. I grew up in a place where, if there was a problem it was had out. Sometimes fists but at the very least a “what is your problem?” But here in this house visiting my dying friend and client I am afraid I won’t be allowed back. So I say nothing. Even when I buy some bed socks for my friend who asks me to put them on his feet. The carer witnesses this and then wheels him off…bringing him back wearing slippers instead. So petty. Even when the part time carer gives me side eye with a dose of “and how are WE this morning?” I am unused to feeling so disliked. I feel like I have walked into a nordic model conference with a t-shirt that says “I like suckin your husbands dick”.
The only time carers were occasionally nice to me was when the main one wasn’t there. The one who told me I had to bring my own food when I visited. Petty petty petty.
Why are people so appalling? This ever needing need to shame people for having different lives to them. The carer pours everyone else a glass of wine and then tells me the bottle is in the fridge. I bet she pours a glass for the Lords and Ladies who come to visit her patient. Isn’t a Lady a full time sex worker? But a ring on the finger and a title commands respect.
In olden days strong women got burnt at the stake. Sex workers are the new witches. The new strong women who don’t live our lives according to patriarchy’s rules. Sex workers are the best business women I know. The best ones do all their own marketing, websites, bookings etc etc. Never trust a man to do it. Never lose grip of our independence.
And what do we get for it? We get arrested, bank accounts closed, constant hounding from feminist politicians, disrespect from doctors, suspicion from lawyers and either distaste or pity from every other professional job you can think of.
If there was a revolution I would happily wield an axe myself against the people I have met over the years who tried to make me feel shit for my job. And you Mr stockbroker.. You I would take the hood off and look you in the eye. ‘Paying for your time?!’ as if my business is a joke and therefore I am a joke. I won’t explain to this asshat the work that has gone into building my brand. That I take my business as seriously as he takes his job. Of course I could argue that I am doing more good to peoples lives than he; but… pointless. He tries to make me feel shit with his messages about me ‘using his father’. But you know what? The reason his father sought me out was because his family were not around. They didn’t take him on holidays or even do mundane things like stock his fridge. I went on holidays with him and was trusted so much that the man even gave me keys to his flat in Sloane Square to use as and when I liked when he wasn’t there. When he went into hospital I called his mobile and his eldest son answered. He was pleasant to me. Obviously this was because he didn’t know I was a sex worker. We text a few times and I would ask after his dad and ask when I could visit. Then one day the tone in the texts changed. “I can see you are on retainer. You should know I have power of attorney”. As far as his dad was concerned he wanted to keep it in place as I was still visiting regularly. But the son had to demonstrate that HE had the power to stop it when he liked. I had already told the son I had keys to the London flat and now he told me that he needed them back. Fine. Of course I wasn’t going to use the place while his dad was ill. It was difficult, responding civilly to such hostility. But I knew I was on a knife edge of being cut off from his father.
29th July 2020
That is it. I am now cut off from seeing him. On Friday I called and was told by the main carer “he is not AVAILABLE at the moment.” I was so shocked by the glee in her voice that I didn’t know what to say.
“Erm, will he be available tonight?”
“No.” she singsonged back at me and then she put the phone down. I spent the weekend wondering what could have happened. Maybe the son was there. Hopefully that is it. Because if it was not that…the alternative was too hideous to consider. I thought about my last conversation that I had had with him. What had we said? I try to limit talk about my domination job because I imagined the carer listened to our phone calls as she hung around his room and listened when I visited. The only thing I could think was that during that conversation we talked about me visiting him again as the lockdown had ended. Maybe they didn’t want a sex worker visiting when corona was still about.
Anyway Monday morning I tried calling again.
“He is not AVAILABLE at the moment.”
This time I was ready.
“Is he going to be unavailable every time I call?”
“So he doesn’t want to talk to me?”
“You need to talk to the family?”
“Hang on a second, if HE wants to talk/”
“/You need to talk to the family.”
I came off the phone feeling like I had been punched. I tweeted in anger as I assumed it was something to do with the eldest son. And I text the younger son who had always been nicer to me and I asked what had happened. Also I had blocked the elder son after one unpleasant text too many. When I wasn’t seeing my friend as often as a few days once a month I had asked the son to halve my monthly money. This was at the beginning of the year. The response was predictably nasty.
“Wouldn’t you prefer zero.” and when I didn’t respond
“Wouldn’t you prefer zero.” which was when I blocked the repugnant toad (I stand by my Twitter assessment of him.)
I waited anxiously for the younger son’s response. When it came it was not what I expected.
“To ask him for money when the old man doesn’t know Santa from the Pope was not good.”
It turns out the carer had told them I had been asking for money. And the family believed it. Well of course they would. My job always guarantees that people always believe the worst. If I was generous I could say the carer misunderstood something she overheard. Perhaps it was when my client was asking me about work and I said I can’t work at the moment. Domination and theatre are scuppered at the moment (though I am starting to work again from August). Maybe it was when he asked me about my other big client. (I had another who paid me a monthly sum for a few days of my company every month). I laughed and said he stopped the cash back in April citing financial problems. Maybe it was that that she heard. Or maybe I am being generous. Maybe she lied as she couldn’t abide the idea of this dirty sex worker visiting a home that she clearly sees as her own now. Mmm. I would guess that a lot more carers have gone after an inheritance than a dominatrix. That woman is as unpleasant on the outside as on the inside. I think people really end up with the face they deserve don’t you?
I denied the text accusation strenuously and also pointed out that he hasn’t even access to his money anymore so why would I even bother to ask “even if I was a money grabbing bitch.”
Text ignored. That’s it. I am out. My old client/mate will be told that I am just not calling anymore and he will take from that that I don’t care. I do. I don’t think he has lost his marbles like the younger son (and the older son in the past) has claimed. He gets very tired but that is common after a stroke. My dad had a stroke back in 2014 and he is always falling asleep. But like my dad when awake and alert he remembers everything. He talks about politics and places that he wants to go with me and adventures we have had.
I know they will read this. Indeed the family made it clear that they know I am Elizabeth Swan and that they had read (and seen pictures of their dad) on my Twitter page.
The really sad thing is that, yes, they think I am scum but then by extension they will think the same of their father because he chose to see me. Or maybe they disliked him anyway. Before he had the main stroke I visited him in Scotland. He was upset because his eldest had visited and they had had a huge row. “Your grandchildren hate you.” the son had said to him.
“He wouldn’t mean it. People just say things in anger sometimes.” I said, trying to make my friend feel better whilst thinking what a fucking arsehole the son was. How dare he say that to an old man.
As a dominatrix I don’t expect to be invited to funerals. I don’t expect anything really apart from stigma and ignorance. But I HATE HATE HATE being accused of being a goldigger. I could show you emails that I have had from clients during the lockdown offering to help me financially and my replies that declined the offers. My clients know who I am and that I always act with integrity.
I also think that fathers deserve more as they approach their end. Respect, dignity and love…wherever they have found it.