Can We Have Intimacy Without Truth?
Can we lie and hide parts of ourselves yet still experience intimacy?
That is the trade we make; intimacy for eroticism.
I’ve been thinking recently about the true cost of, and the true experience of intimacy, especially within the lens of sex work. In the space of an hour we can go from strangers to lovers and then back to near-strangers again, which when you think about it, is truly a wild and remarkable concept.
Is it possible, even when we put on the ‘act’ of intimacy, to find true intimacy? Are the years-long relationships I have with some clients real or is it all just a little game of pretend? Can we find true intimacy, and therefore true love, when we hold ourselves back?
I’ve written before about the ritual of sex work; the necessary steps of unplugging from the world and creating a fantasy space in which someone you’ve just met five minutes before feels comfortable enough to take off all of their clothes in front of you, without fear of judgement, disdain, or disgust. It always starts with a conversation. A very earnest ‘how are you?,’ and an exchange of personal information. I don’t believe everything in the conversation has to be true, but at the very least there has to be a kernel of truth in what you talk about. It is necessary in creating intimacy to share something about yourself if you expect someone else to share themselves with you. Intimacy, I’ve learned, is a two-way street; a careful balance of mutual investment. You can take off your clothes with a stranger that you don’t have a connection to of course, but that fickle little hard-to-find thing, that spark, I firmly believe will always be missing.
If you want to feel cared for, you have to care for someone. If you want to connect with someone, you need to share a bit of yourself.
I love having a little chat at the beginning of the session; it’s a game to find something we can share, together. It can also be a challenge sometimes, when you meet someone who is so totally unlike you that it can feel like a form of torture, but the satisfaction of finding something that makes you say “oh really, me too!” is so, so sweet. It’s that subtle but essential shift that lets us take off our clothes with confidence and enthusiasm instead of shame or fear. It’s what makes touching one another feel comfortable and safe. It’s what makes our connections, however brief, feel real, because on some small level it is. The physical and sexual aspect of our time together is always, ideally, a furthering of our mental and emotional connection; a manifestation of our brains both saying “hey, I see you, and now you can see me too.”
We don’t need to talk about the sex part here. That’s a different conversation for a different day. But we do need to talk about the fantasy aspect of this connection; the parts that aren’t true. Because I don’t tell you my real name. I don’t tell you where I really work, what my siblings’ names are, where I really grew up, what I really think about the upcoming election (well, that last one is reserved for the brave and patient clients and them alone). I keep those things secret for safety reasons; because there are a lot of people out there who think that the work I do is evil, and who wouldn’t hesitate to push me in front of a truck or bash my head in if they were given the chance. For safety, but also not a little bit of selfishness, I keep some things to myself. I only reveal enough to satisfy the basic needs of our interaction, because truth, a necessary part of all encompassing intimacy, is the biggest killer of erotic desire. The unknown is where the fantasies lie; my nebulous background (what is she really up to when she’s traveling… what does she really think of caviar or Teuscher chocolates?) is where you can fill in the blanks of your own mental map for what you want me to be. Maybe you think to yourself, “god I love her… I would still love her if I woke up to her morning breath and real bedhead, I would still love her when she’s crabby for no reason or yelling at random people in traffic, I would still love her when she’s overly emotional because the supermarket sold the last of their pizza dough balls, or when she’s irrationally obsessed with Kate Middleton’s disappearance, or when she isn’t listening to me talk about my mother’s haircut appointment.” Perhaps you would be one of those one in a million people who loves unconditionally, and who can be equally thrilled twenty years into a relationship as you are on day one, but the fact that you’re reading the blog of a professional whore whose primary clientele is made up of married men suggests that maybe you are not, actually, one of those rare men. In some ways it goes beyond safety then. I’m doing it for you so that no matter how many times you see me, that reservation and aloofness, that feeling of ‘not quite being totally real’ keeps you excited over and over again. In other ways, maybe it’s a little bit selfish too. I can safely enjoy the comfort of men who love me, who want to do kind things for me or give me beautiful gifts, but I don’t have to be emotionally invested in these relationships, and when they disappear, it doesn’t hurt the way it should because I know the relationship isn’t built on 100% vulnerability from both parties. You love me, I don’t love you, I get to have my cake without really paying for it, so maybe it’s actually me who’s being selfish…
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Whore d'ouvres to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.