“He tipped you,” she told me.

That’s not a tip; it’s a bribe. “He wants a handjob,” I said as I stuffed rope in my bag.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Every time a man has tipped me before the session started, it’s been with the expectation of special treatment.”

“Nooo. Really?” She thinks I’m a horrible cynic.

I once refused to take a hundred-dollar bill. Oh, how sweet of you! As much as I appreciate it — and you’ll certainly have a good time, yes, of course — I would hate for there to be any misunderstanding. So I’m going to set this on the table, all right? And I want you to hold onto it for me until the end of our session. That way, I can be sure that you really and truly appreciate all those delicious things I’m going to do to you.

That client left, and the money with him. Integrity is expensive, but taking the money and feigning ignorance feels dangerous. People like their agreements fulfilled. Men are large.

“If I come flying out of the room, you’ll know what’s up,” I called over my shoulder as I went in.

The client was even more hopeful than I had predicted. Several times during the session we repeated ourselves like well-rehearsed actors: plea, demurral, apology, pleasant assurance of offense not taken. But he never pressed the issue, and so I finished the session.

At the door, he thanked me and slipped a hundred-dollar bill into my hand.

I feel quite smugly righteous at the moment.

Posted in pro domination, sex work, (il)legalities, tipping