The far-reaching tendrils of male entitlement

Its time to legalise the world’s oldest profession

As we enter a chilling period for women’s bodily autonomy and trans rights—and yes, the two are as linked, if not more, than gay rights and trans rights—the more we can call out and witness the insidious “givens” of male entitlement, the better.  If for nothing else than preserving them for a more enlightened time.

Why are women’s rights and trans rights more linked than gay rights and trans rights?  Because the rights of women are about identity, what it means to be a woman, they are about sex and gender.  Gay rights, being gay, is about sexuality: which sex anyone is attracted to.

And well, trans rights are all about an attempt to align gender with sex to the greatest extent possible, defined as is by gender dysphoria, a formal disconnect between one’s sex and gender.

Women can be sexually attracted to men or women, just as trans people can.  

I went out last night with a girlfriend to celebrate what I hope is the end of the divorce process. She’s a 3:00 am friend, and has been in my life at Uni, where we both met as rowers, at business school, randomly, many years later, years seeing each other at parties and reunions, many shared friends, and an unrequited attraction which has been smoldering in the background since we first met.

I got dolled up.  Fresh from Tantric coaching about learning to ‘see the world through my pussy’, my teacher is asking me to ‘let the pussy lead the way.  Own the room with your pussy’.”  I’m sure you can all appreciate how much fun I’m having learning from her.

As I walked the surprisingly balmy post-storm streets of London to a dungeon I dommed from, but left a dress behind, so was headed to collect it, a man emerged out of nowhwere.

He sidled up to me and brought his pace to match mine.

“You’re a very beautiful woman,” he observed.

“Thank you, baby,” I said.

“Where you going?”

“I’m going to meet a girlfriend,” I said.

“You want to have a drink later?  Dinner maybe?  What are you doing later?”

I looked at him.  I thought about not being afraid and wondered if this is vestigial privilege of having grown up in a male body.  I also thought of the observable socio-economic differences between us.  Clothes and their cost, the colour of our skin.  I do have white privilege.  I am tall.  And I worked as a male model and now as a female model, my whole life.  I guess that means pretty privilege.

He was North African, and while nicely dressed, I suspect that his entire outfit, including his coat, likely cost about the same as the socks I was wearing.  And I don’t say any of that to assert privilege or to be a snob, but these factors, are real. So I wondered, ‘what could he possibly offer me?’  And more importantly, ‘what would make him even begin to think that he could offer me something?’

Was he trying to tell me that ‘if I am trans then I must be loose, or someone you can just chat up?’  Or that he was taking pity on me for saying that he was eager to be with me and that I should be flattered somehow?

But I did rehearse the speech I might give when a man who is a potential client comes on to me.  Women are just as likely to be clients, but we find each other in very different ways, and the nature of the interaction, also financial, is quite different.  So, I didn’t bother saying to him, “baby you can’t afford me,” which is what I was thinking.  Or even telling him my website, so he could see my rates and services and see that for himself.  Who knows, some clients do save up, and those are the best in a way, as it shows how much they value time together.

Eventually he stopped walking with me, giving up.  Once he did, I felt immensely flattered by his come on.  It has not happened so often.  Over dinner, my friend and I discussed this, comparing it to women’s fear.

My friend is also tall,but spoke of having to walk home and pretend she was on the phone, to jam her keys through her fingers in case she needed a weapon, the sick feeling she gets when catcalled, having to pay attention to dark doorways, to alleyways, to vans parked on the street.  This is a life of women that I never experienced before, even if I knew it existed.  I am still too busy living the joy that women aren’t ever afraid of me anymore.  And the stats that trans women are even more likely to suffer sexual violence than cis women, or any kind of violence has not yet landed with me and may it never.

While we sat at the bar waiting for our table an attractive, well-dressed, entitled white man pushed his way into our conversation to tell us how attractive we were.

“We’re just two old friends trying to catch up,” my friend said, as a brush off.  But he wasn’t deterred.  And ladies, I think that if you want to pick up guys, then it’s a toss up between puppies and going out with trans girls.  Men seem to think either one is a calling card for their advances.

Since he wasn’t deterred and I was feeling sporty, I said, “you’re just a little boy, you couldn’t possibly be of interest to either one of us.”  He raised his eyebrows, sensing the challenge, and leaned in.

“I like the challenge.”

“I’m sure you do.  But I’m also sure you can’t afford me.”

“Afford.”

“No baby.  The good things life are just out of reach.  You can try my website and if you like what you see, you can get in line like all the other good boys.  But as my friend said, ‘we’re having a girls night out, just two friends catching up.’  I don’t think that includes you.”  I told him my website, but just then one of the hostesses leaned in, put her arm around him and told him that they would throw him out if he didn’t leave us alone.

Later, at our table, my friend asked, “is that coming from being a domme?”

“I guess so.”

With a very dear Sex Worker friend who, like me, is at the beginning of her journey, I confessed my willingness to consider escorting, as in, having sex with men for money.  She isn’t gay like me, and tends to like boys, but she may be a convert to the Sapphic team based on her reaction.  But I do realize, yes, I will do it, at least for money.

More and more women, sex workers or not, are beginning to realize that men aren’t worth the trouble of being committed to unless there is a lot of money involved…that could be, a house, extravagant gifts, an income.  Women give up too much to be with men.

And ultimately it is a real mugs game. The rules were written with patriarchal pens on patriarchal paper.  Monogamy, the sanctity of marriage, are both things we are told that women want, what they crave more than anything, and that men have a biological imperative, a God-given drive to spread their seed.  That this leads to better genetic outcomes.  It is completely backwards.

Women are more likely to get pregnant if they have sex with a different man every night than with the same one.  Explain that.  

A look behind the curtain shows it doesn’t add up. Marriage is institutionalized slavery.  The ideal social structure is communal, large family groupings, with shared roles and responsibilities.   In this way, the division of labour is spread over more people and through time as well.  What kills women economically is child-rearing and pregnancy.  The idea that being tied to one man as the best way to insure that the child has the best future prospects is based on the absence of community.  Marriage is simply a way to enshrine women’s dependence.

There is a very cherished memory I have of going out to dinner with my Queen.  It was social.  As in, even though I am a client, and have been for a very long time, and would never ask or expect that she do something with me without payment, she invited me as her dinner date to a very important evening.  As we left, a man accosted her and asked her how he could find her, that he wanted her number.  I would have rebuffed him and was tempted to shoo him away.  She handled him with such grace, simultaneously turning him away as giving him the information on how to book her.  But I couldn’t help but think that when a man sees a woman with a trans woman that on some level it is a date of an understanding friend, not possibly intimate.

We left the restaurant together and were walking down a busy London street. It was still light as it was summer, and we were both dressed to the nines.  I didn’t notice at first, but a photographer had fallen to his knees about 20’ in front of us…she had spotted him and began to pose, effortlessly, naturally, which is how I noticed.  He said, “oh my God,” he said rising, “a vision.  Beautiful,” and he shook his head for emphasis and bowed and we drifted slowly past.  She with a quiet nod of acknowledgement.

Why is it that men think two women together is a buffet not a do-not-enter sign?  That lesbians exist for their fantasy?

I know what my future is.  I am founding a religion based on the emancipation of women.  I will begin slowly, rising like the Phoenix from the wreckage that my wife wrought on our collective finances.  But I’ve done it before, I can do it again.  And this time I don’t have the illusions.  I won’t be doing it for her, for anyone else, just me.

There is a narrative that criticizes women, especially sex workers, for trading money for intimacy.  But men do this already, have been since the dawn of time.  Every market needs a buyer and a seller.  Let’s not deny women the full extent of their economic agency.  It’s time to legalize the exchange of intimacy for money.  Not only will that reduce crime, violence against women, but provide many women with greater economic freedom and choice, but it will relieve women of the burden of carrying society’s shame.