What does H.3499--An Act to Decriminalize Prostitution (but not really)--mean?

The Nordic Model has come to Massachusetts. 

The proposed bill, H.3499, would remove some penalties for prostitution while focusing the attention on our clients. It means that things might get slightly better for one party in the transaction, but either way, whether it passes or not, it means that decriminalization—or partial decriminalization, as in this bill—is on the radar screen and on the wish lists of at least a couple of people in the statehouse. We are going to lobby our best to get them to consider the factors that make the Nordic Model bad for sex workers (harder to obtain information about the safety of a potential client, clients are more reluctant to report coerced SWs, including possible trafficking).

Although many activists want to flat out quash this bill because it doesn't create the most good for the most people, in my opinion, that's making the perfect the enemy of the good, and that rather than a reactionary unilateral "NO," we should try to engage them and educate them on the preponderance of evidence on this issue. (Evidence-based legislation is, like, not a thing in MA. It is about as fantasy as porn, as far as SW-related bills are concerned. Amazing how some people are contented to remain ignorant and stupid when so many lives are at stake. Just goes to show that this shit isn’t really real to them, which is where we activists come in.) 

What I can’t tell you yet is whether the penalties for “johns” set forth in this bill are worse than before. I haven't read the text of current law on that subject. Either way, barring unforeseen calamity, all of us should continue to operate under current known best practices with an ear cocked to potential developments. 

It may be naive, but I’m excited to see ANY movement on the subject. The scary part is who is influencing/funding the legislation. If these senators are in the pocket of the Hunt Foundation, they’ll never listen to us.

But we’ll give it a good shot!

Don’t let it keep you up at night. However, if you are worried, this is an excellent time to give to MASWAN/SWOP: https://www.massachusettsswan.org/support-us/. We're going to need serious pizza to fuel the long hours of work ahead.



Thanksgiving grace for 2017

As the house fills with delicious smells from our kitchen, I am struck by how very, very fortunate I feel this year. There are so many things to be grateful for. 

It is as a lot of us predicted. After the hopelessness caused by events almost exactly a year ago and the chaos that has ensued since—after the bloodshed and tragedy, travesty, and eminent strengthening of resolve, with so many people banding together to fight the injustice that is ever starker than it was just a short time ago, we have survived an entire year. And life as we know it has not been destroyed—rather, we have focused on each other, our immediate community, and on claiming victory in even the smallest acts of kindness in the glaring face of despotism. In the presence of a national hurricane of indigestible things, we stand with those we love in the center and are grateful for the births, mourn the tragedies, and find strength in each other, because we are, by necessity, closer to one another than ever before. 

Living with a Marxist, talk of the revolution is an almost daily subject, which, to me, is taken with a grain of salt. I am not the idealist I used to be. We were recently in the company of several like-minded folk of varying generations, and I found an interesting moment of communion with a complete stranger. I wondered aloud if the “revolution” would really ever come—if people could really be convinced to rise up and risk life and limb for a better society—when we are so attached to the creature comforts and our middle class quality of life. And old-timer began to speak of life during the Depression, which made of everyone who endured those privations, he said, a progressive. “Just look at Houston,” said someone else, listing the other disasters that have happened this year and one of their greatest outcomes: the outpouring of generosity of neighbors, friends, strangers across the country. In my mind, I flashed back to the 4-year-old me who received almost daily trash bags full of clothing and toys and stuffed animals after we lost our house in a terrible fire—of the people who came out of nowhere to lift us up out of confusion and loss. And, I thought, maybe revolution is one stuffed animal, one casserole--one act of grace--at a time. 

May you be safe; may you be well; may you be at peace.



Scott Church: A gift to womankind

I just returned from another shoot with Scott--this time, since I'm back in ballet class, I brought my pointe shoes and we had an amazing afternoon of art and collaboration. The result? Lucky you!

Check out Scott's blog, currently featuring yours truly!




Ernestine’s favorite thing to do with an evening to herself was to sit at a bar with a book, sipping something well-mixed and interesting, becoming nicely tippled. There is simply nothing, she always thought, like boozy literature.

On this particular occasion, she was pleased to have found a rather swanky bar at a little place on a particularly lovely spot along the river, set against a waterfall that was a constant presence in the room as much as the Bessie Smith warbling over the sound system. A lavender-infused cocktail and Emile Zola completed the scene. As she read, she rubbed at the end of her dangling opaline earring—a sign of just how absent her mind was, consumed as it was with the 1885 Paris described on the page consuming her attention. Even alone, she never left the house in anything less than moderate splendor (it would simply be a waste of youth and beauty to not decorate the bar, stockinged legs wound around each other and back arched, head down, betraying a touch of secret far-sightedness).

It was late, and in the sumptuous state of mind that follows the third cocktail, she had not noticed the restaurant emptying itself, nor the servers’ and bartenders’ occasional glances her way, wondering if she would notice her solitary conspicuity.

A man with a brisk step and brisker demeanor emerged from the kitchen and quickly appraised the situation. Quietly, he made his way around the room, exchanging a quick chat with and then dismissing each of the servers. As Chapter 17 finished with the two main characters poised at the brink of a duel, she quickly turned the page and continued to read. Her fingers working themselves repeatedly up and down the stem of her cocktail glass was the only outward sign of the dire predicament of the only two people in her universe at that moment—the poor gentlemen in peril. Which one would take the bullet? Suspense. Impossible to drag herself away, even as she vaguely felt eyes on her in the comparatively inanimate, if elegantly appointed, real world. 

Straightening his waistcoat, the man spoke a quiet word to his bartender, who gratefully vanished as well. Perceiving her absorption, he didn’t speak, but held up the bottle of rosé in front of her empty glass, and she nodded absently. A beautifully tattooed arm poured her another glass.

Another ten minutes and the room was empty except for the pair of them, one inwardly aflow with empathy for the weeping intended bride of the duel’s victim, the other calculating the receipts of the day. As he finished, he exhaled, with the air of a ship’s captain after a storm realizing that it had not been quite as bad as he had expected, circled his head to ease the strain on his neck that he had ignored up until that very moment, and felt…

—what was it?—a prickle?—up his spine, dispersing among his shoulder blades.

He turned. She was looking at him, her glass midway to her lips.

“This is quite good,” she said, sipping the Cuveé Sabine he had poured for her.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he replied. Emerging from the dense, daylong fog of running the restaurant, he realized just what manner of creature was sitting in front of him.

He poured himself a glass.

Turning around to tidy the bar, when he faced her again, he was surprised to see that her eyes were still on him.

With the benefit of intoxication on her side, she neatly propped her three‑inch‑heeled feet on the edge of the stool, slid onto the bar, and swung her legs alongside her. As if it was the most normal thing in the world, she continued to sip, thoughtfully, savoring the delicacy of the old-world vines, staring at the rather beautiful, clearly Italian-American specimen in front of her. He blinked a few times in surprise—

…and then something about the moment clarified itself to him. He took another mouthful of the cuveé, and, washing it back and forth over his palate as only restaurateurs can without gaudy affectation, he walked to the door; decisively locked it; returned—the briskness gone, his manner newly calm and assured. This was his place. And something was about to happen here.

She had been regarding him thoughtfully. Returning behind the bar, he placed a hand on the knee of the leg elongated on the polished walnut. She didn’t flinch. Tipping back her head, she finished her glass in a single quaff, placed it on the far corner of the bar, and turned her torso to fully face him.

That was all he needed. He took hold of her legs, swinging them over the back of the bar and around his waist, and pulled her down to kiss him. It started as a few short bises, testing the waters, but they were warm and enticing as a deep pool; running his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck, he pulled her deeper, and their mouths met…overlapped…submerged into one another.

Her hands were at his waist, holding him firmly—surprisingly firmly—and then unbuttoning his vest, dispensing with his shirt, as he, with equal swiftness, laid waste to her light sweater, blouse, and flimsy lace brassiere. Reaching under her skirt, he was surprised to find garters, and where the stockings ended, velvety, cool thighs, beyond which there was…nothing.

“I wonder if this is alright," he thought, being normally quite considerate and not at all the Don Juan sort.

But then, before even touching it, he smelled her wetness, and leaned in to devour her mouth as he thrust his fingers inside her. She was so wet that he couldn’t think but that she had been somehow watching him all along, envisioning and keening for exactly…this.

Throwing into the river all caution and inhibition—conscious thought, even—he raised her skirt and leant down to taste her.  “Bold, yet delicate—sophisticated, yet with a certain wanton purity of desire…” But the musings of his razor-honed palate were quickly overwhelmed by her moaning, alternating with an almost kittenish mewling, and an abject undercurrent of desperation. His fingers inside her and his mouth working against the grinding of her hips, she spread her legs wider and wider for him until they heard a distant shatter. As if in another world entirely. Looking down, he said, breathlessly,

“It’s nothing. Just a 2009 Clos Saint Jean Châteauneuf-du-Pape. It was a bad year.”

She panted, waiting, impatiently.

He returned to his former position, and within moments, she was climaxing, howling over the din of the river and sliding off the edge of the bar, having lost control of her musculature. Rapidly, with determined fingers, he undid his belt and pulled out the large cock that had been straining against his trousers. Entirely gone in the moment, he grasped her around the waist and roughly turned her entire body so that her sumptuous bottom below her garter belt was facing his hardness; he bent her over the glasses, formerly so neatly aligned with one another, and thrust himself inside her aching wetness. Her yelp of electric sensation was all the affirmation he needed; he pounded her as hard as he could, holding her waist, her own arms bracing her against the wood, meeting his every thrust with equal strength pushing back against him and the guttural cries of a woman lost to euphoria.

Suddenly, he wanted to see the face of the exquisite woman making these salacious sounds—he pulled out of her, and as she wailed a wild complaint, he pushed her down onto the floor, narrowly avoiding the pile of broken glass. Clawing for anything to hold onto as he rammed into her dripping cunt once again, she grasped the rubber mat, her fingers becoming saturated and dyed with the spilt wine. Watching her brow furrow in beautiful agony, again he fucked her, recklessly, senseless even of the sounds emanating from his own throat—and he felt himself growing closer and closer to that intoxicating moment of explosion inside a woman that he hadn’t felt for agonizingly long. Giving into a sudden animal impulse, he shoved her over again on the damp ground, her alabaster breasts inches from glassy ruination; he pulled her white arse toward him, her back arching and fingers dragging against the perilous ground, and felt himself on the very verge the moment he entered her.

For the first time, she spoke—more of a gasp.


Stunned, given his thorough roughness to date, he found strength inside himself that he had never found before, and, feeling he might split her in half, he was able to thrust exactly four more times until electricity shot through his entire body, emanating from her soaking warmness and terminating at the top of his head, which fell onto her heaving bosom as his orgasm ebbed out of his body.

He heard her scream, dimly, in the distance, but he felt her jerk underneath him, her legs in spasm. As she felt his climax throb into her, she felt that manic tingling that began at the tips of her nipples, ground, as they were, into the floor, resonating in her chest and then expounding into that uncharted territory between her clitoris and g-spot, arching her back and wresting control of her voice away, hearing it, disembodied, her waves of climax as she ground her ass in to him and he poured his load into her, accompanied by a sharp pain in the back of her throat as she screamed a resounding wail of agonizing ecstasy. 

Spectacular musings: The French, on women, once again

This time, it's Emile Zola and his fabulous novel Nana, which takes place in 1880s Paris and follows an opera singer in an era in which the main perk of such a career was to see how many wealthy men one could wrap around one's little finger...

"She was turning into a force of nature and, without any intention on her part, a ferment of destruction; between her plump white thighs, Paris was being corrupted and thrown into chaos."

"She'd made her final move into the messy world of amorous intrigue; her insolent house-warming party was everything she desired: the grand residence was bursting at the seams with men and furniture."

xo, Ernestine

Dan Savage makes more sense than the rest of America combined.

Do y'all know about the Savage Lovecast? Download an episode for your next drive to meet with me! He is amazing. I think his work is particularly useful to the generation before mine in which all of the many nuances and permutations of human sexuality aren't given as much daylight. This episode in particular covers some territory that particularly resonated with me in light of certain conversations I've had with many, many, many clients (keyword "monogamy" hashtag "guilt"). From Ernestine with love. Enjoy.


Update: Hey! Dan played my response to one of his previous callers at the very end of this episode. Fame! 

A doxy from a French classic

I love Victor Hugo. He tends to be remarkably quotable (no doubt by design), and I had to share this nugget with you:

"The smell of money attracts women like the scent of lilac; they're like all the other cats, they don't care whether they're killing mice or birds. Two months ago that wench was living virtuously in an attic, sewing metal eye-holes into corsets, sleeping on a truckle-bed and living happily with a flower-pot for company. Now she's a banker's doxy. It seems it happened last night, and when I met her this morning she was jubilant. And what's so disgusting is that she's just as pretty as ever. Not a sign of high finance on her face."

--Les Misérables

I can't say that I necessarily identify with the first part; but it's just so delectable and hit home, rather. Which is to say, I'm rather pleased to no longer be living in that attic (metaphorically speaking)...

...nor a paragon of virtue.

A previous life: Art modeling

Nude modeling is perhaps a gateway drug to escorting. I modeled for a wide variety of artists in different settings for about 10 years before recently "retiring" in lieu of greener (or shall I say fleshier) pastures. As a going-away gift, someone I worked for for many years sent me these:

Aren't they marvelous? In fact, I'm writing another story about a post-modeling fantasy. Stay tuned.



Something Must Be Done... A story.

Ernestine gazes out the window of her 9th-floor flat, out at the nighttime illumination of the only part of Worcester that could possibly be considered picturesque. She loves this view when she is by herself at night when all the lights are turned off and yet her small eerie is still peacefully alight; and, unlike the rest of the city, this part is almost silent at night. Glass of ice water in hand, her heart rate is still elevated and her collarbones gleam—aftereffects of the workout she has just finished. Running always makes her think of him, despite the fact that he generally scoffs at treadmills. (It is always difficult to make others understand the staying power of the prohibitions of that long-ago fearsome ballet mistress who forbad any activity involving pavement.)

She wonders what he is doing and whether he has any idea that her thoughts have strayed to him. Coming back into herself, she notices that she has been unconsciously pressing her chest against the windowpane and her yoga pant-clad cunt against the bed she sits on, rocking ever so slightly. She can smell the musk of it. She silently curses this inexorable effect he has on her. It’s ungovernable and her longings are largely futile. Such is her luck. She is fairly aware of the magnetism she has for most men—all of those, that is, except the one she wants most.

Sighing and with a rising desire that must be sated somehow—and soon—she drops her damp clothing to the floor and wanders languidly into the bathroom, where she starts the shower. She looks in the mirror and into her eyes whose darkness she always finds slightly unnerving; at the sweat-dampened lashes and the French femme de la nuit presentiment of the way her mascara has migrated a bit outward with her recent exertion. The flushed cheeks. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she thinks, and steps into the steam.

Meanwhile, elsewhere, Calvin sits in court, failing miserably to attend to the droning of the proceedings. He is thinking about Ernestine--about the way her face contorts with pleasure when he is inside of her, an image seared into his memory. He feels his cock swelling and tries to be subtle about crossing his legs. It’s of little or no use. It simply increases the building sensation of hardening, lengthening… and something must be done.

Her face, her chest gleam with the falling water, and her hair darkens against her head like a slicked seal. She turns around and bends into a downward dog, stretching out her overworked muscles (she often loses herself in exercising, for one reason or another) and settling into the familiarity of her flexibility. The pressure of the water nestles into the slick crevice of her upturned ass. Something must be done, and soon. She stands and curves her fingers around her breast, trying to mimic the way that men do, and begins her newly-discovered favorite self-foreplay, the very soft, very quick rubbing of her palm against her nipple.

Then, abruptly, a sound from beyond the bathroom door. Ernestine, startled and a bit concerned, drops her hand—“Did I forget to lock the door?” 

Sweeping back the shower curtain, she sees the most welcome sight imaginable. It’s him. She is speechless with surprise.

“What…” but, clearly, it’s not the moment to bother with words as he pulls his shirt over his head and says, firmly, deliciously firmly, 

“Bed.” He pulls her out of the shower, soaking wet, and they make a streak of water across the floor as he leads her backward with his mouth on hers. Roughly she falls onto the bed and he takes hold of her waist and drives her further back so that he can reach between her legs with his mouth. 

Suddenly, everything slows. Her senses irreversibly heightened, her entire organism is fixed on the only pinpoint of sensation he is allowing her: the tip of his tongue tracing just maddeningly outside all of the regions that are flooded with longing for his attention. He teases her, cruelly, diabolically, in this way for moments that seem like hours—

“please, please, please, please,” she remonstrates, mewling like a crying kitten--until one transmutating moment when he thrusts not one, not two, but three fingers inside her as deeply as her anatomy will allow, at once putting an end to her agony and brutalizing her shuddering frame to utter perfection.

Unable to wait to quell himself any longer, he is inside her. He thrust so forcefully that her head pounds against the headboard, which he quickly rectifies by gripping her shoulders while he continues to thrust into her, putting all of his musculature behind each exertion. Thus far almost deafened by her disembodied yowling, his ears ring in the sudden silences between his penetrations. When he reaches the deepest point inside of her, she howls like an animal at the very edge of sensibility, arching her neck back and her chest against his. 

Abruptly, his thrusting slows but is no less powerful. Agonizingly she recalibrates her raging desire and her ragged breathing. He’s saving himself, she realizes, in that utterly selfless way that he does. 

When he has withdrawn almost all of himself out of her, she can bear it no more. In a motion demonstrating her physical prowess, she rolls the two of them over and begins to ride him, spiraling her hips such that she buries his cock inside her, tilting her pelvis forward so that she can grind her clitoris on him at the same time. She feels a fire start to ripple inside of her and through her belly and her chest. He is holding her breasts just as she wanted to feel them held earlier, kneading them and thus drawing the ecstatic sensation all the way up, standing her very hair on end. Now it is she who is merciless, bucking against him with dizzying speed that lays waste to the last of his reserves of preservation—just as that mounting electricity inside her explodes in shrieking, screaming release, his entire body convulses in a tenacious orgasm, and she can feel each spurt of his come battering against her extraordinarily sensitized g-spot. 

They collapse, their bodies incapable of resisting the slightest gravitational pull. Limbless, devoid of muscle, movement, or even thought, they must remind themselves to continue to breathe—their breath comes falling out of their lungs at long intervals. Piled together, destroyed as two animals tumbled in a tempestuous ocean, they fall into a deep sleep.