Liara Roux - Whore of New York: A Confession

Published by Repeater Books

An imprint of Watkins Media Ltd

Unit 11 Shepperton House

89-93 Shepperton Road

London

N1 3DF

United Kingdom

www.repeaterbooks.com

A Repeater Books paperback original 2021

Distributed in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York.

Copyright Liara Roux 2021

Liara Roux asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

ISBN: 9781913462567

Ebook ISBN: 9781913462611

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Printed and bound in the UK by TJ Books

Contents

Part One

Chapter One

Birth

#

Ive been asked many times: When did you first think of starting sex work?

I remember lying in bed, quite young, praying to God, Please dont ever let me stop believing in You. I know that otherwise I would do a lot of drugs, convert to communism, and become a prostitute.

During different periods of my life, I imagined myself in other careers. The earliest I remember was fireman. The second was quantum physicist. I then decided I wanted to be an electrical engineer, then a painter, a policy wonk, an academic.

But I would lie awake at night thinking of whores.

#

I was the firstborn. The first memory I have is of looking at my reflection. The mirror was slightly warped, shifting the shape of my face like a funhouse mirror as it spun in a mobile above my crib. Im not sure how old I was.

Sometimes I wonder whether this memory is real or not.

My first word was not mommy or daddy it was kitty. My parents had two older cats, and I loved them. I would chase after them, and at first they would run away from my rough and unpracticed touch. As I grew older, I learned the tricks of where to scratch to make them purr and rub their faces on me.

#

Perhaps that was where I first learned the joys of giving another being pleasure. It felt so good to have a sweet, warm kitty purring on my lap. I always wanted to make people feel good. My mother, at the end of a stressful day, would ask me to give her a neck massage.

Thats my favorite part of my work as well making my clients feel pleasure. Feeling their tension, their desire, playing with it, directing it, touching them and stroking them to keep them on the edge of climax.

For many of my clients, giving me pleasure is their fantasy as well. Of course there are those who couldnt care less, but for the most part my clients are very much concerned with whether or not Im having a good time. When Im at the height of my powers, I am.

Only last week I was sprawled on the bed of a luxury hotel in silk pajamas, eating berries while an older married man sucked my toes. He was older but taking testosterone, with the body of an Equinox personal trainer. He gave me a massage and admired my body. I came while watching him jerk off into a champagne glass. He drank his cum for me, swallowed every last drop, keeping his eyes fixed on mine. Our pillow talk was a Modafinil-fueled debate about the applications of Ethereum Im a skeptic, hes not.

Sometimes I feel guilty for how much I enjoy my work. Im a first-class pampered pet with a diet full of Michelin stars, flitting around the world in cashmere and silk, private jets, private cars. Of course, my life wasnt always like this. I dont think anyone who watched me grow up knew Id one day be such a self-indulgent whore.

#

My preschool was one of those bizarre places on the Upper East Side where parents need to fill out an application for their child as though its a college, as if anything but their wealth and connections are granting them admission a grotesque race to ensure your child has every opportunity to succeed. My mother, perpetually neurotic, had decided it was necessary.

It was my first day and I was terribly excited and nervous. My mother peeled me away from her side and handed me off to the teacher. I was surprised at how I loved the lessons. I loved the art classes and reading and learning to write. I was so anxious to succeed, to make my mother proud.

I would come home, sit beside my mother in her bed, and practice reading aloud. How is it that adults are able to read without saying the words out loud? I asked.

It takes practice, she said, Youll get it eventually. Youll say the words inside your head instead of speaking them with your mouth.

Learning to read felt like learning to breathe. Once I started, I couldnt live without it. My mother would smile as she watched me tear through a pile of books as she read the praise my teachers wrote in my evaluations.

#

I first knew I was bisexual in preschool, because I liked kissing both boys and girls on the playground, but I also knew it was something that I shouldnt talk about. I also knew that I wanted to be a boy or, at least, I didnt want to just be a girl but I shouldnt talk about that either.

The first kiss I remember having was with a curly golden-haired boy in preschool. We were both going down a slide; he went first, and when I got to the bottom, he gave me a kiss. One of the teachers scolded us.

You cant do that, she said. Why not? I asked, annoyed.

I dont remember getting any sort of explanation that made sense to me, about why it was so bad to kiss. Being queer was like the same thing; Im not even sure anyone ever explicitly told me it was wrong when I was young, but I knew that if anyone found out, I would be punished.

It is strange how these ideas about what is taboo are communicated to children; how did I know it would be so wrong, without ever being told? Was it the way my mothers grasp on my hand would tighten if we passed two well-dressed men holding hands? I was too young to store any of these little signs and signals into memory. All I knew was that if my parents found out, something very, very bad would happen.

But I loved playing house with the other girls: going into the kitchen play set and showing each other our underwear, exploring touch, playing doctor. We would walk around in a fierce group together, teasing the boys, making them follow our commands. I was a devious little leader. There were two girls at school I loved with all my heart. Mei Mei and Mishka. We were always together, the three of us, having group playdates and outings.

Mei Mei in particular was my best friend. Her mother was so elegant so unlike my mother always wearing dresses and perfume. My mother herself never wore makeup or did her hair; much of the time she dressed like a man. She would only wear dresses when she had to attend a formal dinner, as well as Christmas or Easter service. She was fiercely practical. My father would bemoan this, trying to gift her jewelry or flowers or take her shopping for clothes. She had a jewelry box full of gems she never wore. She would snap at him for wasting money.