On Reclaiming My Pussy, My Body, & My Right to Choose...

I lied. Point. Blank. Period. Not only have I lied to you, I’ve been lying to myself. So, I’m here to set the record straight on “paper”. I’m not doing this for you; although, it may help you understand LJ a little better. Nah, fam... this one is for me.

I am often asked how I entered the realm of sex work. Normally, I give the same generic answer: I found the sex worker community through the sugar baby community. From there, I decided to take the plunge.... blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. While this is all true, it’s not the heart of why I am here. So, I'm going to break it down. 

Last week, I had my first legitimate tour to New York City. Imagine my excitement as I am finally going to what I consider the Mecca for sex workers. Seriously y’all, it was like my own little sex worker pilgrimage where I was going to meet with various Dalai Lamas of our world*. Ok, that’s some pressure but these women and a specific gent are phenomenal. Plus, this trip couldn’t have come at a better time because April is a bit of an emotional rollercoaster for me. Yesterday, I honoured the 26th anniversary of my biological father’s death. Later this month, I will also honour the one year anniversary of my grandmother’s death (we ended on rocky terms so this one cuts deep), and the one year anniversary of my black as fuck, 5’3”, can walk in 6” heels Uncle, Prince. Yes, Prince’s death has me in my feelings. For one, he died two days after my grandmother and two, I had family that worked for him and I had met him many times. We considered him family. I was in Minneapolis when he passed which didn’t help either.

*Please note that I am writing this as I am listening to Prince and drinking scotch*

As you can tell I already feel some type of way about April.

The first dinner on my schedule was with Josephine Barre* – my curly haired sister from another mister. The drinks were perfect, the food was delicious, my table mate looked gorgeous, and the conversation flowed abundantly. Jo has an amazing aura about her and I felt so comfortable. At one point, I remember leaning back in my chair and in a slightly hushed tone, I admitted to Jo that I had been sexually assaulted. She gently grabbed my hand and in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to cry. However, I have my own thoughts about crying (which has so many intersections) so I clenched my jaw and held it in. See, if you don’t know, April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month. So, not only am I working through my feelings surrounding death but also my feelings regarding my assaults. Yes, you read that correctly. Assaults… plural.

My first assault occurred in high school. My cousin’s best friend invited me to a weekly movie night at his place. I’ll spare you the details but I remember walking home, my body broken from pain but completely numb, his scent lingering on me. If I close my eyes I can still smell his breath, feel the weight of him on top of me, hear his voice telling me it’s because I’m too pretty.  I have never told anyone directly related to that area or my family. I didn’t want them to feel the immense amount of shame and disgust that I felt. Mentally and behaviourally everything shifted. I was the role model student that was raising Cain at home. I was the Southern Debutante (I spent my summers in the lazy heat of the South being raised to be a good Southern woman) that didn’t just tease, I put out. I didn’t think it was a choice – I thought sex was just what you did. Then I found a bomb ass therapist who helped me through my feelings and things got much better. However, even we couldn't anticipate what was about to happen.

In May 2010, I was out at a party like any normal 18-year-old. Of course, the drinks were on deck, the music was on point (for 2010), and we were dancing the night away. After finishing my first drink, I asked one of my girlfriends to grab me another since she was off to get one anyway. She returned and I began sipping on the fruity concoction. Then, everything went black but what I do recall is waking up in the bed of someone I knew very well. He was hitting my thigh, telling me to get cleaned up and to dress. He drove me back to my residence hall, both of us sitting in silence. He didn't utter a word when I stepped out of the vehicle. I saw him around campus almost weekly until he graduated in May 2011. In the interim, we never made eye contact or spoke to one another; yet he tried to add me as a friend on Facebook a few months ago. From time to time, I will experience an auditory or visual flashback and I can now piece together how the night went. Just because you're blacked out doesn't mean your mind isn't somehow recording everything. Now, many people will say that this specific assault was my fault. If you’re one of them... fuck you. *insert middle finger emoji here*

You’re probably wondering if I pursued pressing charges. Ironically, one of my residents, I was a RA at the time, had been sexually assaulted under similar conditions a month earlier. She was your stereotypical Southern Belle: thin, brunette, white, a sorority woman, and came from old cotton money. When the DA took the case to the Grand Jury after receiving major pressure from her powerful father and we all assumed she would receive justice. Hello, she was the poster child for Southern beauty and we all know how the men feel about their Southern Belles being tainted. Yet, the Grand Jury, mainly comprised of middle aged Southern white men, decided to not formally indict the man because the case wasn’t strong enough. Why? Because in the Deep South if you’re a pretty college-aged woman drinking and you have pants on, you probably asked for it and/or you had to help (then again most middle aged men across the country would tend to think we had it coming).  Did they publicly say that? Absolutely not! However, the DA was forthcoming from the beginning about how this situation would play out in such a small Southern town. So, if that’s how one of their own was treated, just imagine how the perceived uppity Northern mulatto with the funny accent and middle-class upbringing was going to fare.

And so, for the second time, I had my right to decide the who, when, and how I share my body with someone ripped from me. The years following that incident, I found solace in food, in introversion, and in coping the best way I knew how… alone. In the meantime, I threw myself into other avenues, excelling in my graduate studies and my day job which brought me to Dallas in 2016. Fortunately, my move allowed me to be surrounded by people who love me, support me, and stand by me in my civilian life. Though, should I tell them about LJ - well, they most likely would not stick around. They pushed me to find ways to help me find myself again. Slowly but surely I listened and in less than four months, I had found a new therapist, started working out at the gym, and moved past the emotional eating. Though, I still hadn’t figured out the intimacy piece. That was always the difficult one.

I remember the first time I told my therapist that I had stumbled upon escorting. How I adored the screening and the right to say with whom and when. The fact that I could say “no” to anyone from the start. The control that came with escorting. I came to her with the all the information: books, articles, legal information, et cetera. You can only imagine her reaction… complete shock but then total support. She frankly said she should not support my decision, but if it made me feel more comfortable, made me feel stronger, then do it. She walked me through the legal ramifications and pointed me in the direction of an attorney should I ever be found out and/or caught. With my mind made up, thus began the journey of salvation from the men who hatefully penetrated my existence and the power they still had over me. Finally, in July 2016, five days after my 25th birthday, I officially became an escort. Let me tell you, I have never felt better, stronger, or more confident in my life. There is power in being a sex worker... a power I have not felt in over a decade. A power that I fiercely protect, respect, and remain humble in. 

While my wounds have healed, I recognize the scars are still there. They’ll always be there even as they fade with time; however, I shall wear them with pride. They are the scars and the marks of a Survivor, a Warrior, a Naturally Savage woman on the path to reclaiming her pussy, her body, and her right to choose; proudly liberating herself through the realm of consensual sex work.

Until the next time, 

LJ, xox


Please forgive any grammar or spelling mistakes. This post was all about authentic expression. I hope you enjoyed it. 

*To the sex workers I had the pleasure and privilege to meet, I thank you for welcoming me into your lives. I know I can be quite shy and introverted at first and I thank you for being understanding of that. You all are phenomenal and amazing. Truly, from the bottom of my heart, you have all of my love. I cannot wait to see you all again.

Josephine Barre - My curly haired sister from another mister. 
Robin Ardeur - The international painted lady who values community & inclusion. Thank you for making me feel at home. 
Tori Valentine - The Playful Pervert & Queen of Hearts who is observant and funny as hell.
Edward Brixton - The giver of lives and jaw drops while being so chill.
Ashley Paige -  Literally this woman is my sista. I can tell her anything.
Tabitha Cook - Not only my sista but a genuinely kind soul and so knowledgeable.