I recently received a slightly unsettling email from a guy through one of my websites. In it, he addresses me by the name I have attached to that email—which shouldn’t show up anywhere—with a question mark. Right off the bat he got under my skin. Oh, wait, I just realized it was his second email. His first asked if I was real. Or if I was “some social project or some high level porno industry’s PR”. I responded to that first one explaining in a few short sentences that I am indeed real, and that every word I write is 100% true. I think I added, but can’t remember and I’m too lazy to search my sent box, that using the term “memoir” implies the work is non-fiction. Anyway, back to the second email. The, “Tee hee, I’m clever and found your name, but I don’t think it’s your name”, email. He wished me a pleasant birthday, and then asked, “Are you doing hooking cause of physiologic necessity or just because of the money...asking because to my mind you’re sound and look too intellectual for this endeavor”.
So many whizzing thoughts and expletives ran through my mind as I read that sentence. He polished it off with, “p.s. why Kelly cause it’s strange to talk to a person with no name”. This email address—one of my thirteen working email addresses—like most, require a damn name, and since I ran under the radar for a long time, it’s under Kit Kelly: which was my Tinder name. So, while it’s not my name, it is in fact, a name.
I’ll open this retort with this: Dude, you wrote me...unsolicited. You cold-called my ass. You should be grateful I responded—especially since you made no attempt to solicit any of my valuable skills. Let’s address the “physiological necessity”. Is he implying that I need to understand why men fuck? Or is he asking if I’m hooking as an understudy for school? Or that I somehow need to fuck men for money in order to subsist? I’m not sure he knew what he was asking, because physiological refers to the body. Does my body need to be a prostitute? Hmmm. I have long-ish legs. Big natural tit’s. Full lips. Come hither eyes. Mouth lube. Eager to please, oh wait, that’s psychological. And a sweet tasting pussy. Maybe my body does need to be a hooker. I’m just kidding. It’s all about the benjamins, baby!
However, as most of my readers know—minus this guy apparently—I also enjoy my job about half the time. I don’t think I’d last this long if I didn’t. Enjoy might be a bit strong. It’s not nails on a chalkboard half the time. On the flip side, we all know that if the money was taken out of the equation I wouldn’t be baby-birding an old guy or watching The Texan jack off for twelve hours.
And the final grenade, my favorite bombshell: I sound and look too intellectual. Now, had this gentleman read my excerpts (granted, this one was way back, but I encourage people to read my work), he would have known that I’ve covered this statement before. Said to me once while I was at the club: “You are too smart to be working here.” A million strippers have broken this down in a million ways, how can I say it differently? ME LIKEY THE MONEY. I also enjoy working for relatively short periods of time. If I was a cashier at 7 Eleven, would you say the same thing to me? What if I had an Instagram account dedicated solely to my life at 7 Eleven, would you say I was...eh, nevermind, you get the thrust.
Ok. My looks. Let me turn this around, what do I look like I should do? Most of my self-portraits look like I should be committed to the looney bin. What exactly about my face screams diplomat? He does know that my industry is predicated on looks, right? It starts there, and then goes down the list: disease-free, can form a sentence, non-addict, no warrant, good in bed, etc. The more boxes you can check, the higher your collection fee and stamps on your passport.