Dee Dickens - Duct Tape and Daddy Issues

Duct Tape and Daddy Issues

Phone-Sex Worker Tells All

Wordcatcher Real Life and True Stories

2019 Dee Dickens

Source images supplied by Adobe Stock

Cover design 2018 David Norrington

The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved. This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United Kingdom. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the Publisher.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Published in the United Kingdom by Wordcatcher Publishing Group Ltd
www.wordcatcher.com

Tel: 02921 888321

Facebook.com/WordcatcherPublishing

First Edition: 2019

Print edition ISBN: 9781789422573

Ebook edition ISBN: 9781789422757

Adult Content suitable for over-18s only.

Category: Biography / Adult Entertainment
DUCT TAPE

AND DADDY ISSUES

DEE DICKENS

WORDCATCHER publishing

To my darling husband, Phil, whose humour and support got Stella through many a long night.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

Hello Dear Reader, let me introduce myself. My name is Dee Dickens and as well as being a student, a writer, a poet, mother, and wife, I am a sex worker. Has some connotations that, doesnt it? Sex worker. Conjures up an image. Fur coats, no knickers, leaning against a wall in a dark and dirty city alley. Madame Cyn, Christine Keeler, the criminally young Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver, Joanna Lumley in Shirley Valentine; whatever springs to your mind, I promise you that the reality is nothing like film or telly.

I would say that sex work wasnt my dream but, what can I tell you, as a small child I either wanted to be a sex worker or an opera singer. We listened to an awful lot of opera in my early years, my parents played it to us in our cribs, and I was enthralled, still am, by Maria Callas. She had an incredible voice, incredible coats, and incredible presence. I used to parade up and down singing arias and pretending that I was on my way to yacht post-concert feeling glam and fabulous even in my pining for Aristotle Onassis who had just left me for the frigid American Widow. I had quite the immersive imagination as a child, maybe I was always destined to be a writer. Maria was a diva, The Diva, and as a child who always felt like an ugly duckling, she was something to aspire to. La Divina was not a conventional beauty, she just had something about her. I wanted to be like that.

As for wanting to be a sex worker, I had seen them on childhood Saturday night treat, Kojak and though I didnt know exactly what it involved, they looked exotic and self-sufficient; badass. They were beautiful to me and had someone who really cared about them. Yes, I understand about pimps now and how they are not a Good Thing, but my life has always been held together by duct tape and daddy issues, so I knew no better. Besides, I really liked the shoes. I still truly like the shoes. Not that I wear them for work now, it is usually pjs, messy hair, a cat in tow, and unbrushed teeth. Im a real catch.

You have questions, I know. Once they get over the initial shock, everyone does. My mother-in-law straight up screamed. She then made me a packed lunch for my train journey home, so I think she still loves me. My sister was just worried about how I pay my taxes. They both wanted to know the same things though. How did I get into it? Why did I get into it? When did I get into it? How do I do it without laughing? Happy to explain. Grab a cuppa, this may take a little while.

It all began in the summer of 2018 when I was turned down for a job at the cheap supermarket, Lidl. Yes, that Lidl. Where the staff seem to be asleep or brain dead most of the time. That Lidl. And they didnt want me. This is a bit embarrassing when you think about it absolutely as I have worked in retail, hospitality, and customer service for thirty-plus years, am clever and a hard worker. To be fair to them though, if I had read the responses, I gave to their psychometric bullshit tests, I wouldnt have given me an interview either. I answered honestly, which was a massive mistake as it meant that I answered like someone who was used to deal with a well-unionised workplace. Based on some of the questions they asked, I am assuming that Lidl is not a well-unionised workplace. I probably scared the crap out of whoever had the thankless task of reading my application. I make no apology for this; I believe that workers are the means of production so that together we should be well-organised to make our lot better. Join a union folks. I have. Oh yes, sex workers have a choice of unions and I am a proud member.

So, where did that leave me? Broke. Like, proper broke. Being a student is difficult enough financially, in the summer it is a killer. You still have to pay rent, you still have to eat, and you are absolutely exhausted physically and mentally. I know that our students have a bad reputation for only getting out of bed to eat noodles and beans, but this could not be further from the truth. Sure, there are those who only fall out of their pits to party or watch Jeremy Kyle but most of them are conscientious, thoughtful and up to the eyeballs in depression and neuroses. Ive just finished my second year and we have had two deaths by suicide on my campus and many, many other attempts. If the government wants people to apply to university and get good grades, education should be free. As it isnt then the student loan should be quarterly; and enough to live on. I have opinions on this stuff. If students are going into debt anyway, it might as well be for an amount that would actually keep them alive and able to concentrate on their studies.

But where was I?

I was, broke. Id written a couple of books but as I was yet a million miles away from the Booker Prize shortlist, I wasnt making anywhere near enough to pay rent and bills etc. I wasnt making enough to buy a coffee to be honest, and though I love that I sold any copies of my other books at all, if I wanted to eat, I would have to make more than 2.26 per month on royalties.

Starving for your art is over romanticised and overrated. I live in an age of internet and Wi-Fi, not freezing garrets and laudanum candles or whatever, and though there was a part of me who thought that dying of consumption Puccinis La Boheme style would have some sort of artistic beauty to it, in reality, I dont even like having a cold; so I did what any self-respecting student who likes eating does, I hit my dad up for some dosh. Id never done it before, was always proud of the fact that I hadnt but, fuck it, he hadnt had to pay for university for me like he had my brother, that had to be worth something right? I gathered my wits and failing pride around me and skyped him. Wouldnt you know it, the first time I ask him for anything, my usually minted dad didnt have any money to bung my way as he is building a house in Tobago for no one to live in. Because of course he is. I made a joke to him that I would end up talking to dirty old men on the phone for money and he was outraged. Though, it should be noted, not outraged enough to get his chequebook out, because, you know, house in Tobago. That I will never see, because I am broke. It is his money though, so it is up to him what he does with it. Hopefully, one day I will make enough of my own to build a house. I doubt it though. Should I ever have that much money, knowing me, I will probably spend it on shoes, coats, and a fabulous yacht for pining after a Greek shipping magnate on. Not sure what my husband will think of that, but he knows me well enough to expect it.