I am endlessly fascinated with the demographics and people I experience as a sex worker, a constantly-changing river of souls under my hands, whips, body, and eyes. When I first entered sex work – still a teenager despite legally being considered an adult — I never knew that what I was selling wasn’t just my body. It was comfort, closure, and connection all wrapped up in mesh lingerie and sky high heels. I crafted my image to what I thought would make me money – that is the idealised porn star-looking woman for a cis male gaze. Long lashes, lush hair, lascivious lips, and a lustful look up and down the men that came to my brothel. I didn't know, at the time, that I wasn’t a woman. I didn’t even know I wasn’t straight. The men who booked me were just as shy as I was underneath our bluster and bravado. I wonder if perhaps they could sense the anxious hammering of my heart as I stalked towards them to introduce myself.
I quickly found that I felt most comfortable seeing clients who were a little different to what I had imagined – or indeed from whom the other girls I worked with were seeing. I saw men who whispered to me of guilty longing for other men while I pegged them, or for trans girls who could fuck them like I fucked them, but who could really FEEL it. I saw couples, girls who were shyly offering up themselves for their boyfriends threesome fantasies despite never having kissed another girl before (but oh I could hear it in their voice, see it in their eyes that they WANTED TO). Girls who I made cum while their boyfriends watched and who held me close thanking me for letting them explore their attraction to women for the first time. I saw people who begged for me to call them sissy little sluts while they licked my shoes and made them wear my stockings. The girls at my brothel used to joke that if there was a weirdo in a 50km radius, they would come to me.
I am endlessly fascinated with the demographics and people I experience as a sex worker, a constantly-changing river of souls under my hands, whips, body, and eyes.
It is only years later, after leaving brothel work (and indeed, after a long break from the sex work industry all together) that I can recognise a singular, transformative truth. I, as a queer trans worker, made other queer and trans people feel special, beautiful, sexy, and sacred in their pleasure – even before I knew what and who I am.
The magic of queer sex, the revolution of trans bodies in pleasure is a hotly debated truth. Yet, truth it is. The very act of rejecting society’s controlling presumptions and to be queer is power. I have never been so in awe of this fact then as I am after my T4T live sex show. Let me explain.
I was lying in my lover's arms, a handsome trans masc some 15 years my senior, a leather daddy and a sex worker himself, post kinky sex session. We were sticky and sweaty and curled up in the wet spot in the sheets glowing and giggling away. I feel a peace in my soul being his boy that I don’t experience quite the same anywhere else in my life. He made a comment of how hot it would be for others to have to sit and watch him fuck me up. My brain instantly lit up, my body flooded with want and within a few short weeks I had a plan. As far as I know it, Australia’s first T4T live sex show – ticketed and staged, kinky as fuck, with a Trans sex worker butler available for service. Fetch drinks, give massages and…other services. It took weeks of talk, airing our fears and concerns, finding a venue, troubleshooting any imagined problems, and just checking in – are you sure you want to do this?
The very act of rejecting society’s controlling presumptions and to be queer is power.
Our connection was always going to be more important than proposed financial gain. Both of us are determined to not have our relationship fall apart by working together. Ultimately, we went ahead with the event. After all, something about T4T sex is indescribable, and I am an exhibitionist.
Producing is scary for a few reasons. The potential for failure is high in our current cost of living crisis. Financial loss, loss of time and labour, as well as a fear that you yourself as the artist are not good enough, or not wanted sexually or artistically, is a big scary mountain to climb in order to run an event of this kind. In this particular case I wanted so badly for it to be a success. Not just for the money but because trans stories in this country are always about hardship, of trauma and fear, and sometimes (if we are lucky), of finding a chosen family. For once, I wanted our story to be one of pleasure and connection and to show people just how special that is. I crossed my fingers and hoped that the way I had created the event would appeal to other queers and women. The demographics of people that generally didn’t have spaces to enjoy a peep show or strip club – with those avenues of sexual excitement typically catering to the cis het men of our society. I expected to sell about half the seats or so, to some men, a few swingers maybe, some couples with bisexual women like the vast majority of my clients from my brothel days.
Oh boy, was I wrong! Not only did we sell out but 80% of the audience were queer women in relationships with trans partners, or who were single but sleeping with at least one trans partner. The other 10% were couples of one cis het man and one bisexual woman. Oh, and one solitary cis het man who got one hell of an education! I won't go into the sordid details of what we did in the sex show, although I will assure you I had an excellent time and we made quite a mess to be cleaned up after. I do want to talk about what happened after. The show finished and there we were, naked, sweaty and covered in lube on the padded top of the cage that was our ‘stage’, surrounded by wide-eyed blushing people. It was an extremely vulnerable position, not just physically but emotionally as well. To give that level of submission and devotion to my leather daddy in private is one thing, but in front of a crowd was a whole new level of exposure. Every single person came up to me, glowing with wonder in their voice, showering praise like a spring rain.
To give that level of submission and devotion to my leather daddy in private is one thing, but in front of a crowd was a whole new level of exposure.
“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”
“That was magic - you’re so sexy.”
“Thank you for showing how fucking hot trans bodies are and thank you for sharing how special you two are together.”
“I don’t have words, I think we are all pregnant after that. I need a cigarette.”
“Thank you, I’ve already asked a booty call to meet me at mine now.”
The grin I have remembering the awe and love gifted to us from those brave people who came to watch us fuck… The next day we received so many emails thanking us for making them feel like they were beautiful, sexy, desirable in their own bodies by watching us enjoy ours. I have never felt so powerful in my life to give others such a gift. Queer and trans bodies are revolutionary – fighting against a world who tells us we are wrong for being authentically us. For being bodies, who love, feel and fuck. This is an experience that I will forever hold on to, to remind myself that the revolution starts in bed, in my lover's arms.
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We started the tryst.link sex worker blog to help amplify those who aren't handed the mic and bring attention to the issues ya'll care about the most. Got a tale to tell? 👇☂️✨
