One of the invaluable advantages of my job is meeting interesting people. People I would otherwise never meet, never in such situations.
There was a boy…
There once was a young man. By young I mean a member of my own generation. Born a few months before me. Same country, same time. The difference: I am a sex worker, he can afford sex work. The distribution of power is clear. Or not?
You could also see it thusly. I get money for sex, whereas he has to pay for sex. I have the power to give him what he needs. I don’t need really need him, he’s not my only client. He chose me although you can get services like mine for much cheaper and with more guarantees. I don’t guarantee anything, not even that there will be sex. But I do guarantee one thing: that sex happens because I want it to – and only then. Consensuality. And with young clients I have certain concerns. Aren’t they fixated on themselves? Do they even have enough experience to care about the woman’s desire, so much more interesting than their own male desire? Do young men even know how beautiful a young woman’s body is? It’s no accident that I value men over 50, also in my personal life. I don’t pursue hard bodies. I want life experience and expert technique.
But a whole weekend in St. Moritz? It was just too lucrative!
I was also curious as to why such a young man becomes a customer. Could he not find any free one-night stands at his age? He had vanilla good looks. And money! There must have been a plethora of marriage candidates vying to perform romantic love for him.
But that was just it. His fear. Women would deceive him to get to his money. This drew him to sex for pay, that is, to a woman for whom out of principle it was about his money, whom he paid precisely for the illusion. At least that’s what he thought. For him this relation had the advantage of clarity, a reassuring sense of control. He didn’t want to arouse any false expectations. Inviting a good friend for a weekend trip who he didn’t love but just for some friendly fucking – that just wasn’t possible. Not in the rural region near Hannover he was from. And a Tinder date was out of the question. He would be too preoccupied with his safety, should she come to know his eminent family name (which I had never heard)… An escort was the solution. And financially the extra 4,500 euros for a weekend didn’t hurt him.
Where did he have so much money from? It was his parents’ money. But they worked hard for it, he hurried to tell me, although I hadn’t even responded, harder than others – why in Germany do you have to justify yourself for your success in the first place? The first million is always the hardest, I said. He didn’t understand the joke. My mood went laconic as the landscape outside became more mountainous, as we moved further away from the Zurich airport where he picked me up in a hired car, some such flat Matchbox thing.
In the larval stage
He had little experience but an opinion about everything. During the drive we talked about his favourite topics, wealth and success. My company Hetaera impressed him, my entrepreneurial spirit as a self-made fanny. He wanted to put me in touch with one of his acquainted holding companies in Ireland. Ireland the tax haven, such low corporate tax! I explained to him that I didn’t need to save any corporate taxes. Because Hetaera isn’t commercial. Because I don’t make anything from it, on purpose. When my colleagues get a customer from our website I don’t want a commission. I live just like my colleagues, from my own dates, not from those of others.
He was stunned. I couldn’t do that! That’s sending the absolutely wrong signal. If you don’t cost anything you’re not worth anything.
He gave me a crash course in getting rich – completely free of charge, by the way. Getting rich is very easy: one must always earn more than one spends. Although he wouldn’t describe himself as “wealthy” due to a couple million a year. As well-off, perhaps, as a top performer. The biggest problem: greed. Germany, he said conspiratorially, is practically a socialist regime! Example: death duties. Why would the state want to take away from him what his parents had so worked hard for all their lives? The money has already been taxed! Why should he pay taxes on it again? For him it felt like the state begrudged him his parents’ love. Fortunately, his parents came up with a plan, a model with a lawyer, here in Switzerland.
What he wanted to be when he grew up? He was finding himself at the time. College studies? At best business, but with his upbringing he was superior to everyone. Why should he submit to a professor who had never run a company himself, kept rather by the state? He also rejected military conscription because he didn’t want to lie in filth with human rubbish from the dregs of society before any sadistic losers. But just as little did he want to do civil service like a leftie. So he got a sick note from a doctor, a friend of his father’s. In retrospect he thought it awful that he even had to make the effort merely because the state wanted to boss him around like a prisoner. And that, he said, is also what actually interested him. State and society. Politics. For example, how could a state coerce the better part of its citizens to let themselves be exploited by the worse ones? Harz IV recipients are in fact either stupid, lazy, or simply superfluous. They take advantage of the power of people like him, or more specifically, his parents. Opinionated – that was one of his qualities. He was no ignoramus who wanted to surrender the decision to others, like he lives.
He looked over at me. Solemnly he said, “You’re the first I’ve said this to, but I can imagine a career in politics.”
This here was a textbook example. That which perhaps awaits us all, in a kind of larval stage: people with no social competence whatsoever who feel attracted to politics.
Was his strong opinion authentic, or did he just regurgitate his parents’ opinion? Pointless question. He was hermetically isolated in his world, incapable of seeing it from the outside. That made him so touchingly trusting. He was entirely without spite. He repeated uncensored what his parents expressed in their tightest family circle, yet never in public. It never occurred to him that it could be necessary to leave certain beliefs unspoken. Such as this one:
“It is the poor who must justify themselves, not the rich. The rich certainly didn’t get that way out of stupidity.”
I thought, listen to this! That’s how they talk about us. Us non-millionaires. Among themselves when they think nothing will leak. And at that moment I knew I had to write it down. And now the WORLD* is discovering it through me!
Please note: I listened to all of this in a speeding sportscar on a lonely alp passage in Engadin, beyond the timberline. Had he told me all of that in a Berlin taxi I would have probably gotten out of the car. With the full solidarity of the taxi driver. But to break off the date here in the middle of the high mountains? It was getting dark, there was no other car on the street for far and wide. Zurich airport was over two hours away. Should I stand on the side of the road and call a taxi? The taxi ride to Zurich would have cost me more than the entire deposit, not to mention changing the return flight or booking a hotel room. And then the loss of earnings… I didn’t want to begrudge him that. For that I had a better idea. I could finally put to use my right to turn down the act of sex. Keyword: consensual. The effort must be worth it!
Sexual misery at the highest financial level
The first night I stayed strong. The mattress vibrating, I sensed he was furtively masturbating instead of waking me up for his satisfaction. There you go! I pretended to be asleep.
The next day there was an excursion on the itinerary. We were going to Davos to visit the Magic Mountain. Yet the posh racer proved inadequate for the high mountains. We ended up in a snow storm that broke out quite abruptly. The car started to swerve. Wheels spinning, my customer’s anger and determination led to the wretchedly howling vehicle sliding dangerously close to the brink. Calling for help wasn’t an option, we had no signal. We had no other choice but to wait for the snowplough, which would hopefully come at some point. Just below my window the ravine yawned, as far as I could tell from the drifting snow. The snowdrift skimmed along the street, entirely covered in snow in a matter of minutes. I was wearing sandals. On the radio there was only one channel in Romansch. What was I doing here? What had happened to my life? I slumped into an exceptionally bad mood. And suddenly empathy for him: he had certainly imagined his weekend with a high-end courtesan differently. At some point he turned off the windscreen wipers. A layer of blue and white dimmed the car interior. His hand approached my thigh – he was going for the water bottle. Perhaps he noticed me flinch, he smiled awkwardly. And suddenly he started to talk, but differently than yesterday. His parents’ wealth… he spent his whole childhood in fear of being abducted. To this day he is still overcautious to the point of paranoia. He avoids crowds of people. Carefree partying in public – out of the question. All of his acquaintances were from his school years. As for simply approaching people, he could not. He confessed to me that he was still a virgin, and how he suffered so greatly because of it. And I should deflower him!
Empathy wins. As the lights of the snowplough emerged, I had decided to take pity on him, after a hot bath and a bottle of Chateau Margaux in the marvellous hotel room.
But I couldn’t do it, I simply couldn’t do it – although his whole body was trembling with desire. He was too week, simply incapable of the usual thrusting movement of the pelvis. Something I had assumed belonged to the innate ability of every man. Yet how to train it when you only ever use your hand? Oh, young elite, you are impotent! He grasped for the usual method, and I gave him a hand. He cried. No empathy with the rich?
The next morning at breakfast, with a view of the wintery snow-covered mountains he was in cheerful spirits again. Light-hearted, he sipped his earl grey tea and ate his œufs Bénédicte and asked me if I liked it here too? If I wouldn’t love to be here with him more often? Or in other places like this? He goes on holiday every weekend, and he quite appreciates my company. He made me a corrupting offer: 4,000 euros – that’s how much he wanted to give me monthly if he could have me exclusively. Every or every other weekend. On one condition: I would have to quit my job as an escort. Again, four thousand euros didn’t hurt him, and for me that would be quite a sum? And – he thought aloud – if he had me more than two nights a month that’d be cheaper for him!
I declined his offer.