1. It was confusing and awkward. And advertising on Craigslist wasn't exactly easy, either. I called it «naked amateur massage.» Haha.

To be honest, I don't remember the details of my first time, but I’ve had so many wonderful moments in this line of work that they clearly overshadow the bad ones.

2. I’m an independent escort; I don’t work for any agency, nor do I use any middlemen. My first date took place in a car (I know—silly). I was incredibly nervous, but the guy turned out to be very sweet and pleasant—clean-cut and good-looking, too. After the date, I bought a few beers and kicked back. I felt happy.

3. I was completely broke, so I decided to give sex work a try for a while. I was really nervous at first, but honestly, the guys who sought out my services were way more awkward than I was, so I calmed down pretty quickly.

4. I’m a stripper. I used to work as a nanny, but then, at 18, I decided, «To hell with all that.» On my very first night, I realized just how many guys have issues. When I started, I was actually still breastfeeding. One guy grabbed my breast and called me «Mommy» all night long (so many guys wanted to buy my breast milk—it was absolutely bizarre). Another guy whipped out his dick and said, «Just sit on it.» Oh—and then there was the guy who licked my armpits!

5. My first time performing on stage was incredibly nerve-wracking; I’m pretty sure I looked like a newborn fawn—or maybe even worse—considering I’d never walked in high heels before that night.

6. My first day as a stripper. I’d been working as a waitress at a bar near a military base, and I was actually pretty good at it. I found out that a new establishment was opening in an area with potentially more attractive clientele. I was hired as a bar waitress once again.

I showed up for my first day of work and got straight to it—taking orders, mixing killer shots, and so on. About halfway through my shift, the general manager approached me and told me to come into his office. My heart instantly seized up; I was fully braced for something straight out of a «casting couch» scenario.

He didn't try to hit on me, but he did warn me that if I wanted to keep my job as a waitress, I’d have to take on some additional duties. So, it was either the stage or nothing at all. I remember how he pitched it, appealing to my ego: «I can't have a girl like you running around the floor all night. I need you up on the main stage.»

So, I did it. He told me to pick a song I knew really well, down a couple of shots, and just go for it. Honestly, I was surprised by how easy it turned out to be.

7. This probably doesn't quite fit into the realm of sex work, but it's interesting nonetheless. About eight months ago, I became a sugar baby; prior to that, I used to sell nude photos of myself. At first, I was incredibly nervous because I felt self-conscious, but even after I landed a steady gig as a sugar baby, I kept selling photos—simply because I’d grown to enjoy it.

8. My first day working as a stripper was a total nightmare. I was wearing heels from some obscure brand, so my feet were absolutely killing me. I was terrified to death of talking to people and felt like I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Fortunately, the other girls at the club were really sweet and helped me figure out the ropes.

I still work as a stripper, and at this point, it has become second nature to me. I really enjoy it, and I’m pretty good at it. I’ve also started doing porn now, and my very first day was absolutely addictive! I loved it; I got such a rush that I felt invincible.

9. I work full-time in the sex industry. I don’t remember the details of my first day. I was 19, my boyfriend had just dumped me, and I needed money. I think I did a pretty good job.

10. The first time around, I got paid $850 just to let a guy smell my armpits. It took 15 minutes, and he even drove me home. I was only supposed to get paid $400, but he gave me a bonus on top of that. I stayed in the business for two years.

11. I got VERY lucky. My first client was an attractive, middle-aged man who lived in a huge, immaculate house. Eventually, I told him that he was my very first client. He looked me in the eye and said, «You shouldn't be doing this.» I only stayed in the business for about six weeks.

12. I was really nervous on my first day, but I had some acting training (from school, not for work), so once I «got into character,» everything went much more smoothly. Now, it feels less like acting, and everything comes across much more naturally. It’s funny, because I’m actually a huge introvert and quite a quiet person, but something transforms inside me when I’m on stage.

My first client wanted me to tie him up, humiliate him, and step on his face. It didn't give me any pleasure, but it did boost my self-confidence.

13. My first day working as a stripper. I was 19, and I worked in a very small club (I called it the «shoebox club») that featured a wobbly pole—purchased from Lowe's—that went right through a gaping hole in the ceiling.

I had a panic attack in the dressing room before going on stage, because stripping down—even partially—in front of total strangers for the very first time is incredibly awkward. Then I went out there and saw people I vaguely knew sitting at the bar. After that, I rolled around the stage rather clumsily and accidentally knocked an ashtray off the bar, hitting someone in the process. Not exactly my finest moment.

14. I once worked for a company where my job was to respond to sexually explicit messages. On my first day, I found it quite amusing—even kind of cool. I worked from home and would tell my partner about some of the messages I was receiving. I had been told that I would be managing several different female «profiles.» I was convinced that the men knew it was a fantasy line, since the manager had assured me that this was clearly stated on their website. However, she never actually told me the name of the website.

Anyway, over time I realized that these men were messaging people they believed to be real women. They constantly referred to it as a dating site. I regularly received general memos from my manager instructing us to always say that «we like the idea of ​​meeting up someday,» but never to actually agree to it—and to insist that we wanted to chat for a while longer first, so that the men would keep replying. Some of these men corresponded with «a single woman» for YEARS, even though, in reality, that one profile might have been handled by more than 20 different women in a single day.

From one guy—let's call him John—I learned that the ad had been marketed as «dating local singles for sex»; they had to pay £3 per message and were frustrated that the women never actually agreed to go on a date.

15. So, I got into erotic massage back when I was practically homeless and just scraping by on odd jobs in New York City. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, but I was surviving on stale leftovers found in strangers' fridges, so I decided to give it a shot. I posted an ad on a website along with a friend, and within a few hours, I received an inquiry. I didn't run any background checks or take any safety precautions because I simply didn't know any better; looking back now, I realize just how INCREDIBLY lucky I was.

16. I was so nervous. I dressed up in the only halfway-decent outfit I owned. I went to meet him at his hotel, and when he opened the door, my jaw nearly hit the floor. He was drop-dead gorgeous, and I was stunned. He was a businessman in his early thirties from Iceland, in New York on business. He was simply charming. He was charismatic, intelligent, impeccable, and funny. I spent an amazing hour with him and walked away with the equivalent of a week's wages—money I usually earned working at some dingy café where I got insulted by wealthy customers who would happily drop $7 on a latte but wouldn't leave a single cent in tips. The sudden, 180-degree shift in my status was shocking.

17. I’m a dancer; my first day was a little awkward, but I think I found my footing pretty quickly. Before I started working, I was already interested in pole tricks, so I was fairly proficient in that regard, but I had absolutely no clue what to do when it came to the actual dancing part.

A coworker had to show me how to give a lap dance—haha. Talking to the customers was nerve-wracking, too, but I quickly learned that I could just ask them questions, and they would spend the rest of the conversation talking all about themselves.

18. My first day as a dancer was a real eye-opener. I was 18 years old and had just moved to the big city all on my own. I had never earned my own money before and was incredibly naive. I had never seen or used drugs in my life, and I was shocked to discover that they were absolutely everywhere in the club. That evening, I danced a private dance for the first time, and the man I was with pulled out a sizable bag of cocaine and expected me to indulge him—and was very surprised when I turned him down.

At the end of the dance, the man forcefully pulled me toward him—so tightly that I was pressed right up against him and couldn't even move to the music. Since I was the new girl, I didn't know what to say to make him stop touching me like that—and, God, it was absolutely repulsive.

19. I worked completely nude, and at first, I felt deeply uncomfortable with men staring at me, touching me, and propositioning me for sex. However, on that very first night, I made about $400—it was the first money I’d ever earned, and the feeling was incredibly gratifying.

Nearly four years later, I’m still dancing at that same club. Nothing surprises me anymore; I love my job, and I definitely give my guests a wild, no-holds-barred experience.

20. I work as an administrator at a brothel. It was terrifying at first; I had no idea what was going on—everything happened so fast and felt completely disorienting. I accidentally brought a client in before all the girls had arrived, and one of them ended up yelling at me. Fortunately, that didn't deter me, and five years later, I can't imagine myself working anywhere else.

21. Years of working in bars gave me experience dealing with drunks, handling cash, multitasking, and providing customer service; plus, I feel completely comfortable being nude—so this turned out to be the perfect fit for me. An added bonus is that I get to help create a safe space for sex workers where they can do their job. And being surrounded by beautiful women and all that sexual energy gives me a real buzz.

22. I’m not sure if this counts as sex work, but I’m a webcam model, and I really enjoy it.

On my first day, I was incredibly nervous and anxious; nothing particularly eventful happened, but I was so terrified that people there would hate me or get angry.

I’ve realized that about 98 percent of people are genuinely nice and fun, but the remaining 2 percent are just vile. There have been instances where people tried to pressure me into talking about my children. There have been times when people made demands. But overall, I highly recommend it as a hobby—rather than a full-time job.

23. I’m a dancer. I remember coming home one Saturday with about $120 and thinking, «Well, okay, that’s not bad.» Now, I won’t rest until I’ve made a thousand dollars in a single shift. Surprisingly, I wasn’t nervous at all the first time I went out on stage or when I had to take my clothes off. I guess I’m a natural!

I’m sitting in a barbershop, getting a haircut. The stylist—a young woman—is new; I’ve never seen her before. She’s cutting my hair, snipping away, and casually asks: «You have such thick, healthy hair—do you do anything special to take care of it?» I reply: «Weeeell, I wash it with water… sometimes even with shampoo.»

I figured I’d made a little joke and we’d move on, but then I noticed the stylist looking gloomier and gloomier—her face just fell—and the longer she worked, the darker her mood became. About fifteen minutes went by, and apparently unable to hold it in any longer, she started muttering aloud—mostly to herself: «Holy shit, *fuck*. Shampoos, conditioners, lotions, serums, special treatments, laminating… The money just goes right down the drain—a quarter of my paycheck goes just to keep this damn hair of mine somewhat in order and to stop it from falling out. And *he* just washes his with water and shampoo! Where the hell is the justice in that?!»

I asked: «Sorry, did you say something? Is everything okay?» «Yeah, yeah, pay no attention — I was just talking to myself,» she said, and went right back to cutting, though her mood remained just as sour.

I actually felt a little awkward around her.

We live in a small town where five-story apartment blocks and private houses stand side-by-side on the same street. There are sturdy, well-kept homes, but right next door stand old shacks—mostly inhabited by either the elderly or alcoholics. This summer, one of those shacks burned down; it went up in flames instantly, and the firefighters ended up dousing logs that were already almost completely charred. They found a charred corpse under the rubble. Some police officers I know guarded the body at the fire site all night long, using sticks to shoo away the stray dogs that had gathered around the remains of the shack. One of the cops told me, while standing guard, his mouth practically watered from the smell of roasted meat wafting off the burnt body—he’d been called out on an emergency alert and hadn't managed to eat anything all day except for breakfast.

I’ve always been small and petite. Back in fourth grade, we were playing «Dodgeball»; I threw the ball at a boy, and—somehow, to this day I don't know how—I broke his arm. He vowed to get revenge. Later, after his cast came off, we were playing tag about two weeks later. We were running side-by-side; I gave him a shove, he fell, and he broke his leg. We never spoke again after that. I still feel ashamed about it.

I grew up in the 90s, and we lived in extreme poverty. I remember one time, some relatives or acquaintances gave us a three-liter jug ​​of honey! It was my absolute favorite treat. I used to go out to the balcony where it was kept in a cupboard, dip my finger in to scoop some out, and eat it right there—I must have been about five years old at the time. Then, one day, I reached my finger in… and felt something soft. It turned out I hadn't closed the lid all the way; a mouse had climbed into the jug and drowned right there in the honey. I told my mom; we fished the mouse out… and then we simply went right on eating the rest of the honey. And I hadn't even remembered that a mouse had been swimming in there...

Recently, I watched a couple with a stroller standing at a bus stop, smoking. A bus pulled up; the dad simply tossed his cigarette aside, but the mom stubbed hers out on the pavement, tucked the butt into a pocket on the stroller, and then they headed toward the bus. There was a trash can right next to the stop! Of course, it’s great when people don’t want to litter. But putting a cigarette butt *in the stroller*—that’s something else entirely!

I’m a student, so a 6 a.m. pass for our local pool is dirt cheap. But—unlike in my dorm—the showers there actually have hot water. And at 6 a.m., there’s hardly anyone around—another thing that sets it apart from dorm life. I go there to swim, have a quiet wank, and get washed up. I’m a total night owl, but this is a genuine incentive to drag myself out of bed at such an ungodly hour.

I work at a spa complex that features traditional Russian bathhouses. One day, a drunk guy comes in, and as I’m escorting him to the baths, he says—in the manner of a stereotypical «New Russian» gangster—«Hey there, sweetie, why don't you hook me up with some girls and some vodka?» I reply that ours is a family-friendly establishment and that we don't offer alcohol or «girls.» He pauses for a second to think, then—with a lewd grin, practically slapping me on the butt—he shoots back: «Well, in that case, how about you and I play 'family' for an hour or two?»

My girlfriend is the purest, most innocent creature untouched by the harshness of life. She never uses profanity, never makes dirty jokes. But today, I accidentally overheard a phone conversation she was having with a friend, and I was absolutely fucking floored. It wasn't anything major—just a few words: «fuck,» «shit,» and «bitch.» That’s all… Now, whenever I see her smiling sweetly and looking at me, I’m reminded of that conversation. It feels as though she’s been faking everything. Maybe I’m being an asshole, but I’m honestly having a hard time coming to terms with this. Could it be that my sweet girl has been pulling a fast one on me all along?

For New Year's, my CEO gave me an expensive watch—as he put it himself—as a token of appreciation for my contributions to the company. I really *had* worked hard and deserved some kind of reward, but I was counting on a cash bonus; I have a perfectly average salary, a mortgage, two kids—I’m your classic middle-class guy, basically. So what am I supposed to do with a watch worth fifteen thousand dollars? Wear it with a suit that cost fifty times less? Selling a gift feels wrong somehow; and even if I *were* to sell it, where on earth would I even list something like that? It’s highly unlikely I’d find any buyers for an item like that on a site like Craigslist or eBay. So there it sits, gathering dust in the back corner of my linen drawer.

My wife is, as they say, a «pedant-fictionist.» She always needs everything to be in its proper place. Whenever she finally pushes me over the edge—or starts getting on the kids' nerves—I’ll casually move things around: I might hide her bra inside a pair of boots, or «accidentally» stash her nail polish in the toy bin. She immediately switches gears to cleaning—grumbling all the while—but she can't actually call me out on it; after all, we had an agreement right from the start: keeping the house clean is strictly *her* fucking problem.

I caught my younger brother pulling my bra out of the laundry hamper. It turned out he wasn't a pervert. He’s just getting serious with his very first girlfriend and was studying how the clasp works so he wouldn't embarrass himself when the moment finally arrives.

I visited San Francisco recently. I was walking down one of the main streets toward a shopping mall—looking all beautiful, fully made-up, and dressed to the nines. Suddenly, a local homeless man approached me: «Hi, my name is John. You look so sad. Don't be down; everything’s going to be okay. Let's have a hug.» And he reached out to embrace me. Naturally, I was shocked. But then I started wondering: do I really look that bad? Or are Americans just that obsessed with smiling? I think about it constantly. And about all the diseases you could catch from hugging a homeless person.

I was turning eight at the time. My mother and stepfather had drunk way too much. After the «celebration,» my stepfather called me over to get my present. The «present» turned out to be a ride on his beat-up old moped. He forced me to sit down, then climbed on behind me. I tried to break free, but he was terribly drunk. Two minutes later, we were speeding down the highway—followed by a loud crash and excruciating pain. I woke up in the ICU; I had survived by a miracle, but my stepfather was dead. The only thing my mother said to me was: «Why him, and not you?» I never saw her again… I hate her more than life itself.

I was out walking my dog ​​when I saw a person lying on a patch of grass. He was lying face-down, and he didn't look like a homeless person… I can't just walk past in situations like that—you never know what might be going on; anything can happen in life. I walked over and asked: «Are you alive? Are you okay?» The man lifts his head slightly and, staring at the ground, declares: «Please, everyone—just fuck off! I feel really GOOD right now!» Nodding vaguely into the void, I headed home, while the fellow—having returned to his original position—remained right there on the lawn.

I once had a colleague—a thirty-two-year-old woman: married, with two children. A tough cookie, too, I might add. But then she found out her husband was cheating; she tracked down his mistress—and that’s when the hell broke loose: insults, ambushes outside the apartment building (resulting in a cracked skull), and threats. And not just from her, but from every member of her family. They absolutely hounded the guy: «How could you? You have children, you piece of scum!» The mistress couldn't endure this living hell and eventually bowed out of the picture. But the husband, it seemed, had fallen hard: he started drinking heavily, lashing out at his wife, and beating her. She finally had to let him go when, one night, he tried to strangle their children—who, in his twisted mind, were supposedly the root cause of his misery...

We once went to visit some relatives of ours; they had a three-year-old son—the kind people describe as having «ants in his pants»—absolutely ceaseless in his energy. While all the adults sat in the kitchen chatting over drinks, the boy was left unsupervised. He ran around wildly, making a racket. When we finally went to check on him—wondering why we couldn't hear him anymore—we were absolutely horrified: the child was lying face-down on the floor in a pool of blood, with the tip of a blue pencil sticking out of the back of his neck. Apparently, he’d been running around with the pencil in his hand, fell, and impaled his own throat. The paramedics barely managed to save him.