The Cost of Control

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The Preparation

I was in college, physically and emotionally isolated from my family. I really needed that $20, and I was grateful Royal let me keep the money, but I admitted to him on the ride home that I felt cheap. “Like a whore,” for keeping the money, and that he should take it back. 

At the time, I had a few friends who did sex work. Transgender women who I had met through school and around the city. Not until that moment did it register to me that I saw their work, whether it was for survival or otherwise, as negative. Cheap. Once the tables were turned on me, I had to wrestle with my feelings on sex work’s legitmacy and morality. 

On our drive to my dorm room, Royal told me that he often paid for sex or simply the company of a beautiful companion. I was confused. This man wasn’t ugly. He wasn’t socially awkward. As far as I was concerned, Royal could easily pull whoever he wanted. Hell, he pulled me, did he not? 

Royal, doing his best to fight through my prudish attitude like we hadn’t just done a number of absolutely filthy acts explained to me that, for him, it wasn’t about the ability to pull a desired target, nor gain access to them, but rather, that he liked the ability to control the environment in which sex took place. The who, the what, the when, and the where, with little to no compromises needed. 

Royal explained how this hookup life we were living was dangerous, particularly at the time prior to rideshares, gay phone apps, and easily accessible location trackers. With neither of us being particularly fully “out” at the time, that ability to control the environment put his anxieties at ease. A level of “security, professionalism, and maturity,” he told me, before adding, “You’d do well [as a sex worker]. I’d pay for that again.” 

This framing of paying for sex as security and control shifted the way that I not only engaged with sex myself, but also how I viewed my sex worker friends (who also considered their work as being within their control), and how I viewed clients.

The Practice

It wasn’t until just short of a decade later that I paid a sex worker myself. Partially because I believed there were better things to spend my money on, but mainly because I finally had money to spend at all. It began with webcam models. A few “tokens” adding up to $20 here and there every so often. I enjoyed that, with every cent spent, they were seemingly under my control. “Spread your legs more.” 2 tokens. “Turn around.” 5 tokens. “Take that off.” 7 tokens. 

I told men who look like the physical manifestation of beauty and power itself to jump, and not only did they jump, they did so while damn near begging for more commands. It was intoxicating. Addicting. The power, the sex appeal, and the control of it all. 

That engagement over time grew to a deep curiosity for what sex work looked like from the controller end of things, in-person, and at this state of access. One particularly horny weekend after payday, with no luck on the apps, no desire to have any of those particular strangers in my apartment, and Royal’s words still echoing deep in the back of my mind, I decided to try my luck with a “masseur.”

I, unfortunately, don’t remember his name. He was taller and more muscular than the guys I usually engaged with, with full lips, a caesar, coffee brown eyes with a matching complexion, partially covered in tattoos, and a cross over his left shoulder blade. I don’t remember why I selected him, but I remember saying out-loud, in shock at his webcam-level beauty, “holy shit.” 

He told me his rates via text message and after I agreed, he asked if I’d rather host or not. I told him I would come to his spot and was immediately on the way–both nervous and damn near giddy. It wasn’t until I was parking that I even realized that we didn’t discuss a single action nor desire. 

He buzzed me in and when we met face to face, he could tell I was nervous. He grabbed me and gave me a tight hug and said, “Relax, baby, I’ve got you.” I walked in and stood awkwardly in the entryway as I watched him walk to his secondary bedroom, where a massage table was set up. He called out and asked if I wanted a massage or if there was something more I was interested in. Then, he re-emerged from the room fully naked, and asked, “Top or bottom?” I don’t think I even answered him, but he noticed what was happening in my jeans as an answer for what I was looking for.

Timid and a little uncomfortable, this man kissed me and whispered four words that put me at ease almost immediately: “You’re in control now.” That sentence sent me back into Royal’s car as he drove me home. This was about feeling secure, comfortable, and in control. Why was I so nervous? I was in control. 

Like a switch, my demeanor rapidly changed from awkward and unsure to confident and impassioned. I led every action in that session, seamlessly alternating between worshipping his physicality, affirming his performance, to dirty talk, and mildly degrading acts–a gentle slap-on-the-face-while-his-mouth-was-full, kind of thing. 

Our session was only an hour and thirty minutes, but it felt much longer. Out of breath, he asked me if I enjoyed myself. An emphatic “hell yeah” left my body as I tried to catch my breath as well. He gave me a final kiss and told me not to lose his number. Naively, I almost took that kiss to mean that he “like-liked” me, right up until he reminded me that I had already paid half of the total upfront and that it was time to pay the remainder. 

The Power

Leaving his apartment to drive home and euphorically reflect on my experience with him, I asked myself the main questions: “Would I do it again?” “Was I satisfied?” Admittedly, that feeling of being “like-liked” that I felt with that final kiss was something I couldn’t shake. I realized that I would actually prefer if someone had sex with me because we like each other and not because I paid them, but of course I wondered, would I have that kind of sex with someone outside of a relationship? With a hook-up? With a stranger–without payment? Probably not. 

I was comfortable. I felt secure because this was an arrangement pre-equipped with the boundaries that eliminated many doubts that compromise sometimes digs up. I felt powerful while having sex in the exact ways that I wanted, because I was in full control. So, when arriving back at my apartment and asking myself again, “Was it worth it?” The answer remained an emphatic, “Hell yeah.”

C.E. Williams

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