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"  I was 18 when I started having sex for money. I was away from my small, Bible Belt town for the first time and attending an expensive private university in New York City. My meager allowance and work-study salary weren&amp;#039;t enough to cover my ramen noodles and textbooks, much less participate in city life. A lot of students are broke and don&amp;#039;t become prostitutes, but I was already engaging in the usual bacchanal of freshman-year hookups; I just figured that if I was going to have sloppy, drunken sex with guys who didn&amp;#039;t know my name, I might as well get paid for it. I didn&amp;#039;t feel confident enough to work as a stripper (I can&amp;#039;t dance). But I genuinely liked sex, and the more I thought about it, the difference between sleeping with a guy after he bought me dinner and taking money in advance seemed indistinguishable. However, I never would have become an escort if it wasn&amp;#039;t so easy. I posted an ad on Craigslist&amp;#039;s Erotic Services section describing myself as a regular girl seeking a &amp;quot;donation to her college fund,&amp;quot; and the responses poured in. Standing outside a stranger&amp;#039;s apartment, my stomach would lurch with nerves and excitement. We&amp;#039;d usually amassed quite a number of e-mails, discussing terms and rates, and I always requested a photo so I could weed out any obvious serial killers. Still, would he be nice or demanding; want sweet, sensual sex, an impersonal blow job, or just a pretty girl to pay attention to him? As soon as the door opened, I&amp;#039;d launch into escort mode, like a friendly Southern waitress selling T&amp;amp;amp;A. I never asked for money up front\u2014it seemed like bad manners to make demands right after walking in\u2014but a crisp pile of twenties was usually sitting on the kitchen counter or coffee table. I soon learned to request denominations of $50 because they&amp;#039;d usually just give me the extra $10. Nobody ever ripped me off. The first time, I had absolutely no idea what was going to happen. He was average-looking, with a slight build and thinning hair that concerned me less than the thickness of his wallet. We made awkward chitchat about fishing and REO Speedwagon, just as if we were on a bad date. Taking off my clothes only intensified the awkwardness. It was contextless nud\u00ADity: One second I&amp;#039;m talking about the weather, and the next, I&amp;#039;m topless, with the room-temperature air licking my nipples. I was attracted to some of my clients, but for the most part, I didn&amp;#039;t have the advantage of arousal to soften my self-consciousness. Even when I was sucking in my stomach and wondering whether he thought my naturally large breasts looked saggy, I&amp;#039;d perch on their couches and ask them cheesy questions like, &amp;quot;How can I make you feel good?&amp;quot; In the movies, men who use prostitutes are rude and demanding. But a majority of the guys I met at least acted respectful. Most men aren&amp;#039;t any more turned on by sterile, businesslike sex than women are. They tried to forge some element of connection, and they wanted me to have an orgasm, even if their ideas about how to give me one were overinfluenced by unrealistic porno flicks.  &amp;quot;lt&amp;#039;s your dime,&amp;quot; I&amp;#039;d tell them, after they wouldn&amp;#039;t stop asking me what I liked, what I wanted to do. Most were nervous and didn&amp;#039;t know exactly what they desired, so I ended up playing sex detective while wishing they&amp;#039;d give me some freaking directions so I could finish and go home.Sometimes they made it easy, like this guy on the Lower East Side who&amp;#039;d breathe, &amp;quot;Look at you,&amp;quot; like he was in utter awe. That worshipful attention was almost as addictive as the money; on a good call, I felt like a sex goddess. To these men, I was never on my period, never wore granny panties or blew off shaving my legs, was never tired or in a bad mood. Previously, I&amp;#039;d often follow the lead of guys I was dating\u2014waiting for them to call, wondering if they liked me. But here, I had the upper hand. It felt powerful to know that the man in front of me was so desperate to touch me that he was willing to pay for it. That look of panicked lust on his face made me feel like I could ask for anything in exchange for the touch of my hand. Despite the occasional odd request to play strip poker or to give me a pedicure, most clients fell into one of two camps: The first group just wanted blow jobs. The other would ask for the &amp;quot;GFE,&amp;quot; or girlfriend experience, a datelike scenario: We&amp;#039;d sip wine before kissing, and then move on to oral sex and intercourse. Even when it was unpleasant, I just faked my way through it, like holding my nose and eating a brussels sprout. The men were usually so excited that it didn&amp;#039;t take long.When a client was finished, I got dressed while he washed up and waited for him to hand over the cash. (The nicest guy was the one who&amp;#039;d put the money in an envelope with my name on it along with a little joke, such as a Jack Chick religious pamphlet or a pair of 3-D glasses.) I waited to count the bills until I got into the cab. Holding the money for the first time didn&amp;#039;t make me feel ashamed like I&amp;#039;d expected to be. I couldn&amp;#039;t believe how incredibly painless it had been. Five minutes of putting my mouth on another human being and I now had funds to spend on whatever I wanted. It was a bit like being a child the day after your birthday, when a relative asks, &amp;quot;So, how does it feel to be a year older?&amp;quot; Technically, something has changed, but I didn&amp;#039;t yet feel any different. When I graduated in 2005, I retired. I spent time in therapy, where I realized that I had emotionally detached myself from what I did and soothed any demeaning feelings of objectification with the money (which I had to make even more of to keep making myself feel better). But my issues with sex and self-esteem didn&amp;#039;t result from hooking; they&amp;#039;re part of what led me to it. I would have had to deal with those in therapy whether I had become a prostitute or not. When I started, I felt I would always have a dirty secret to keep, but I have been lucky to meet friends and even boyfriends who love me enough to accept my past. However, I still worry about how people will react to me when they find out, and how those hours I spent behind closed bedroom doors somehow separate me from other women and from the woman I once was. I try to face that fear with honesty. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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