2011 was a year of new connections, adventures, and living the life I’d put off while I was in an increasingly ill-fitting relationship situation. I made incredible memories, got to know amazing people who have become very dear to me, and dove deeper into two – no, three – types of work.

The first: my companion work.

I approached it as a true calling and by the end of 2011 had felt it become a job. Part of this was because I’d switched up my marketing to test profitability, with some success; part of this was because I was falling in love, and I’m prone to randomly distancing emotionally when I’m in that stage, mostly to keep myself from succumbing to utter sappiness. (It’s too late, of course; I’m smitten.)

Part of this was because I was still unraveling the threads of the previously mentioned ill-fitting relationship situation; we’d been live-ins for a long while, and it wasn’t an instantaneous unbinding. That took more out of me than I’ve wanted to admit. Frankly it still does; it did tonight. And tonight was the last night, in a way, for a lot of things behind that door.

I joked that I broke off the engagement with SC to become a full-on polyamorous sex worker, and that he may have dodged a bullet. It went unspoken that I was the one who’d dodged the bullet: monogamy, obligations and ideals that would have stifled me and kept me from doing my work (with a capital W). When it became clear we weren’t suited I threw off the idea of trying to cram myself into someone else’s box and then proceeded to do exactly that, with much greater (and juicier) success, by following my strange and twisty path.

That strange and twisty path led me back around to the path I was on when I first dove into sexuality: energy work, magic, woo, what have you. I spent so long carefully leaving my religion out of my work that I completely forgot that my related practices, at times, might be an asset. I’ve had phone and cam clients catch me at it unconsciously from time to time. It’s just a part of me.

That was the second sort of work, and the third. Diving back into sacred sexuality, serving my community, and committing further to education and advocacy. This is just what I do, matter-of-factly, whether I’m being paid for it or not. Whether I’m being credited publicly for it or not. It’s important and I can’t seem to stop myself, so there you go.

I still don’t feel I do enough of it.

As for my calling-that-became-a-job, I’ve found my way back around again; open hearted, within the container of our meeting, and prioritizing the sessions that nourish and inspire me over the sessions that leave me feeling as though they weren’t quite there for what I do. Those will always exist; the clients who simply want to check off another pretty face, a list of acronyms, and don’t feel the comfort level or the desire to genuinely connect. They’ve been rare in my practice, but over time I’ve experienced more of them, of course. I simply happened to get a cluster at an unfortunate time.

I still have fun with even those clients more often than not – but it’s not my work, if you get me.

My sessions this week? I felt myself plug in, charge up, and be there; I felt those I was with do the same. There is such joy in that. D/s isn’t the only form of power exchange. A gift for a gift, they say…

…And I feel I’ve received such gifts this year. From my dear clients, who inspire me, make me smile and enable me to do what I do. From my friends, colleagues, lovers, and beloveds, who nourish me in the most unexpected ways and whom I adore wholeheartedly. From my family, who’ve come full-circle from the initial expected slut-shaming to supporting my work (and me doing it). And from those who I shared love with for a time and grew apart from, for teaching me lessons I would have learned no other way.

I feel that things are moving where they’re supposed to. I’m happy, and hopeful, and wish the same for every one of you reading for the year to come.

Have you ever gotten bored with something you loved?

Not because you stopped loving it, no – but because it stopped being new, stopped having something new to tell you for a while. Something to figure out. You stopped even having interesting thoughts about it, or feeling interested. You missed its touch, but just like trying to fuck an old lover you’re going through a rough patch with, you couldn’t make yourself feel that fire.

I’m the kind of person that needs fire.

So after a while of being shiftless and aimless, starting a hundred somethings and not having the oomph to push them through (or perhaps being distracted by that other, more immediate sputtering fire… which one do I see every day, after all?), I realized a few things.

One: I hate the city I’m in, truthfully. I’ll be out in a year.

Two: I really don’t have any desire to be a hack, mostly because I don’t have the heart for it. I admire the balls on marketers and hustlers – but I’m not one. That’s not my gift. I can do one thing, and that’s tell the truth, as hard as I can. I can use lies to tell that truth, sure. I’ve never flinched at that.

But I can’t spin lipstick and promises, and I’m not really into making anything I can’t look back on and be proud of. There are thousands of people in this world who can make pure straight-up smut better than I can. I say this as someone who happens to like straight-up smut.

I’m not someone to come to if you want it – which is strange given that it’s something I enjoy and participate in – I’m someone to come to if you want that strangely uncomfortable feeling that “she knows.”

I think I’d like my multimedia to be rare and excellent, and I think I’ll spend some time this year improving my visual and audio skills accordingly. But it’s the exchanges that fuel me the most.

I lust after the interaction and the dynamic of live, full-on phone sex and cam. I savor the tango of face to face, instinct to instinct… sadist to masochist, dominant to submissive. And that’s why I’ve made the move to traveling more, living more, continuing to spend time with my cherished phone and email pets, and now: real-time sessions.

Take a peek at my new fetish escort website, and keep watch for tweaks to my phone site (including new photos and an availability indicator for my direct dial line) as well as more here on this blog.

I’ve missed you. Thank you for reading.

(Many thanks to the wonderful Sarah Sloane for pointing out that stagnation and boredom can lead to burnout, and that depression hates change. Words to live by… And thanks to my wonderful clients and to all those at Desiree Alliance this year who both reminded me that it’s the connections we form with clients and fellow sex workers, the energy we exchange and the ways that we give back to each other that make this work worth doing, always.)

As tired as I get of the looks and the questions, though, I have to remember: What I do is not illegal in Massachusetts, or indeed, in most of the United States. I am not going to have my door busted down for my work. (Although I did almost lose my room last summer over it…) I am not endangering my life every time I sit down in my easy chair for a cosy little 10-minute erotic chat.

This all puts me in a special category of sex worker: someone who can be really open about my work, but also has the option of not talking about it, of not thinking about it, of ignoring the other people in the allied sex trades who HAVE to go face to face with their clients, who are constantly harassed by law enforcement, who bear the brunt of the stigma (all those hooker and whore jokes still get laughs!), who are beaten and robbed and raped and murdered because our culture is so fucked-up about sex that selling it makes you a negligible, disposable quantity.

Today is December 17th, the International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers. For every dead hooker joke I’ve heard this year told to me by friends I was out as a sex worker to, for every time one of my sex work friends has had to fudge on the “what do you do?” question because s/he was afraid for their own safety if they came out, for every sex worker of every gender who screens their clients, guards their basic personal information, sets up safe calls and knows that one day it still might not be enough to stop someone from killing them because of the job they do – a job which is based on giving others pleasure – I’m telling someone outside of my little bubble what this day means, and why it means so much to me.

Today I’ll advocate for my sisters and brothers in sex work, all my far-flung colleagues across the globe. Tonight I’ll light a candle and whisper to Ishtar for all the ones it was too late for. And I’ll take phone fetish calls, and cam, and make my porn in my safe warm apartment because in a world that tries its best to snuff us out, sometimes the most powerful thing sex workers can do is exist, and keep working, and be happy.

P.S. – The uber cool Renegade Evolution and Jill Brenneman are doing a live radio show today. Listen with me. If you’re a sex worker’s client, tip your favorite a little extra today in tribute. It’ll let her (or him) know that you’re remembering, too.

Here’s one: If you find porn you enjoy, pay for it. That way it will keep being made. If you don’t support the stuff you like with cold, hard capitalist cash it won’t proliferate, the models won’t get paid, the producers won’t eat anything that isn’t shaped like ramen, and the “good stuff” will never drown out the disposable, mundane crap.*

There’s a palpable sensuality in “good” porn whether it’s subtle or hardcore in-your-face kink. It’s not a dehumanizing feeling; it’s a primal feeling. It’s energy, it’s responsiveness, it’s connection.

There are too many well-meaning advocates who are pro-1st-amendment, even strong allies of sex workers, but believe that while looking at porn is healthy and normal, spending money on porn is weird and pervy.

Aw. I thought that was part of the fun…

Thank Goddess for weird perverts. They respect my time.

Here’s one more: When you find the good stuff, the porn or smut or erotica that turns you on, let somebody know. Those sticky-fingered, sincere letters? We read them. We laugh, or we flush, or we get a wicked idea for something new – but we remember them. And we glow.

*I’m not falling for the false dichotomy of “good” porn (virtuous, artistic, amateur/alternative/outside the mainstream, often featuring unconventional body types, often run by starving artists and still concerned about scene cred) vs. “bad” porn (evil, corporate, icky, mainstream, tan, in better shape than you, full of lots of sticky, enthusiastic women getting fucked by straight, dominant men). There is hot smut in both camps, there is utter crap in both camps and I’d rather blur the line (enthusiastic, well paid people of all body types and gender presentations having hot sex in every possible configuration).

Care to join me?

You can call into the show at 1-866-289-7068 and call me afterwards to talk about it at 1-800-TO-FLIRT, extension 01621402. All new Niteflirt members get 3 free minutes, and new callers who mention either this blog post or RadioSuzy1 will get a previously unpublished tease photo of yours truly.

18+ only, $2.19/min

UPDATE: The show was a blast! If you missed me live, you can still download and listen to tonight’s archived radio show (right-click to save). Be prepared for some incredibly sexy people saying “penis” repeatedly.

Or, how to pick the easy way out.

I got a straight job. I got a monogamous relationship with a straight boy – not necessarily a problem, but this is not how I thought my life would look. This isn’t what I signed up for.

I get up at seven to leave by eight to be there at nine. I go to a real office, I wear real clothes, I use my legal name. I’m still freelance – so, no benefits of the straight life come attached, except one: acceptance.

When I started caring about that little thing, I’m not sure.

If I’d been terribly big on acceptance I wouldn’t have been topless on the internet. Or an ordained Pagan minister. Or any of the other hundred and one things I’ve been, and am, openly.

I’ve wasted so much time pretending to be someone else’s normal.

It’s just that I got tired of dodging when asked what I do for a living. (Now people dodge me, in fear of my at-the-ready business cards.) When my friends griped about work I said nothing, because I was afraid of revealing what I did – of how that would reflect on my lover.

I thought of all the public advocacy work I wanted to do and decided I didn’t want to attract that kind of attention, because then his parents would realize, and what would that mean?

I was a coward.

He’s a good one – he never had a problem with my chosen work. I was working off my own decisions, my own assumptions. The pressure was internal – or where external, not from him. But I had a problem with self-censoring. I had a problem with living a lie. And I was too much of a coward – I called it being discreet – to be out with it where reasonable, for fear of who it’d get back to.

Only, someday I’ll be older, and I’ll wish I’d done it all fearlessly like I started out, when I was young enough to get away with it.

There’ll be time enough for pretending…

Only I don’t want to pretend.

I’ve always gotten bored with discretion. I’ve got a restless instinct to shake off all the bullshit.

But here I am, sunk cost fallacy at the ready: “I’ve already invested all this time and money.”

I don’t know what the hell I’m doing and frankly I’m buried in debt and I want to die.

Not for any reason but that I just don’t see any point in doing this another day. Things don’t seem to ever get better.

I wish it wasn’t important to me, what I did; or, no, I wish it was more important to me, so that I would have pushed myself more, been more successful, compromised less on the things that drove me.

Instead I have to go off tomorrow to a job I’m unfortunately very good at and smile and pretend I didn’t wish I was in my home office, in my lingerie, taking calls from my favorites.

It’s silly and it’s whining – everyone wishes they were at home in their underwear getting paid to be sexual; nobody likes going off to their boring job. And of course there were times I didn’t want to log in…

…but I didn’t hate it. I just hated not being able to tell. Or, no, I hated not feeling honest.

When you’re a sex worker of any stripe, one of the first things people want to know is whether or not you’re “real.” Real pictures, real name, real encounters, real breasts. After a while for a lot of clients that fades away and what takes central importance is a different kind of reality.

They don’t care so much whether or not my stories are real* as whether or not those are my actual fantasies. They want to know if the kind of sex I have or portray at “work” is the kind of sex I have at home.

To that I say: not always.

Anyone with a fetish can relate to how hard it is to find a fellow fetishist, someone who understands and shares your seemingly irrational turn-ons. Any polymorphously perverse kinkster can understand how unlikely it is to find someone who you not only have physical, mental, and emotional chemistry with but who shares every last one of your various kinks and doesn’t want anything on your hard limits list.

Any sex worker, present or prior, will know that sometimes having a tangible difference between the kind of sex you have with your partner or partners and the sexual persona you take on at “work” helps you become and revel in that fantasy without taking any lingering unpleasantness from one side to the other in either direction. Sexuality is a messy business and it helps to have boundaries between public and private life. There is such a thing as being too naked.

I love living authentically, with all my warts and tender underbelly out in the open, but that kind of brutal honesty can be very uncomfortable especially when other people are involved. I respect the others in my life by keeping enough privacy for myself to cover them as well.

There’s a beauty and a glamour in playing pretend and why are any of us in this business if not for the dirty glamour? I write stories because I like to make things up. I fantasize because reality is limiting. I can’t really kidnap my objects of lust. (Legally.) I’m not (always) a stockinged siren of a gun moll out to ensnare the hearts and cocks of men.

But I could be.

And so I fantasize, and I create a persona where my fantasies and those of my fellow fetishists intersect. There, I go and put on a tarted-up version of my own sexual dark side; I slip her on and flash her under my skirt.

This is my private sexuality, the sexuality I had back when I was a virgin, back before I knew what sex was aside from kissing and making babies. I liked power play, pulp adventure, and wearing pretty things.

I love wearing femme-y lingerie and stockings with real garters that snap against my thigh and silky, satiny slips (why don’t they sell more slips? it’s ridiculous special ordering something that used to be so basic). I wish you could all understand how intriguing it was for me when I found out that some men not only got lingerie and nylon like I did, they were more turned on by underwear than nudity and some even wore it themselves.

(And women that wear? Ooh. Yes, please. I’ll take my bisexuality with a side order of high femme.)

I can dress up for myself in private a la Buffalo Bill or I can put on a show and share a little thrill with someone else. This satisfies my fetish for mass sexuality while respecting my actuality of a kinky man who gets me in every last regard except for the way I get turned on when I sneak a little nylon under my dress.

Real? Yeah. I’m real.

…And this is what I want. Come and get it.

Lingerie and Stocking Fetish Phone Sex

(18+, $2.19/min)

*Strangely enough most of mine are. What can I say, it’s good to be a sexual deviant…

My first post just went live:

There’s a special thrill to fetish phone calls snuck in when the wife or girlfriend is just out of earshot, knowing she could discover your kinky little submissive desires at any minute – knowing she could catch you, cock in hand, humiliated and deeply aroused all at once.

When my submissive males aren’t alone, I love to tease them and make them ache for me. Last night I did just that.

I’ve got this caller… he’s married and a workaholic, so he’s hit or miss, but very open and responsive. He’s vanilla – mostly.

Mostly.

He’s got a little weakness for tease and denial, which is my preferred tool of subtle feminine dominant manipulation. When a dominant woman slips a collar around your cock and wraps you up in a velvet leash you’ll follow her lead anywhere.

He followed my lead from his mobile phone. In the bathtub. At home. While his wife was home – and very close by. He couldn’t speak, just type and listen, which rendered him effectively helpless to control or resist my teasing.

It started when I received this tempting email…

(click to read Sensual Teasing When Wifey’s Home)

Oh, did you want to skip straight to the new email domination line? You’ll have to learn patience if you want to be any fun. Fortunately, I have ways of training you…

There are men who like porn; they like to masturbate, they like to come. For some it’s a hobby. For Mike it’s closer to a lifestyle. Personally, I love those guys. They crack me up and they keep the phones ringing.

While he’s telling me this I’m walking down the sidewalk near the park, cell in one hand, leash in the other, and teasing him with my plans for the evening (unlike his, mine involve sex with someone other than my hand).

He lets out the most woeful sigh of regret I’ve ever heard from a compulsive masturbator. “I wish there was someone there you could tell about me.”

As he’s saying this, two goth club kids walk up and greet me. I’m guessing he can’t hear them in the background because he hangs up, clearly frustrated that I hadn’t met anyone in the five minutes he stayed on the line. The goths – on the young end of college age – hear the tail end of the Niteflirt message.

The girl gives me a look like she’s heard it before.

Mike – apparently wanking off to all those porn DVDs gave you no stamina whatsoever, because if you’d waited another 30 seconds you would have heard the giggles of a slightly drunk, kinda cute brunette goth chick laughing at the fact that you’d rather collect enough porn to keep a frathouse stocked up than even try to pay a girl to have sex with you. That is truly a sign that you have given up on life.

Hanging up just before you would have gotten the delicious semi-public humiliation you crave: phone sex FAIL.

Getting nearly 24 hour access to your Sabrina fix: WIN.

This line forwards directly to my cell 24/7. I might be driving around, walking my Shiba Inu, shopping, out with friends, drinking, or on a date with a man who can measure up. If I’m in bed, this line is on Alerts since my mouth might be too full to talk…

This line is open to all sorts of conversation. I might not always be in a place where I can talk explicitly but that never stops me from listening! I won’t be in front of the computer so you’ll need to introduce yourself when you call.

This is the closest you’ll ever get to getting my cell phone number. Don’t lose it.

Call Me On My Cell Phone

$2.29/min

1-800-TO-FLIRT
x 03225011

j: what do you want me to have for the call?
me: mm, well what do you have? and do you have any toys?
j: i’m at home, you tell me
me: right, because I live next door and can peek into your window and see what you’ve got.

That call ended with me forcing him to spank his balls with a wooden spoon, calling him my bitch, and making him shove ice cubes up his greedy ass. Then… well. I made him cry, you see. It turns me on when they cry.

That night I actually made a man masturbate with his own tears.

That’s one life goal checked off…

n: so those are his guitars over Your shoulder in the piccy
n: and yes, isn’t it weird about NF boundries
n: !
n: which we should nonetheless respect (and do, don’t we)
Sabrina Morgan: yes, you’ve been an absolute gentleman
Sabrina Morgan: sticky fingered maybe, but nonetheless endearing in your own way

And to prove the point, he bought me breakfast. After I made him worship my luscious round ass.

Have I mentioned my callers rock?