Dating post-sex work is an amazing, awkward, revealing undertaking. I realised when I was in any sort of romantic setting I automatically slipped into what I refer to as pro mode. I think the title is fairly self-explanatory, but here are some examples. I tend to slip into Cleo’s role of pandering to and complimenting the man I’m with. Pro mode also means that I am reluctant to talk about myself and thus manipulate conversation to avoid revealing too much. After all, Cleo was meant to be an enigma that clients must spend many hours learning about.
Pro mode differs most from the girl next door when it came to the bedroom. With each new romance or, more pointedly, the first night I had sex with a new beau, pro mode set me apart from any girl he had previously dated. Any good pro will insist on a client wearing a condom for head jobs, so I did. This was always a surprise to my dates. But I made no apologies for my precautious nature. I did feel very exposed by this peculiarity and felt that one act must be a giveaway for my past occupation.
Pro mode affected me in many ways. I would never refuse a come on—I just believed that my job was to be available. Even if I was full of snot, and fighting a raging sweaty fever, I still felt obliged to be sexually available. I was consumed by the memory of my thousands of previous clients who moaned to me about their wife’s miniscule libido, so I was determined to never be a woman my man could moan about.
Pro mode dictates the terms on which you have sex and that translates as everything he is doing is just perfect. You never tell him that he is out of rhythm, or that he is lousy at oral sex or, worse still, how to improve. Pro mode has fixed responses to each action which meant I detached entirely from the sexual act. I had been detached for almost twenty years, and I had no bloody idea how to reattach. Detachment was my safeguard from danger, and it ensured that I kept my wits about me. So when a new partner asked me if I was satisfied, I found myself immediately affirming his belief that he was Adonis in the bedroom, even though I was anything but sexually satisfied. I just couldn’t bring myself to question his methods. The Cleo that lived inside me just simply wouldn’t allow it: My job is to please the man and not derive or demand sexual satisfaction from any man, if it happens then it is a bonus but I should not expect it. These words echoed in my head like a mantra, and whether it was Cleo or Annika was irrelevant.
Another major adjustment for me was the lack of sexual variation in my new found straight existence. Every man has sex in his own way, some days he might last a little longer or throw in a new position here or there but basically he follows a certain route on his way to the final destination. As Cleo I was used to variation in my sexual diet. Some days were Italian, some days were Asian, others were Indian. To be more truthful, some days were small and some days big, some days you would get the most mind-blowing head job that you hadn’t experienced in ages. Some clients would make love to you while others just fucked the hell out of you. But now here I was being made love to every solitary time. Gone were the days of the desperate fucking or the pleasure of the unknown. Now my sexual life was predictable, which was a massive adjustment for me.
Imagine that once upon a time you had a key to an ice-creamery, and every day you could select from any flavour you liked. You could sample every new cone, and add any variety of sprinkles, toppings or sauces your heart desired. All the while you knew that no matter what flavour was on offer you always seemed to come back to strawberry as your favourite. Then one day your key no longer opened that door, instead there was a note on the door: ‘Sincere apologies, but the store is now closed, however, you are entitled to a life-time supply of your favourite flavour, strawberry.’
Now in your heart you know that many would kill to hold a life-time supply of free ice-cream, particularly such a wonderful flavour. You are also well aware that at any given time you can jazz up your bowl with nuts, or toppings, place your favourite scoop in a waffle cone—but it will still always be strawberry. I found my world had shrunk. Variety was gone, and this was a big adjustment when I went straight.
Twelve months after bidding a final adieu to Cleo, I met someone who would challenge all my assumptions about myself and men in general. It was the night of a football grand final and I was rip-roaringly drunk. Through mutual friends I met a man who took an instant shine to me. He saw me home and poured coffee into me.
I joked: ‘Look Poppy, I found you a new daddy.’