My name is Rahel Kaléko. This isn’t my birth name; I’ve retired that name and separated it from my job. Rahel is both my “other” sister and a part of me. Rahel is freer, braver and more easy-going than I am.
I work in the service sector. My job is no different than any other job, except instead of sitting behind a desk, a register, or a cafe counter; I provide my clients with a good time. In doing so, I become extremely close to them—as close as they want.
I work as an independent member of the high-class escort service Hetaera (home to the most expensive bitches in Germany and Austria). Allowing Rahel to be desired creates a diversity of stories—some dramatic, most erotic and others crackling—which I share with my colleagues during our regular meetings at Bar Freundschaft. And, now, during corona-times, I will share some here with you.
Falling in Love with a Client?
It was a perfectly normal inquiry. During the time between lockdowns, when we were allowed to work again, a man from Munich, with a perfectly normal first and last name, wanted to meet me. We misunderstood each other from the get-go: He wanted me to fly to him but I thought he would come to me. How could I have mixed this up? Then it occurred to me that, in this case, I would be flying to meet my client directly as a travelling noblewoman. I’m used to the opposite situation, where client-noblemen travel (mostly to Berlin) and stay in hotels. They used sex workers to distract themselves or regain some level of functionality.
A well-protected and expensive secret for the most natural need in the world. Most days I think it’s just sex, but occasionally, I find myself thinking:
“It’s not just sex work… We are love workers, too.”
Rahel Kaléko © hetaera
Eventually, our conversation shifted to climate change, which informed my decision to take the train from Berlin to Munich. ICE has a high-speed route, after all. But before all that, I had wondered what to wear for my dates.
“Munich… is a fine city!” I thought.
80%—no, let’s say 87%—of my professional motivation comes from the likelihood of wearing fine clothing on the job. I mean high heels, long jackets and lipstick, of course, but also textiles that gently glide along my long, slender body, tickling my nipples or caressing my ass. High heels make me taller and give me the chance to look my customers in the eye (or sometimes down on them). This time, I decided on a long Ralph Lauren dress with a plunging neckline. The dress complements small breasts like mine; the flounces tendril over my “flatness,” creating subtle curves. I’d pair the dress with my work shoes—Balenciaga heels in pitch-black suede with an elastic to secure the foot. These shoes squeeze my wide feet nicely. Thanks to the elastic I can get over Neukölln cobblestones and railroad crossings.
But this customer—that’s what we call the men who are hungry for love and willing to pay—he and I had written each other about 200 emails. They were short, long, small, large. He emailed me from work, while watching Bayern Munich score 3-0 with his son, and in the 30 minutes after the shower he took before going to bed lonely. During the conversations we’d have during this half-hour of freedom, I could hear the sound of my voice vibrating through car speakers. I enjoy this time very much.
To be clear, he offered me money for our communication. I gladly accepted, given that we can’t see each other right now because of Corona. I said to him, “You are rich and, because of Corona, I have many financial problems as an artist.” The phrase “You are rich,” triggered incredible laughter from my colleagues at the Hetaera regulars’ table. It was cheeky—but also true! Amazingly, I’d say my life is firmly anti-capitalist, although I work in perhaps the single most capitalist industry in the world.
I’m thinking about closing lines from yesterday’s email; never before has language, momentum and eroticism made me want to touch myself, much less lead to climax. He said, “My heart pounds… Is it allowed to do that? I could write about the pictures and the feelings they evoke in me. My heart has pictured your silhouette, but it does not hold that image; it sees you.”
He went on: “My heart has to write about you. It can’t rest on pictures. It wants to touch you, your hands, it wants to follow them, and go under them… Where my hands go, it is warm and soft. All my heart wants is to hold you, to feel you—to breathe you in and breathe out. All it wants to do is gently graze your silhouette and taste more and more of you as I grip you tighter and tighter”—
Naturally, he has the last word. Most of the time he is the one being naughty with me. Is that love? Or is that work? Isn’t love always work?
Is love that is paid for sex work? Can love be free at all? Can sex and love be separated, or does sex always equal love?
