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This article is the first in a series of essays by current and former sex workers about their favorite johns. I was 27 years old, a grad student, bored and curious -- just like my ad said.

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James was in his mids, a little too old and far too normal. Then again, James and I would never meet in any situation other than this.

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I was a Craigslist call girl. James was my first. I had gotten the idea from a friend. That night I got online. A lady that speaks GREEK, possibly, a road of possibilities, a chance encounter, no strings attached. For roses, reasons, a generous donation, a happy ending. You can start any It was just what I needed. Working full-time as a research assistant at a hospital, I struggled to make ends meet. I was single for the first time in adulthood. I shocked us both by calling off the engagement.

I was not ready to start a family.

I was guilt-ridden. I was alone. It was a Tuesday night after class, and I'd had three or four drinks at the bar. No one would talk to me either; I went home alone, pitiful and unsafe in my own skin.

How shutting down its “erotic services” section hurts prostitutes and cops.

But not 20 minutes later, I found myself in a yellow cab traveling south down the West Side Highway, on my way to meet a man who called himself James. How I got to James is something of a blur. I had his phone and address written on a scrap of paper I held in my hand. I remember the cab stopping at an intersection, our green light, and two bright white lights — headlights — coming straight at me.

When the other car made impact, we spun. The taxi was facing the opposite direction when it finally stopped. I can still remember the quiet, the pause.

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Not one bump or scratch. The driver lay slumped over the steering wheel. I shook my head. No friends? I looked down at the scrap of paper still in my hand.

Under pressure from 18 state attorneys general and the weight of public opinion, Craigslist has shut down its “adult services” section.

I called James. When James arrived, I saw that he was not bad-looking. Irish American, deep blue eyes.


He was not my type, exactly -- he had a beer gut and was wearing a Red Sox sweat shirt and a matching baseball hat -- but he was a normal guy. I felt giddy. I had just survived a near fatal accident without so much as a scratch. This was so surreal. Back at James' place, I made myself comfortable.

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His home was nice in a Crate and Barrel sort of way. I sat down on his microsuede sectional and slipped off my heels. From the kitchen, he offered me wine. I asked him what he did for a living. Whatever, I thought. Enough with the small talk. I drained the glass and returned it to its coaster. As soon as he sat next to me, I straddled his lap. This is fun, I told myself. This is no big deal. Sex for money is not the same as casual sex.

I set up two dates with another man and met James later that week.

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Normal being what I wanted, normal was what I sold. I began attaching a picture to my. The picture was taken by my mother a few Christmases back. At the time, I might have told you I was screening my clients. The truth is that the s were foreplay. It was part of the thrill. I liked meeting new people. I liked seeing new places. I liked being in apartments nicer than mine. I liked seeing the insides of fancy hotels. I liked getting dressed up. I liked making lots of money, fast. Most of all, I liked having sex. I was aroused by the fantasy of getting paid to do all this.

In my eyes, I was a non-pro -- not a professional, not a prostitute. I was different, I thought.

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I was educated. I was not drug addicted. I was no victim of trafficking. I was doing it by choice. I said as much to James. James looked at me like I was nuts, like he felt sorry for me or like maybe he wanted to help. But he knew he had tried to help enough. James told me all the time that what I was doing was wrong.

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A part of him meant it: the part of him that put potpourri in a little jar next to the sink in the bathroom. I understood it well.

James was the first man to pay me for sex. He wanted to bring out the good in me, even though he needed the bad

It was the part of James I knew best, maybe the only part of him I ever really met. He was destroying that part of me, he understood, just as he destroyed that part in himself. Refresh, refresh, refresh. After just one Craigslist Melissa sex of selling sex online, I had already accumulated a literal pile of money -- tax free, in cash -- that I kept it in a desk drawer at home. I started squeezing more than one date in a night. I was meeting men before and after class. I spent all my free time sitting at my computer, postingresponding toing back and forth.

I became less interested in getting to know them ahead of time and more interested in making it happen, as quickly as possible, so I could get on to the next. Every encounter, I got a little charge. I once met a guy who said you can buy anything on Craigslist. He was talking about collectible antique furniture, but I thought it was so funny I wrote it down.

You know, ironic. He said it as we took the back stairs up to the 14th floor of the granite building where he worked on Fifth Avenue, where in his corner office I gave him a blow job for bucks, the city lit up behind him like a Broadway set. When he finished, he opened the top drawer of his desk and brought out an antiseptic towelette, as if he did this all the time, as if I were contagious. Every man I had sex with for money, all the strangers that I met — when it comes to memory, you have no choice what you remember and what you forget. I could tell you the good parts: the nice guys I met, like James, and the fancy restaurants.

I could describe the interiors Craigslist Melissa sex every luxurious hotel. Hell is getting everything you want -- everything you think you need and more than what you even asked for -- and not enjoying any of it.

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Getting everything you think will make you happy and still feeling nothing at all. The longer I sold sex, the less I was the person I wanted to be. After three months of prostitution, I felt raggedy, used up.

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