escort diary® of Asha Fox

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When I came into the sex industry properly at 21/22, I was a svelte 6ft greyhound of a girl. My cheekbones protruded, my hair was long and shiny, and with a warped pre-existing idea of the job I was walking into, I accentuated the plum in my mouth (which I was brought up with but actively suppress) so as to give the brothel manager the idea I was employable. I didn’t realise at the time, that there were no class standards there - everyone got a chance. She was a psycho bitch, but I’ll hand her this - she was not an elitist snob. So, I was employed under a certain look and air of class that I had portrayed, and that’s how I was marketed. I was pushed as the model figured, classy university student - suitable for even the most refined gentleman. Quite ironic when I remember the dump that was the place, smelling incessantly of cum and baby oil, but nevertheless it was marketing. So naturally, your marketing determines the type of men you see. And my god did my ‘classy’ image attract some utter wankers. It didn’t take me long to realise that in fact this image that was being marketed by the brothel was attracting the less savoury clients, and slowly I tried to shed my image. I relaxed into sexwork after that with the realisation that the best way to survive in the industry was to attract clients that were respectful and also, likeable, and the only way that could happen was if I was just myself. The version of 'myself' I had never had the freedom to be.

Brought up in an environment where my family competed against each other with material rubbish, and where I went to a good, ‘white’ school in a quiet white neighbourhood - I spent the majority of my life, frightfully bored. I was an outcast from the start, with absolutely nowhere to turn to for community. I’ve made many mistakes in my life, making myself a black sheep long before I became a sexworker, all in the name of sheer boredom. How boring it was to keep up with the Jones’s and debate American Civil Rights in a white school that in spite of having it’s own Marae and annual pōwhiri - only ever taught it’s own country’s history and language as an elective. Snore.

So - in many ways, I was the perfect companion for the average middle-aged right wing white male in whitey ol' Christchurch. But I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to hear about the qualms of middle management and listen to them bitch about their wives, knowing full well they were hardly the perfect husband or employee. I wanted to meet people who not only respected my service but actually enriched my mind. People who had something to say, or at least, knew when they didn't. I hadn’t travelled yet - I was so hungry for people who interested me and bored with conversations about interest rates and derogatory talk of women and the under privileged.

I wanted more. And while I witnessed, and continue to witness sexworkers catering to those with the material wealth, and do not begrudge their hustle (because by god do they work for it), I quickly realised that power games with big money were not good for my spirit and ultimately led to resentment and actually very little financial payoff. Outwardly wealthy people can be incredibly tight. By dropping the facade of polished class, and minding my P’s and Q’s, I gradually began to build a client base of genuine, organic ‘connections’ - clients who enriched my life, rather than drain from it. The freedom to be oneself, without fear of losing clients based on tattoos and hair colour or the odd online rant - is truely liberating.

This didn’t all happen overnight. Lord knows I spoke some complete fluff on online forums at the beginning. Catering to the man is what made logical sense to me at the time. Now I see, I was catering to the egos of vocal narcissists, and subsequently alienated clients who saw through the sycophantic bullshit - and wanted someone to be real with them. They were the nice guys who didn't run around telling everyone they were 'nice guys'. They just were, and ultimately there were some very mutually good times that were had once the facade dropped.

So here I am, I come to you baring all - flaws, mistakes and all. I am nothing if not human, and a product of a lifetime of experiences, both good and bad. I cannot claim to be perfect, in fact I run from it, and I know that not one of my clients is either. But I will be real with you, I won’t lie to you to inflate your ego or cater to pretention, but wrap you up in an honesty that is raw but also incredibly beautiful, and never, ever boring. And subsequently, I will remain happy in my work, and eager to grow within it, and as a result of it.

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