Living Out Loud

Preface and Disclaimer
The following is a very personal perspective on a topic. It is not intended as a manifesto, or as a means of chiding those who choose a different path than I choose. It is simply my own personal experience/ perspective. I would never presume to know or choose what is right for anyone else.

A little background: I am “out and proud.” While I am bi-sexual, this isn’t what I am most “out” about. If I ever met that “Miss Right” and brought her home to my family, it might be received strangely, but I believe they’d take it over my current career choice (especially if she were a doctor). What I am out about is my career. I have always believed that being honest with others and ourselves is the route to happiness (although I also recognize that there are some who would prefer to be happily in the dark and protected by their lack of knowledge about certain things, especially where their children are concerned).

After watching the 2008 film, Milk, with Sean Penn, I decided to readdress being “out” as a companion (view trailer here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=unu-9vM9VZw). I was familiar with Harvey Milk’s story from my social science classes in college, but watching the film reignited my passion for living “out and proud.” Also I realized a fundamental reality, that being honest and proud of myself and all of my life choices was the first step to changing the laws and social mores around my chosen profession as a companion and a bi woman.

Gay rights are defined as a civil rights issue. Whether or not being gay, lesbian, bi-sexual, transgendered, or purple for that matter is the right choice for you or not, it seems like it should be fundamental that there be basic civil rights that extend to protect all citizens. However, this has not historically been the case for those whose sexual preference is different from that accepted within larger culture.

The same can be said for those in the sex-work or companion professions. Sex-workers are disproportionately targeted as victims of rape, violence and murder. In addition to being subject to these atrocities they are endlessly harassed by police and judged and prosecuted more harshly than their clients when faced with legal action. The treatment of sex-workers by legal authorities while in custody is also notoriously deplorable. In 2009 Marcia Powell died while in custody in an Arizona prison as a result of exposure after being held in a pen in 108 degree weather (http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,526132,00.html).

For these reasons, because it is a civil rights issue and also because I want to see a change in the social mores and laws around sex-work, I take being “out” very seriously. But being “out” is also a very personal choice, one that can come with serious consequences, including the loss of one’s relationships with friends and family.

Outing myself: Ultimately I made the choice to out myself because at a personal level I didn’t like lying or being evasive when close friends or family asked me about my job. I also didn’t want to buy into the secrecy and shame that accompanies it. In order to be proud of myself, to feel good about myself and my relationships with others, I needed to be out about my job.

To be a person who is so open and honest with others while denying something that is part of my daily existence didn’t square with my personal ethics. So I did what any self-respecting semi-political, proud, inspired and possibly socially suicidal, feminist companion would do. I began to out myself.

Initially it was just to a small circle of my friends who I trusted implicitly. Later that circle grew to encompass my family and finally, although this took the most courage of all, a very close friend who had also been my teacher throughout my grade school education.

Their reactions were as mixed as the people in my life, although many were surprisingly “cool” about it. Most were understandably concerned for my safety. Some wanted specific, solicitous, juicy details, which I provided in a vague compulsory manner, but with little interest (the sexual proclivities of others are way more interesting when you aren’t actually the one on the other side of the bed). Others asked few questions, but made comments that belayed their own ill informed perspectives on the topic... No I didn’t have a pimp, no I never had, no I was never going to.

And then there was my family (namely my father and little sister). As a woman who specializes in understanding men, many of whom are also fathers, I fail completely to understand the internal workings of my own father. Or perhaps I understand him too well and don’t like the truth of the situation.

My father and I continually duplicate a cycle of mutual disappointment. He belays his disappointment in me in many not so subtle ways. These are evidenced by his complete disbelief that I rejected the professional career I worked towards for 12 years, divorced the husband I adored (still adore) after 7 years together and ultimately choose my completely socially unacceptable career. Allie scores 10 points on the rebellion scale, rah rah!

In turn I struggle to understand my father’s miserable complacency. I watch as he toils endlessly and often fruitlessly to fulfill the expectations of his parents, my grandparents (dead for over 20 years now) and to please his second wife, despite the castrating comments she fires at him across the dinner table whenever they have company.

When I tell my father that I am a professional “gentleman’s companion.” He hollers, “You can’t just do whatever makes you happy!”

And now my sister. I wasn’t raised with my father’s other children, my siblings, my half-siblings really. For this reason I dotted on and adored them during my weekend visitation time, allowing myself to evolve fantasies around our familial closeness. These fantasies were grounded when my little brother moved to California and took up residence at an unknown location, leaving only a PO Box as a means of contact. Which left my sister.

I tried not to feel concerned when my 19 year old sister refused to come to the phone when I called on Christmas day. I told myself it was a “teenager thing.” Moreover I tried not to be bitter when I reflected on the college education my father is paying for her to receive and recalled that at her age I worked 25 hours a week at a seedy strip club to pay my own way through college.

And even all of this was palatable until... Until after being out of contact with my sister for over 6 months I requested her cell phone number and email address. I was told that she didn’t want to talk to me because of what “I do.”

The consequences of being “out and proud” have finally found me. Ouch! And they have found me in the way that is hardest to accept. My little sister, who is a decade younger than I am, who named her dolls after me and refused to leave my lap at the dinner table, has decided to estrange herself from me.

But ultimately, what is there to do but to accept it? I understand that my job has been hard on my family, that being honest sometimes is the hardest thing to do and that the truth can be very hard to accept. Still I hold onto the knowledge that it is what is right for me. I also believe that in some small way this little sacrifice might help to reduce the overall negative judgements placed on those in the sex industry. I hope that through my acceptance of myself, others will find a vehicle to accept themselves and their differences and ultimately to be more accepting and less judgmental of others.

A note to families: It is this kind of response from families that cuts more deeply than any other social disenfranchisement of those in the sex industry. The attitudes of family and friends of sex workers play a key role in changing negative social perspectives. Also it is important to understand why women in the sex industry are frequently targeted as victims of violence. It is the unfortunate and often inaccurate belief of those who prey on sex workers that they have no community connections. There is a misconception that women (and men) in the sex industry are disposable, without family and friends and therefore easy targets who won’t be missed. Family and friends have the power to impact social perceptions through their own acceptance and non-judgement.

Lastly, despite the sadness that accompanies my family’s rejection, I recognize that I have the same power. For this reason I will continue to live out loud, “out and proud.”

Summer Bay Shrimp Salad

I love it when I mix up just the right combo of ingredients and end up with something delicious. Here's a recipe of my very own creation. It is really tasty and healthy, two very important things to this food obsessed girl. I hope you enjoy it.

Ingredients:

2 zucchini- cut into 1/2 inch cubes

2 ripe tomatoes- cored and cut into 1 inch cubes

1 onion- finely minced (use a red onion for more bite, or yellow or sweet onion for a mellower flavor)

1 can whole kernel yellow corn, drained

1 cup feta cheese- crumbled

½ cup fresh basil, chopped or torn into small pieces

1 lime

Salt & pepper to taste

Fresh or frozen small bay shrimp, rinsed (thaw if frozen)

Mixture of summer greens

Balsamic vinegar

Olive oil

In a medium bowl mix together zucchini, tomato, onion, corn, feta and basil. Squeeze the juice of 1 lime over the veggie mixture, salt and pepper to taste. Cover and place in the refrigerator for storage. Veggie mixture makes 4-6 servings depending on serving size.

When you are ready to enjoy your meal place a serving of greens on a plate, drizzle with balsamic vinegar and olive oil (lightly salt and pepper if desired). Spoon veggie mixture on top of greens in desired quantity. Spread ½ cup bay shrimp (be sure to drain well after rinsing) over the salad and enjoy!

Notes: The veggie mixture can be used for about 3 days after mixing if stored in an airtight container in the fridge. For best results do not add the shrimp or greens to it until you are ready to serve.

Options: For those who enjoy a bit more substance try adding a piece of artisan bread spread with a quality fresh goat cheese as a compliment to the salad. One of my favorites is from Cypress Grove Farms.

My Love Affair With DC, Part Two

Fast-forward nearly 10 years. After 12 years, 3 completed BA majors and 2 graduate degrees (I know I overdid it a bit), I have finally decided that I am done with the noble pursuit of higher education. I am so done with higher education in fact that I no longer have any desire to pursue employment in the field that drove me through those last years of student loan applications and late night panic attacks. I am done, done, done. I am burnt toast done. All I can think of is the shock of the new.

And in so many ways my life is so totally new. Life as a companion has taken me by storm and swept me up in a whirlwind of self-reflection. Seemingly overnight I have been publicly transformed from a bookish semi-introvert into a sought after seductress. “O brave new world! That has such people in it! (William Shakespeare, The Tempest)” How can I resist this sexy new reality? I ponder my options, weigh the consequences and then shell out the money needed to fund a professional website and high-end photos.

I set my sights ahead of me 6 months and begin to dare to dream of a world outside of my cloistered apartment, greater than the next term paper or final. I pause, look around admire what I’ve accomplished. I see my cloistered apartment transform to a house with a yard. I witness my shoulders drop from earmuff status to their regular shoulder height. The intense insomnia I experienced while in the last months of my graduate degree begins to transform into a regular sleep schedule. I am feeling semi-human again. I am feeling liberated, energized. I am feeling like a new-hatched moth, ready to fan my wings and catch a breeze to life’s next adventure. I am feeling like it might be time to travel outside of the safe cocoon of Portland. Perhaps it is time to risk more; to dare more and to push past those preconceived boundaries I have constructed for myself. Perhaps it is time I go back to DC?

When I arrive at National I grab a taxi, not the metro, into town. It’s winter, the weather is cold and dry and the trees are naked but for a few brown and withered leaves that still cling to branches here and there. All the better. This bare plate better showcases the meat of the capitol. I openly gape at the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and the arching bridge that spans the Potomac. I beam at each new post card brought to life as we pass, The Lincoln Memorial, The Washington Monument, The Capitol Building. Then the taxi coasts through downtown, past a building with a glass room. The walls are tiled all in marble on the inside and lit from behind. What grace! What elegance! What a moment to be back in DC.

The cab pulls up in front of the Hotel Palomar, a geek sheik boutique hotel with a contemporary interior. Within minutes I am headed to my upgraded room. As I open the door I am greeted by an expanse of space. I reflect that it is larger than a studio apartment I once lived in while in grad school. I throw myself across the king sized mattress, taking in the large mirror adjacent. A wall of windows and the room’s tasteful décor is reflected within. There in the middle of that reflection is me, a slightly travel worn girl with a big goofy smile on her face. I’m back in DC and this time it is 100% on my own terms. I’ve cast my vote and found a balance within myself, a democracy of one.

Washington DC: A Love Affair, Part One

My affair with DC began nearly a decade ago, when as an undergrad I was invited to lobby my Oregon senators and representatives about an environmental issue. I recall my terror as I lugged my suitcase from the metro and walked, wide eyed, towards the street corner where my hosts were to fetch me. I had no idea how safe, or unsafe the city was and at that time I had never flown anywhere alone.

When I was shown to my room, on the second story of a tall and narrow row house, I was greeted by a random array of stored items all of which watched over the bare twin mattress where I was to sleep.

The following week was a grueling blur of early mornings filled with seminars, followed by long days of walking the capitol in my best “big girl clothes.” I was at the heart of our nation, at the steps of the Supreme Court, in front of the Capitol Building and I could feel the power and influence that shaped the democratic ideals of this nation. However I was far too busy to actually get to see any of the cultural attributes of the city. The Library of Congress and the Smithsonian buildings stood maddeningly near promising rich educational experience that I had been informed would change me life, but I lacked the time to make the short excursion.

One evening, exhausted, I escaped a social obligation involving wine, crackers and political somebodies, and found myself in the Hirshorn Sculpture Garden. The guard at the gate must have thought I was nuts as I collapsed on my knees on the grass and began to cry. I was so relieved to be away from the political jargon, the oppressive agendas, the intensity of the capitol experience. That and I was seeing, touching and yes, taking photos of, sculptures that I had studied in school. There they were, statues by Auguste Rodin and Henry Moore, along with other beauties I had never before seen.

I returned to Dupont Circle, where I was staying and had a delicious curry at a dingy corner dive, all the while updated with the ever ready CNN news stream pouring into the room from the television over the bar.

After, I dragged myself back to my crowded room, dodging drunken Sierra Club employees, laughing uproariously over their own party politics. I threw myself into my sleeping bag on my naked twin mattress and finally I slept while visions of what I might be able to see in DC “someday” danced behind my eyes.

Self Portriat with Glasses

Eating New York

It is possible that I may be prone to hyperbole. It is also possible that I am part of a whole generation that is guilty of exaggeration. But food like I had this last weekend in Manhattan requires no literary embellishment.

Among the culinary marvels I experienced while in New York, was the exceptionally understated Balthazar. Although I have not yet had the opportunity to visit Europe I suspect that Balthazar is reminiscent of the quaint eateries one might find there. Although it occupies a surprisingly large space it manages to be both bustling and intimate all at the same time.

Tiny tables for two are wedged in so tightly that one sits nearly as close to the stranger at the next table as to one’s friend across the table. But never mind this. It doesn’t detract one bit from this restaurants old world charm. In fact it provides all the more opportunity to ogle, sniff and salivate over not just one’s own culinary choice, but also that of one’s neighbor…. Oh, I’m so sorry… I really didn’t mean to take a bite of your food. I thought it was my own…

Being the devout coffee lover that I am, I was delighted by my bowl-sized cappuccino, which was appropriately frothy and tasted intensely of espresso. The eggs Florentine were a completely different matter. Delight is far too weak a word to describe the intense and nearly sexual emotions I harbored for this miracle of eggs, cream sauce, artichoke heart and spinach. If this dish had only had genitals I might have discovered the love of my life!

Balthazar’s eggs Florentine are a culinary marvel. The flavors of the delicately soft yolk, the cream sauce and the fresh artichokes, meshed with the spinach into a symphony of sumptuous bliss in my mouth. I’m afraid I must issue a formal apology to my company as I was so deeply immersed in my new found love affair with the eggs Florentine that I simply made soft deep moans in response to my friend’s attempts at pleasant breakfast conversation. No matter, the eggs and I will always have that moment…

Balthazar's website

Excerpt From a Letter to a Friend

Dear E

I arrived in DC on Thursday and now it is Saturday. Only two nights and I miss home already. It is part of my role to be a bright and shining individual who is positive in most things, but I know that you won't mind if I confess to be lonely here. I find it is very hard to be away from my own bed, my cats, my garden. On the bright side it is beautiful here. The sky is completely blue, clear and it is about 75 or 80 out. The seasons are so polarized here. I hear the last big snow bank only just melted two weeks ago in Baltimore! And yet the row house down the street has a rose bush with hundreds of blooms bursting forth. The contrast is a startling one.

I am staying in a little one bedroom apartment. It is quiet and (thankfully) does not resound with the ugly hotel sounds that I loathe. There is something about hotels that is simply too sanitary. It is as though they have washed the personality from them. At least here I can feel the intentions of the landlady, who by the way is the most lovely sweet blue eyed woman from the Czek Republic. She is in and out of the building constantly lugging bits and pieces she has retrieved from Ikea to improve her apartments. I receive daily offerings on my doorstep. Today it was as though Saint Nick had made a stop. I opened the door this morning to a set of stainless steel pans, some crockery, cooking utensils and an array of unlabeled boxes. The day before it was a Britta water pitcher.

Okay, enough of my ramblings. How selfish of me to assume you want to read all of these trivialities about my trip. Can you tell it is lonely here?

xoxo
Allie

The Girlfriend Experience

Ah, yes the GFE. The term has been overused, misused, carnally redefined and debated over.

(If you have yet to be privy to these conversations and feel your life will be the lesser if you are not, then see your local online chat community. If you don’t know which one, then I guess you’re out of luck because I’m not going to advertise for any here.)

Generally speaking the greatest abuse of the term occurs as gentlemen struggle to carnally define it. I have seen GFE summarized as French kissing, a blow job (minus a cover) and some form of genital penetration. It sounds crude doesn’t it? If you are excited by this description, you sir, are not a romantic.

This definition of GFE is woefully inadequate when applied to a true companion. In order to be an extraordinary companion a woman must seek to enjoy your company, engage you in conversation, know your inner longings and strive to see your strengths as a person. She must surpass the superficial in that she also seeks to be known by you herself and to give you an honest portion of her being as she receives a portion of yours. This exchange cannot be summarized by a simple menu of sex acts and does not even necessarily have to include a sex act of any kind.

And yet, no doubt, for many ladies (and gentleman as well) this crude list of services does summarize and define GFE. But doesn’t this debase all of us? If GFE is simply a list of sexual services, then where is the consensuality in it? And if not done with true consent and integrity of being then where is the joy? It follows to ask if it is joyless and simply obligatory how does the experience resemble the passionate love affair a man might have with his girlfriend?

Perhaps a different tact is in order. Perhaps there are some who would argue with my belief that companionship should involve the intention to know and be known by another. For those of you who are of this mind I would like to leave you with a thought.

In some way even our fictions hold the substance of our own truths. It is impossible to get away from being ourselves. So with that I will leave you with something a dear friend of mine likes to say, “you be you.”

Lights, Camera... Action?

Today I spent 3 hours in a photo shoot. It was my first time working with a new photographer. First times can be awkward. I must admit that I didn't much care for the experience. With photography, as with any relationship there is either a certain chemistry, or there isn't. As with a new lover, when it's good, it's really good and when it isn't... well it REALLY isn't.

The bumbling awkward moments of self-consciousness. Those heavy prolonged silences and an overall lack of flow typify a grand failure in both types of interactions. It is no accident that photographers will say to models, "Yes, that's right. Like that sweetheart! Yes make love to the camera!" There was none of that today. No excitement on either part, just the insecure bumping of noses and inopportune banging together of teeth as we went for that first kiss so to speak.

If this photographer had been a lover, I would know that I had failed him. But he is not a lover and I will have to wait a few weeks to assess the relative success of our union. Sometimes sex is just easier.

Babes in Boyland

A dear friend recently showed me the blog of another lady. It was smart, sassy and not focused on sex in the least. What a revelation! I could write a blog about my life and it did not need to be sexy or salacious in order to be interesting. Now don't get me wrong, my life is sexy and salacious and interesting. But it was the simple power that interesting in this world of smoke and mirrors is not all about sexy. Or maybe more accurately that sexy is not all about sex.

So here I am, Allie Oh!!!, a babe in boyland with a blog. Please do stay tuned; things are bound to get interesting.