An Answer to Ridiculous Radical Feminist Questions: Why do men enjoy seeing women in pain?

After regretfully stumbling upon the sex-negative radical feminism movent of a group called “Untameable Shrews” I found this image posted on instagram:

I could go on for ages about how this school of feminism is, in fact, just as oppressive of women as misogyny, and I could pick apart this group’s sad excuse for “street art” but I’ll spare

you today to simply address the message depicted here.

While I do believe there is a threshold in which porn is harmful to all – I also beleive that the elimnation of porn is an absurd radical idea that only exists within frigid sex-negative “feminist” ideals where women have zero libidos and babies are grown in tubes. Yes there is are certain types of porn that are harmful for  a few basic reasons – they fail to illustrate consent or desire on the female part, they don’t allow room for emotional sexual needs, and they dont teach jhjow to have realistic sex.

Being a sex worker, I have seen firt-hand what happens when an everday guy tries to mimick his favorite porn scene. It’s pure buffoonery.

However, my focus is to answer this unnecessarily triggering question of; Why do men get off on images of women in pain?

Well, for the same reason women get off on seeing men in pain, or women get off on seeing women in pain. As a rather sexually dominant person who enjoys sex with all genders, I like seeing my partners in pain.

While I can also meet halfway on the BDSM front and agree that many of the constructs of BDSM are unhealthy and dangerous, this is not the norm nor is it a rule. Erasure of women’s enjoyment of hardcore sex only further oppresses us.

The visual representation of pain or discomfort triggers the same feelings as much of sex or other extreme pleasures do. Whether you’re receiving the most female-friendly gentle orgasm, eating a delicious cheeseburger that has you moaning in delight, enduring a spanking or intense painful fucking session, the result is the same. You’re indulging and letting go. This is often extremely enjoyable to witness as a caring partner.

Pain being introduced into sex is not male-serving. It’s sexuality-serving. Serving healthy and limitless female sexuality is essential to feminism.

There are exceptions. TO be honest, I find the much of the BDSM “lifestyle” or community to be riddled with abuse of women and harmful ideals for relationships – all put on display to impress other dysfunctional people. But this again, is not a rule. I also can’t see why any “Dom/me” would absolutely REQUIRE seeing a person in pain in order to get off – unless they are an abuse addict. Pain should be an emotional enhancement to sex – not a requirement to victimize someone in order to cum.

However, responsible and mindful BDSM  play, pain, sadomasochism, and fetish are all practices that can be freeing for both partners – especially for the person receiving it. It presents an opportunity to get in touch with our true primal nature that is so deeply buried under social construct – particularly the ones that demand women to be sexless creatures without perverted desires.

Pain does not equal rape or harm. Discouraging both men and women from partaking in either porn or BDSM is frankly fucking stupid and highly counter-productive to the feminist agenda. This radical idea  only drives women further away from feminism and empowerment into the arms of dangerous abusive situations. Instead of allowing them free agency over her sexual desires, this concept further isolates the sexual woman and makes her more vulnerable to abusers since she can not find comfort in feminism. If you say a woman can’t allow herself to be in sexual agony because SHE wants to, you’re oppressing women. If you tell her she doesn’t “know any better” and she’s a “brainwashed victim of misogyny” you are invalidating her very natural, understandable, personal needs.

Just because you do not have a sex drive, does not mean feminism should be based on sexless ideals. Women have a right to take back sex in it’s entirety by demanding their wishes be honored in porn, pleasure, pain, and more.

Denying a woman a right to express her sexuality and seek satisfaction only oppresses women. If your feminism limits women, you’re not a feminist. The sexual woman is the perfect warrior to smash patriarchal systems from the inside out. Don’t oppress her for the sake of your personal discomforts.

From Sex Object to Feminine Sexual Being

I’ve always been highly interested in sex. From a young age I was both physically pretty and curious about sexuality, and society has always treated me as such. I’ve been determined my whole life to find a way to avoid being told it was “wrong”. Whatever it is; hyper-sexualty, psychological issues, sexually acting out,  it is still me. I have needed to find the answer to peacefully being a woman who is both sexual and treated fairly in a world that treats sexual women as animals.

My active interest in sex collides with the way I was raised and almost all women are raised; that sex serves the purpose of male gratification.

When I was a young queer, I went through a rollercoaster of identity issues due to the only standpoint I knew. I learned from an abusive misogynist father and a self-hating absent mother. When I was very young, I thought maybe I was actually a boy. This eventually evolved as I began to embrace my feminine appearance, and even moreso embrace my interest in women sexually. I was always a little boy crazy, but my masculine side and dominant sexuality drove me to be more interested in girls as partners, and often question my gender as well. I found myself to be an awful partner to other girls because I could not combine intimacy and sex. For that reason, however, I was of the utmost desire to males.

As I grew more distant from my father, I became more interested in relationships with men that were inevitably dysfunctional. I knew how to relate to men easily – through sex. Whereas with women, I had to offer some level of emotional vulnerability which was excruciating to me. I was finally escaping my awful and isolated childhood, and felt I was “finding myself.” However, what was really happening was a growing slavery to misogyny. Because I was highly sexual, I was safest with men. I could relate to them. I was always down to fuck and they provided the approval I desperately needed at that point in time.

Essentially I was told what to be. Accommodate male sexuality = gain affection and praise. I took the bait and I lived it, walked in my mother’s footsteps, rejecting anything that was too feminine or emotional.

This was all so much easier than confronting the sexual dysfunction that had been weaved within my development and personality. From day one, I have been trained to think that my body and my sexuality exists for men to take advantage of. My mother was intensely shaming of any sexuality I expressed, or even any emotional needs, while consistently placing herself as an object of sexual attention in social situations. It was highly confusing.

The thought of having my own requirements and guidelines for sex seemed repulsive, frigid, and shameful based on what I had been told. Even as I became older and entered the sex industry as a Dominatrix, I was still operating under the guidelines of extremely demanding submissive men, even though I was gaining some false sense of being in control. It still drained me, left me isolated and used up, and I quit the industry for a bit feeling confused about what was causing my strife.

Of course at that time I had entered a committed relationship with a man whom I’d met as a client. He was there to “save” me. Show me a better life. Really, I had been fine until he showed up and “helped open my eyes” to how the sex industry was harming me. At the tender age of 20, already a struggling single mother, I did not have the wisdom to see the hypocrisy of his patronage of the industry. I left the work to become a housewife, with the sun on my face and newfound purpose.

However, as you may have guessed, it was not the industry that was harming me. It was my slavery to misogyny. My perspective and poor boundaries.

It’s no surprise that my new marriage eventually left me feeling the same. Drained, used, isolated. I left the demanding sex industry behind to fall into a marriage with a man 21 years my senior, who was far more demanding and entitled than the hundreds of men I’d professionally catered to combined. Now that I had left the industry FOR him, I enabled the ideation that I was his property. Regardless of being in an “open” and “swinger” relationship, I was more enslaved than ever. I was now expected to remain as sexually driven as the day he met me, but only for him.

After years of being caged and poked and prodded, some blatant fetishization of my sexual trauma, and serious consent issues, I finally left.

From this point, I decided that perhaps I was going about this all wrong. Maybe I was actually sexully submissive and just denying myself a healthy fetishization of male dominance and instead allowing it to control me passively. I entered back into the sex industry, as well as the local fetish community, and was feeling free and happy and like myself again.

The fetish community is crawling with men ready and waiting with the right words for lusty females who have lost their way. I fell in lust with a “dominant” man who was everything that my previous partner was not. Tall, large, hairy, with suave and charm that overcame his mediocre looks. I threw myself completely into my slavery, and compartmentalized it in a BDSM relationship with this man that I dared trust.

None of these choices I made were inherently wrong. I had the best intentions for myself in mind, except that my awareness had not been fully developed and I was missing a key piece. I intended to embrace my sexuality. However, I was only letting the men around me embrace it on my behalf.

I still would not be able to truly look inward and recognize myself as a woman, with complexities and layers of desire, emotion, and sex. I was told that was unfavorable. It was not what men wanted. Having always been both pretty and openly sexual, I constantly had aggressive masculine forces telling me what my body and sexuality should be. I became addicted to the approval in lieu of real love. I was an object for males, not a female being of my own.

My determination to not stifle my own sexuality almost worked against me. I made myself vulnerable to male sexuality but not my own emotions and desires. I knew none of this was right, I shouldn’t have to hide, but I also shouldn’t have been in such awful situations.

My knight in dommley armor inevitably became extremely abusive. The line between BDSM and abuse faded, and I was too deep in. Six months in and I had my first ever black eye at the hands of a man. I’d experienced abuse, but not quite this type of brute violence. I stayed. I lost all my friends because I stayed. He was the embodiment of my slavery to misogyny that required my complete sacrifice of self. He tapped into all that made me weak, and it was his to toy with. Oddly this is the most sexually driven I’d been with a single partner, I believe because he was so emotionless and rejected me both sexually and emotionally regularly. I was so desperate for the same approval, and so I tolerated being beaten in place of having sex.

I learned a lot about misogynist sexuality during this time. His libido dropped as he became more abusive. His sexuality was not about sex. It was about control. As he lost it, he also lost his erections. What a fucking metaphor for it all.

I hate to say it, but none of this was clear until well after we broke up, and then he raped me.

It all came to a head, and I was finally confronted with the toxicity of misogyny throughout my entire sexual identity. I was so fucking confused. My libido disappeared. My emotional needs couldn’t coexist with my desire for sex. I was confronted with a real problem – a total lack of sexual identity that was replaced with trauma.

When I started writing this I didn’t even intend to get into all of this, but it is so fucking relevant.

I had never before taken the time to acknowledge myself as a woman instead of a sex object, until now. Emotions had no place in sex for me. In fact, sex has successfully served as a tool to keep me from sharing my emotions with other humans when I could instead fuck them.

It is devastating that I am not unique. I am a product of an environment and culture that does not allow women to blossom as unique sexual beings. This is how we are raising our sexual girls. We are conditioning them to become victims of sexual violence instead of having their female sexuality exist and embraced outside of the existence of male desire. Fathers and male authority figures molest the young girls, misogynist society shames and isolates the sexual teenaged young woman, and narcissists seek out and marry the injured grown woman for his own sexual gratification.

What an uphill battle for us. I’m still not there yet, but I’m learning and sharing, because this is a battle we should never have to fight in the first place.

The idea of requiring a mood to be set, music, candles, foreplay had all seemed ridiculous and demanding to me. I am learning that being an empowered sexual woman is not just demanding your right to be sexual, it is demanding your right to be a woman and also be sexual.

It’s all been horrifically scary to pursue. I must, and we all must, focus on turning the sense of vulnerability into empowerment.

As a woman, I demand more. I can choose to engage in kinky, filthy, nasty sex as I tend to desire, but that can coexist with my need to be treated as an emotional and spiritual being. I can even choose to serve men sexually, if it is my desire to be a sex object during sex. But it must be honored and acknowledged as my right to choose and never taken for granted.

I am not required to maintain a status quo. I have a right to change my mind, explore, and experiment.

I am a woman with a right to my sexuality, sensuality, and emotions. I do not exist to be victimized by abusive male sexuality. Anyone else who enjoys these benefits of my sex is simply a guest and I will promise myself to abruptly remove them without an apology if they try to dictate my terms instead of basking in it with me.

I’m still learning every day how to do this for myself. I’m a lover who thoroughly enjoys pleasing my partner, and I’m learning that does not mean to subdue my own natural desires. After all, I have said in the past that the best sex happens when you truly enjoy your primal sensual self. I can be at peace with whatever I need as a feminine being to achieve that.

Tonight I go on a date with my partner. I think afterwards, I’ll make a point to feel sexy, light candles, set  a mood, bask in aromas and incense. I’ll put on some lingerie. He will enjoy it, but it will be intended for me.

The Rate Debate: Heauxs & Their “Numerical Value”

Rate is a sensitive subject for many sex-workers and it used to be for me as well. Ok, well it still is. It is very difficult in a profession where you sort of choose to be sexually objectified, to not put your value as a human in a dollar amount.

You see women going at it all of the time about rate amounts and their quality. I have even done the same in the past particularly in my younger days and I’ve since learned. To some extent, you do have limits based on who you are. You may also have privileges based on who you are. We work in a male-desire-driven field. If you are  BBW, there is a smaller market and you likely have to charge less for consistency. If you are uneducated and unable to provide longer dates with stimulating conversation, you have to charge less. If you are “mature” you may have to charge less. This is just the way of things.

Furthermore, the sex industry is frequently changing. You may have to charge less in different areas, different seasons, and different economical climates throughout the years.

However, ultimately, your rate is not a reflection of who you are, it is just what works for you.

When you see women with $1000, $1200, $1500/hr rates, don’t assume you are failing at an “average” rate. These are usually women in porn and very often the expectation is bareback “pornstar” experiences. If you don’t want clients risking your health to get paid a small fortune, it is fine to not have $1000/hr rate. Not to mention, these types of sessions being accommodated at all is harmful to all women. This should not be the expectation of casual sex. It should be safe. That being said, please don’t assume because a girl has a high rate she is dirty. She also might just want to work on occasion – a super high rate ensures that and creates a filter.

The best thing we can do as sex workers to support each other is to refrain from assuming and comparing to other women, particularly if you are someone with a higher rate. I used to work at a higher rate and was completely ignorant to the fact that some sex workers just simply have lower rates because that is the market that works for them. Assuming that women with a lower rate are somehow providing a lesser service is completely destructive.

I have since worked at many different rates, and worked with women who have many different rates. And I can assure you that the quality of the date is judged by the quality of the person and not the rate.

So, as a sex worker how do you decide what your rate will be? After years of experience I have found something that works for me and I will explain my experience. Everyone is different but the key to remember is that a higher rate does not equate to a better experience.


When I first started escort work, way back in the days of Craigslist’s “adult services” section, I started at $300/hr maybe less. I did quickies and half hours. I also started back at $300 when I took a several-year hiatus and came back under a new identity. Little reputation means you should start slow and steady to build a presence. For me, someone who was young, thin, etc $300 was a good starting point as I saw that comparable peers were maybe around 600 with a reputation. Over time I bumped it up until I was comfortable.


This was my rate for the most time out of any. I found it to be comfortable yet attainable for the men I wanted to see. I offered 45min (450) 60 min (600) and above. It was a good system for me at those times and gave me enough consistency to be comfortable. The financial climate in Chicago was ok. I could have probably charged 700 during those years but I found this to be suitable.


When I began in porn and lived in LA, the sessions were fewer and farther between. I felt I needed to bump up my rate in order to “hang” with the other pornstar providers in Los Angeles and in the porn scene. Even still, the bigger stars charged hundreds more than I. This is where the rate thing became tricky for me.

I began to seriously question my career and my value. Up until that point I had lived comfortably being worshipped by my clients and being paid readily. But in LA the market was completely different. Particularly at a hefty rate.

As my rate got higher, the patrons got more entitled, rude, flaky, and disrespectful of my body. They wanted bareback, they tried to remove condoms, they felt I should be worshipping the ground they walk on, they dangled the money in front of my nose as they fucked off all day on scheduling just to disappear. This may be fine for some, but there is only a certain amount of male-ass-kissing I can do for a dollar. I need to feel like myself to survive in this industry. Working a this rate made me miserable. It made me hate myself.


This is technically my rate now. I’m a mom of a young child, I have less time on my hands. So I offer sessions at a 2-hour minimum at $500/hr. I have found this to be very comfortable. What I have found with this rate is that I have access to reasonable, intelligent, everyday men who are smart and clean but still respectful and low-maintenance.

This setup allows me to filter out clients whom I like, and like to have rounded experiences where we share conversation and more during our time together – with plenty of time to experiment. Expectations are low, openness is high, and the mutual respect is bountiful. I don’t feel like I’m doing something for less than is worth my time, and they don’t feel like I owe them a pound of flesh for that fat white envelope.

Occasionally I offer one-hours, but typically I will just take the occasional two-hour date. I don’t have to work “in-person” every day, and if I am going to get dolled up and ready for a session, I can give it my all and my client feels that.

Now, keep in mind, these are only numbers I have worked with in my areas and with my reputation. The numbers are not what matters, it is the experience. Don’t sell off your health or self-respect for a higher rate. But DO know what your time is worth. Find a rate that is comfortable and that you feel good about getting done-up for. Find a rate that wont cause resentment or burn-out. Find  rate that a client can’t dangle like a carrot to keep you chasing their bullshit.

Only you know what your time is worth so just own it, don’t compare and compete with other women. Don’t let anyone tell you what your rate should be. It will eat you alive! You truly only have yourself in this business so find “you” and work it!

We Don’t Want These Men: On wives against sex-workers.

As a sex worker, I want all women to be free to do as they choose without being harmed by men. I can’t say this is true for all sex workers, but for me it is.

Recently, a long-time client of mine got “busted” by his wife. After years of tending to his needs for kinky sex on his leisure time away from home, his dual-reality crashed abruptly after pocket-dialing his wife and her listening in for 5 hours of a hooker excursion. Of course, selfishly, the first thing I thought was “damn, that is a good portion of my income.”

I never wanted bad for his wife, or the wives of any of my clients. Sometimes I know they exist, sometimes I don’t. Often times the clients I keep are really doing what they can to avoid divorce. They love their wives and family but perhaps promised too much, or committed too early, or they just grew apart sexually. These men do not intend to cheat. They see a professional for the sole purpose of maintaining their sacred emotional bond with their wife and not sharing true intimacy and love with another woman.

I’m not saying I condone the method, but often seeing a hooker is seriously their best chance at saving their marriage.

As the sex worker providing the service, my income and feeding my kids always comes first. I feared I may lose my client before anything. But then secondly as his long time friend, I advised him in different ways to be fair to his wife now that he’s experiencing the heartbreaking consequences of omitting very important information over the years.

I am not to blame for his choices. I have never knowingly enabled him, I’ve simply tried to make a buck in the best way I can.

I see that some sex workers use catty tactics to directly enable and fetishize a man cheating on his wife. Or they claim that civilian women are simply sexually inadequate or “failing” in some way. I do not condone this type of pure misogyny. That is not something I will do for a dollar and if you do, shame on you because one day when you’ve had enough of this business and maybe even sex in general, it could be your man. How awful would it be for someone to try to hold you accountable for your shithead husband’s awful decisions to hurt you?

In the same regard, how dare any wives hold sex workers accountable for their shithead husband’s awful decisions? Do civilian women expect me to tell my kids they can’t have something because I wanted to do my part in saving her shitty marriage? Am I expected to investigate each man that walks in my door to make sure no women are being harmed in the production of this blowjob? All I can do is make sure that as a sex worker and feminist, is that I am not persecuted for my right to take advantage of the male species’ desire for easy emotionless sex.

Do not blame me. Sister, if I could defend you I would. I would take you away from that man, show you the way of the heaux, and help you make sure you never had to rely on and trust one singular lying sack of shit for the rest of your life. But that is not your path. You have your path, I have mine. As women, we each deserve that choice.

Sex workers rarely know details of the personal lives of their clients. Rare is it that it is any of our business nor is that information divulged. As a reasonably privileged sex worker, I get the luxury of spending hours with my clients getting to know them – and still often don’t know about their personal lives. I guarantee the gals busting their asses on quick 15-minute clients are just as disinterested in stealing your cheap-ass husband They just want to eat and didn’t have the luxury of marrying a rich dude to put food on the table let alone entering a different field of work.

Even as privileged as some of us are, being perfectly capable of different professions, we are not fucking out to get you, civilian women. We just want your man’s money. We wouldn’t take them if we could. We have chosen our paths where very little trust of men is involved. You’ve chosen yours. You’ve chosen to marry these men. You call us enablers, but you give these men safe spaces, homes, children, and comfort to come home to. Who is the enabler, my dear? Do you think hookers are not disposable to your man? Do you not understand that your man would literally throw us under a bus if it meant protecting you?

We don’t want these fucking men.

From my view, these are your men, these are your dysfunctional relationships. I have literally nothing to do with them. I am simply an object in this equation and I seriously don’t mind. I prefer to keep my interaction with men simple like that.  I do not have interest in the toxic monogamy culture and expectations your relationship breeds. I also do not have interest in persecuting you for the ripple effect of your choices as they pertain to me, because you are free to choose your path, sister.

Blaming the women who are providing a service is inherently anti-woman. You are expecting us to control the actions of the shitty men you choose to wife up with – and at the expense of feeding our families. You expected monogamy, you asked for those promises. We can’t be held accountable for keeping those intact.

I guarantee that more often than not, your man believes he is doing you a favor. He is trying to not hound you for sex. He is not at all interested in having an affair. He probably has a hard time communicating what he needs or he simply can no longer get it with you but he STILL loves the shit out of you.

I don’t encourage cheating, but I wont take responsibility for it either. I choose to adapt and have an open relationship. I choose to listen to may partner and communicate freely. I choose to manage my expectations and be flexible so that if my man did need something else, we’d work around it. You, civilian women, deserve the same. You don’t deserve to be cheated on even if your man says you’re “not enough”.

But don’t you dare try to blame other women – sex worker or not. Free yourself and open your mind instead. If you choose my path I can help you. If you keep on yours I can only do my best to get by myself.

Surviving with my Vagina

I wish I could break the stereotype of sex-worker who was sexually abused growing up – but I can’t. You’re right, Tina Fey, you rat-faced bag of dicks.

While faux-feminists of the like try to shame hyper-sexual and sex-working women and put them all in the “daddy issues” box – nothing more than products of the abusive men in their lives. Fuck you Tina Fey. We honestly are awesome fucking people.

I’m understanding more and more why people who have lived through abuse are referred to as “survivors”. It is something that you must live with every day, and every day you continue, you’ve survived. That is quite remarkable.

As a sex worker, often times it is incredibly helpful to gain mastery over what has been taken from you by putting the control into your hands again and providing a sexual experience. This is a concept that has been backed and supported by my long-term therapist, btw. Sex work is real work. Sex work is healthy work. It has helped me greatly.

However, when I have sex for work, I don’t have to be vulnerable. At this stage in my life, sexual vulnerability is hard. I had been previously working through the mountain of childhood trauma at my own pace, working happily and having personal sex happily and freely.  Then my ex boyfriend raped me. I was just as good at blocking those horrible feelings as I had been as a kid. And then I gave birth, and an avalanche of shit came down on me.

So now I’m a bit out of place. It’s been some time since the most recent trauma, but I found the combination of sobriety (due to pregnancy and breastfeeding), the medication-free home birth, and finally coming down off of the whirlwind of hormones, enough to finally see my true form.

For my kids, I became motivated to have a clear mind. I was not expecting to then see exactly how much pain I am in.

Where this leaves me is in a seemingly impossible place. I connect sexually so regularly but in those circumstances, I provide a dream for my client. I love it, and I don’t know where I’d be without my work sometimes. Working does still turn me on.

Outside of that, however, there is a lot os real shit, and there are a lot of tears. If there is a shred of vulnerability at play, there are tears. I miss feeling vulnerable. However now the slightest sense of vulnerability brings an extreme awareness of my body, my vagina and it’s ability to be penetrated, the fact that I have been penetrated without consent, my dryness (inadequacy), my shame, and the range of potential outcomes each sexual situation can bring.

Today I shared a sexual experience over the phone with a good friend. I trust him and as soon as we entered into a space where my trust for him and acknowledgement of my sexuality both resided, I cried. I still let myself be in the moment as much I could and I found it enjoyable although confusing as tears streamed down my face . It was difficult to not be able to hide behind the experience of providing something; to let someone truly see me. If he could see me crying I probably would have burst into sobs of shame immediately.

This even happens with my partner… and no one wants to be the bitch who cries during sex. I do not want sex to make me cry. It is the one thing I have always relied on to connect to people.

I find myself so disconnected from my body. The process that should allow a healthy connection seems to let in so much pain.

This is why I am a survivor. This is why I am (now) a feminist. Every day I need to fight, some harder than others. And I turn to the power of feminism and lean on my feminist sisters (and brothers) so that I will one day no longer have to feel like my vulnerability is a flaw that allowed me to be hurt.

There is no happy ending to this particular post. I’m still stuck. I still hate the tears that flow with the true acknowledgement of my vagina. I want it to be my strength, not my weakness.



Fapping is Crucial to Sexual Autonomy

My partner and I have discussed several times about how we each had previous partners who would not “allow” us to masturbate freely. I know we aren’t the only ones. Very frequently in pop culture, the wife or girlfriend will forbid a man from enjoying himself by watching pornography and pleasuring himself. Of course the woman’s sexual enjoyment of herself is not a factor in these scenarios – duh.

When I was in a previous relationship, my partner would literally get jealous if my vibrator had appeared to have been used. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Yet at the same time if I turned down sex he would spend hours and hours masturbating the night away in front of porn that would even make me cringe. Yet, I couldn’t spend 5 minutes blasting my clit with the hitachi. And that’s really all I got because masturbation was not “allowed” because how dare I enjoy sexual pleasure that did not involve him? Inevitably this resulted in me cracking under the pressure, childishly acting out, and fuck other guys in front of him while making him watch..

Same with my partner. His ex forbade him from watching porn and demanded he not masturbate whatsoever. She considered it comparable to cheating. He was only allowed to feel sexual pleasure when it provided something for her ego or validated her. And, ultimately he would just spend hours masturbating in his shop pretending to get work done.

People need to fap.

I’m curious how many others experience this. As a society somehow we are trained to believe that one person is supposed to be our everything. Not only is this an impossibly tall order for that person, but it is a concept that takes away any room for growth or self-discovery.

Masturbation is important. It is self-love. It is self-care. Taking that away from someone is abuse.

I don’t say that word to make anyone feel bad. I use the word “abuse” because that is what it is! Trying to limit or control someone in order to soothe your own insecurities is abusive behavior. I have been guilty of it plenty! It requires acknowledgement of the behavior and a conscious decision to change. I decided I am not going to be jealous, so I am not jealous – most of the time. And when I am, I manage it because it is MY feeling.

I encourage you to take a second look at your “rules” for your relationships and ask “does my rule limit my partner’s well-being?” And on the other end, I encourage you to not accommodate this request in any circumstance. It is unrealistic and unmanageable and toxic. Setting a hard limit can be a great way to open a dialogue – but stand firm! If masturbation is a priority to you, make it non-negotiable. If your partner is good for you, they will listen to why.

Now keep in mind that this is situational not an overall rule. Works if we are talking about masturbation (has literally no harm on anyone). Does not apply to an addiction to Korean rub-n-tugs or drunken late-night bathroom sex (these things do effect your partner). Everything in moderation, but everyone does deserve some margin of sexual exploration.

Instead, talk with each other about the IMPORTANCE of masturbation. And no, not mutual masturbation. You need that time for yourself, to explore your own body, and feel your own pleasure without entertaining another individual. It can only help you come together as individuals knowing more about what you want to feel so you can have great sex as a couple.

In my house, we say we are gonna go take some time to ourselves and would like privacy. It is as simple as that. It does not threaten anyone or take away from our sexual relationship. In fact, it provides additional security that we are looking out for each other in that way.

Please consider what I say and lets all give each other some fap room, k?  Share your methods of handling relationships/family and masturbation in the comments.

I laughed with the man who raped me.

It wasn’t until just before the two year anniversary of the attack that I just started coping with this. First year I got drunk, I drowned it out. The next I busied myself with procreation. It wasn’t until I was of course sober, and then no longer pregnant, that I realized I’m in an incredible amount of pain. Being numb for one year and then just understandably uncomfortable for the next really distracted from the fact that I was still wounded.

I have 7 revision histories on this. I’m posting this again with some edits for two reasons:

One is that the media and others have misconstrued and twisted my words to make me seem like just another crazy whore that has manipulated a privileged white man into committing heinous acts because the difference between consensual BDSM sex or paid sex and coming into my home and beating and raping me is far too difficult for his wealthy white brain to understand.

The other is that my original manifesto was still quite guarded although I was trying to use this public forum to heal and be vulnerable. Of course I was guarded with good reason, because every word I say is tracked and twisted.

In two days I will go to the trial and defend myself far harder than he has to. I have to defend the fact that I am a sex worker. That I am a slut. That I openly welcome sex. I will have to defend the fact that even still, I don’t want sex from a man whom I had a restraining order against, and who created a fake identity and disguise over weeks to gain entry into my home, bind me, gag me, and beat me in order to get to it.

I have to defend that on February 12th, 2015, I didn’t want sex from Nathan Nissenbaum. I didn’t even want to see him. I did everything I was supposed to to keep him from me.

He played out one of his sick revenge fantasies but this time in real life. He had told me in the past how he fantasized about kidnapping his ex girlfriend (who also publicly accused him of abuse) and beating her in a BDSM-esque scene, but obviously against her will. He described a scene of tying her up in a barn and using a leather strap against her until she couldn’t scream anymore. I still stayed with him after hearing this. He had a way of manipulating the darkest things to sound normal or tantalizing.

He snatched me out of a 5-year (another abusive) relationship promising to be my salvation. To be the real man I always sexually craved. He promised to make a good girl out of me, and give me a space to be vulnerable. And I was.

He had done things to me in our relationship that I can never see myself interested in. He would somehow convince me that I really wanted it… He said I wanted to be tied up in my basement… he said I wanted to be bolted into a wooden platform, with a gag in my mouth, being whipped and bruised and beaten bloody until I couldn’t breathe and then at that point have ice water poured on me to revitalize me. Hell, he even convinced a friend to sit by and photograph it and had me tell him I needed it. He said it was kinky. He said it was bdsm. It was abuse.

I never liked pain before him. I don’t like it now.

Everything between us was cosmic and fiery. Until, one day he threw a wooden stool at my head after choking me while I fought to get away. He left a welt on my head, a concussion, and me and in and out of consciousness for a day while my friends looked after my daughter. He said it was a fluke. That night, he beat the shit out of me because he was scared of me, he says. He was scared being 200+lbs versus my 115. See, I am emotional. I was upset he locked my dog outside for hours. My basic emotional reaction upset him so badly that he HAD to throw me on the bed and repeatedly hit me in the face before throwing my little body across the room and pinning me down by my neck threatening to kill me then and there. But yeah, its because he was “scared” he says. It was such a surprising fluke.

I stayed with him. I stayed with the abuse.

My friends abandoned me. Everyone in my life abandoned me by the time my black eye healed. Our local-celebrity love drama just got too real, and I was dumb enough to stay. So everyone left me alone with him because I was an idiot.

Once I finally gave him the boot for good, he was relentless. Hundreds of texts, emails, calls per day for weeks, maybe months on end. To me, my family, my boyfriend, my daughters teacher, he called her school trying to “out” me by sending my adult work. I could not escape him. He was flooding my whole life. He was around every turn.

He once even told my fiance that he will rape me any time he wants, because he owns me. He was convinced I was his submissive still… for life.

I moved, I got a restraining order, blocked him, I did everything I was supposed to. It didn’t fucking matter. He still fucked my life up. Yeah, he won.

Here’s an edited version of what I wrote, just the day after his final attack. Now that I’m ready to just show my wounds so I can heal, and also because I need to prepare myself for the questioning to come:

I woke up, after a long night sitting in the detective’s office telling the same story again and again. To doctors, nurses, detectives, officers, and of course the state’s attorney.

I’ll spare the details but my ex-monster also did some great footwork for himself. For him, however, the goal was not moving on. He spent the time concocting a evil-mastermind-like plan to gain access to my home and have his dramatic final goodbye. It was good, it must have taken weeks. Details large and small – even growing a beard and changing his appearance to ensure a smooth entry into my safe space. This took some time.

The plan was executed (in part) yesterday morning. I was held captive in my home for 4 hours total. For me, I had no real concept of time during this. It seemed like 10 minutes and at the same time seemed like 10 days. At first I was terrified, hysterical and unable to breathe – partially from the presence of a gun and the tape, leather mask, and blows to the head and partially because of my god damn asthma. I cursed myself for not quitting smoking before this. I went totally numb for a short time.

(Thinking back I remember how I really didn’t think of much. I was certain I was going to die. I knew after a bit that his gun was fake, but I thought he’d kill me anyway. I would like to think it’s like the movies where you beg about your kids. It wasn’t. I just went on auto-pilot. Maybe its because I knew there was very little way to reason with him. I knew him well.)

I watched him dig through my things, packing my stuff – makeup, jewelry, clothes, lingerie, sex toys. I had no idea what was happening. When I first realized it was him through the disguise, he told me that if I continued to struggle we’d have a “murder-suicide instead of a suicide.” I thought he meant me for some reason. I really thought he was going to make it seem like I killed myself – he was too full of himself to commit suicide. But that didn’t add up either.

He packed a few big bags while I was bound on the bed, quiet and still shocked. He asked me where my money was, he ransacked my lock box of valuables, he asked about my engagement ring and I lied and told him I didn’t have it.

I was scared but some sort of acceptance came over me. It was some mix of shock, fear, sadness, and just something that I can’t even name. Just natural instinct. I couldn’t let myself be taken from this world right now. I originally wanted to look away. I thought to myself to just close my eyes and let it be over with. I was certain at that point that I would be tortured severely and decided that I needed to just close my eyes and leave my body. However, I found myself looking into his eyes firmly and directly. I kept them there for the next few hours. I saw the peek of weakness hiding far behind the mask of a monster and I locked onto it with my hurt until it slowly unfolded. This same bullshit that got me into that messy relationship ultimately saved me. My ability to see the humanity in a total monster.

(Nowadays, I really don’t know if Nathan has any humanity at all anymore, or if he ever did. Maybe I imagined it. I feel like such a sucker. I just so badly want for people to be good. He played me.)

Maybe at another time in another platform I’ll recount the details, but at this point it’s not necessary. The thing that matters is that originally this person’s plan was to hold me captive for days, with a gun, over valentine’s day to strip that of my loved ones, before forcing me to hold him while he took his own life. He planned to dress me up, punish me, lecture me, and cut and mutilate my face so I could no longer work in the adult industry. I know all of this because once he started to lose his strength, we laughed together about how he bit off more than he could chew.

Yes I laughed with him. Is it because I felt ok? Fuck no. I laughed with him after he told me his plan to mutilate me while raping and beating me for days while I was kept from my loved ones, forced to call and message them saying I was just freaking out about my recent engagement. I was so horrified that if my body could feel anything at that point I would have likely vomited everywhere.

But I chuckled with him. I laughed. Why? Well because how can you not? Here I am, front-and-center leading role in a fear-mongering Lifetime Original Movie or Cosmopolitan article. Such is life, right? Also because the laughter made me real. It made me human. It made him human too. Not that I could even see it at that point, but somewhere within that evil-infested body there once was a little boy, a human little boy, that was not consumed by illness or evil. Laughter is the only thing that could have connected us as humans.

(This is the part that I must clarify for several reasons. I did not laugh because it was ok. I laughed because no matter what, I knew Nathan could connect that way. In this moment, I did not want to connect with him. I wanted to hide and disappear. I found it in myself to laugh, because it was the only thing that could make him break his focus on hurting me. I laughed against my will just like he fucked me against my will, just so i could survive. If you can try to manipulate that into making this all seem “OK” then you can literally eat shit and die)

From the moment I found chance to laugh with him – he did not physically attack me again. I got him to slowly un-tape my body. He cried into the side of my face between attempts at carefully removing the duct tape from my “pretty hair”. Suddenly, after laughing, this person who had intended to mutilate my face with razor blades, was crying about pulling out some of my beautiful hair that I am so proud of.

I was able to reason with him, give his weakness a safe place to let go of his psychotic imagined power. I explained to him that his plan wasn’t going to work, it had to end here, today. I asked him if there was any chance of just leaving and getting help – I even begged him although truly I wanted the worst for him in this moment. He said he planned this out so he couldn’t turn back, and he would have to kill himself. I said it all just needed to end now, that his plan wouldn’t work if we tried to leave.

(I said “we”. At this point, I needed him to think we were in this together. We were not in this together. I just didn’t want to be beaten anymore.)

After awhile switching back and forth between pacing panic and crying into my chest, he picked up the razor blades out of the bag he packed, walked toward the bathroom and stopped and turned around and with a tired face and defeated hand motion, signaled for me to come to the bathroom with him.

I stood up dizzy, feeling somewhere between sad and scared that doesn’t have a name and joined him. He talked to me for awhile and asked me some questions, but during this whole thing some of my memory went missing about the tiniest mundane things. He was too tired to demand anything at this point and understood. He at one point told me that he knew it wasn’t possible at this point but what he really wanted was for me to just say we could be together. I gave him a knowing look and shook my head saying very clearly “No, that isn’t a way out of this at this point.” I offered to get him a final glass of whiskey for his departure and went to the next room as he monitored me. When I did I was able to observe where my dog and shoes were – the only things I really needed at this point.

I came back and gave it to him. We both laughed again as he choked on the whiskey a bit. We also laughed about the fact that from roughly 10 minutes into this ordeal I recognized that the gun was probably just a fake. He eventually got into the tub and had me sit next to him while he attempted to slaughter his arms which wasn’t going well. He had a much harder time hurting himself and let out a scream when he split the skin on his arm wide open. I started crying and asked him if I could be outside of the bathroom and he allowed it.

(My crying was real. Even after all of this, and honestly just hoping he would lose consciousness so I could leave, I just didn’t want to watch him bleed and scream like that)

Once I was in an entirely separate room from him with him otherwise preoccupied, then that real fear came back. I texted my fiance – an action I thought I was never going to be able to do again and once I set the phone back down, I felt reality again. I remember my senses igniting, the numb went away. My heart started pounding in my chest. I waited a moment and it dawned on me that I can’t wait for a better chance. Amazingly, he turned the shower on and I realized this would drown out the sound of me opening the bedroom door. I got up so quickly that the droplets of water may not even have hit his body yet. I opened my bedroom door quietly and grabbed my dog by the collar, slipped my boots on and opened the front door to the outside world I didn’t even think to see again.

(It was like a fucking movie. The bedroom had been dark with just a small shaded window. I saw springtime rays of sun peeking through big Bucktown trees. I never thought I’d see that again. Looking back, I see now that this was a rebirth into something so complicated. I was forever changed)

After a long afternoon at the hospital going through a process more rape-y than the previous 4 hours and all night at the police station, I sat at home and ate and drank whiskey and laughed. I laughed at the hospital too, which made the doctors very confused.

Then I woke up this afternoon and laughed. I don’t ignore the sadness and I talk about it openly. But without laughter I have nothing. Let me be clear – this situation isn’t just funny. What happened to me is real and the amount that my attacker is not only dangerous and scary, but also ill and suffering is very serious. But life is a crazy fucking place, and it could have been so much worse.

I’m not going to let this take me down like he wanted. I’m not going to grieve about what could have been but wasn’t. I only have some bumps and bruises and that seems like a sweet deal considering what was planned for me. I’m going to take some advil, drink some whiskey and invite over everyone close to me, and tell some really awkward jokes about the events of yesterday. I’m going to celebrate life and laugh at it’s fragility because escaping it in sorrow in my bed is not going to make it any less delicate.


I left the original ending although it is naive and guarded. I do laugh. I cope. I find a way. Laughter helps me to not sink into a terrible dark place in my head that has already been dug out by childhood trauma. Laughter brings the light in. That is the reason I laughed that day.

However, It wasn’t until a few months ago that the gravity of all of this started to sink in.

Nathan Nissenbaum is a monster. He has beaten and raped me, and allegedly several other women who trusted him.

He changed my life forever. He took away my safety and sense of self. Most days I’m scared to go outside alone, I don’t like strange people to look at me anymore, I question whether any client is actually him. Some days I laugh and I feel strong. Some days I hate myself and I don’t even know who I am.

I never thought I was the “type” to be abused. I hope for no one to feel like that. It isn’t me and I’m still learning that. These monsters can get to anyone.

I’m learning that I don’t have to laugh. I’m not ok and that’s ok. Life is fucked up and I will continue to try to find the things to laugh about.