Nightmare Brunette "came to sex work through intense curiosity and fearlessness. (I'm not saying I was brave, only that I didn't even have the good sense to be nervous.)"  Intelligent, discerning, sensitive and empathetic, she explodes society's stereotypes about women. Here are three short posts from Nightmare Brunette. 

And Opens Up the World
I had an orgasm today that made me genuinely wonder, have orgasms always felt that good? It was the first time in some time that I’ve had what I used to call a “sunny come”—when nothing is forced or raw-feeling or effortful. It’s not too abrupt. It’s not too delayed. There’s no fantasy or concentration. The sensations are more than pleasure, they’re pure happiness, like my body’s been flooded with mushroom honey. And I smile while it happens, feeling my bare chest dissolve in the sunlight of the room, the little sword bone between my breasts spreading like it’s turning to air. Laughing as he gasps at the grasping of my cunt. Forgetting anything that happens afterwards. For most of this week I’ve been asking, “what is wrong with me?” Feeling wrapped up and sucked down again into that craving sex for self-obliteration. Feeling ashamed for wanting that and yet feeling unapologetic. Feeling anxious, feeling angry, feeling ugly.

Then I have an orgasm like that and think “actually, I’m mostly alright.”

Kitsune

I allowed the older man into my life just after starting grad school and before a brief period of freelancing as a sugarbaby. This was swiftly followed by my venture into webcamming. I was Exploring, not interested in learning about myself as much as I was eager to cram in all the wildness and sex I felt I'd been missing. There was nothing to which I'd say no. Every decision seemed drenched in dark glamour. It was a volatile time without any introspection. And at the crest of it all came the foxes.

I started seeing them during the late drives home from my boss's house, sometimes two in a single night. Their presence was so reliable that if I didn't spot one in the trees near his neighborhood's entrance or in the strip of forest bordering the highway, I'd be uneasy and disappointed for days. I once saw one loping across the parking lot of the 7-11 near my townhouse in the earliest morning/latest night time.

The older man said he'd spotted them, too, out in the rural velvet where he lived. "I've seen more foxes since dating you than I have in my entire life," he told me. "It's your totem animal."

Eventually, the sightings died off. The run-ins had occasionally been punctuated by incriminating fox roadkill, corpses' coats ruffling fur red in the wind. The dead ones troubled me deeply; I felt responsible. What had I done to kill them? What were they trying to tell me?

When I graduated and moved, I don't think I saw a single fox for as much as a year. I was not quite happy but I was calmer. I began journaling again. I moved to yet another city, and one night when I was particularly despondent, the older man ushered me into his car and drove me to various landmarks, trying to inspire my faith in our country again. When we were on our way to The Awakening in its original location, I saw the rusty diamond face of a fox peeking out as us from the wooded side of the road. It was the last I'd see for a long time.

Recently, the young man and I had a fight. I took a work appointment he didn't want me to take. I told him I was going to move with or without him. I vetoed a trip for us at the last minute. We were driving into the city as he went on about "grinding it out," saying I'd never had a "proper" job because I'd never worked 9-5 in an office, speculating on whether or not I could do something that would require going against my own nature if the situation were dire.

I started to speak, then I stopped. I wanted to say something about how I don't think it's noble to make oneself miserable nor do I think it's admirable to follow the status quo. But something on the right caught my eye. My breath guttered like a candle's flame. In the grass on the side of the road rocked two reflective eyes. It was a fox, and it was running alone, a long body streaming in the dark.

Impulse

The turn of the year is a turbulent time for me. As winter burrows deeper into the city, I start getting riotous and wild, eager. Obstinate about getting what I want. Remember what happened early this year? I drowned myself in my own recklessness. I’m ready to do it again, in spite of the scare, in spite of the mellow moments, in spite of the grounding work I’ve been trying to do. Lord, make me chaste, but not yet. I day dream a lot. I stop reading in bed when I’m not yet at the edge of sleep, to leave a rim of time for fantasy before I fall away. I think I may finally move, very soon. If I don’t move, I’m going to implode.

Sometimes I’m ready to delete everything here. Other times I upload a picture of my face and hover over the publish button and then close the window. I don’t know what I’m doing or what I’m trying to do, here or in the world at large. All I know is that on some late nights, post-appointment, when I come home to my laptop and tea and ancient IKEA blanket, and I stay up typing and sifting and reading, figuring out what should appear here, the starving fire in my chest is quiet. So thank you for taking an interest in this, thank you for witnessing whatever it is. Though I feel like it shouldn’t, your attention matters to me. Perhaps that is one thing I have in common with my clients. I only hope you don’t mind not being paid.
 

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Illustration by Adriana Munoz