ASHLEY PAIGE
There are an infinite number of malicious schools of thought, which we often have shoved down our throats, when it comes to what kind of woman is considered “acceptable.” Then, what kind of sex worker is acceptable? What kind of black woman is acceptable? What kind of queer person is acceptable? As a black, queer woman, and a very public and out sex worker who has been in the adult industry for coming up on thirteen years—who has done many different forms of sex work, from escorting to pro-Domming—I have stories of violence, as many of us do. I have been independent and not independent. I have been exploited and dehumanized, in and out of sex work.
I’m hesitant to reveal these vulnerabilities. Nowadays, I identify as a Professional Dominatrix, and Dommes are often seen as these untouchable entities: femmes fatales who cannot be broken or violated because they’re so powerful. Clients and the general public tend to dehumanize Dommes in that way sometimes.
Along with that lies this notion that sex workers can’t be raped. And black sex workers get it worse. As a black femme, I’m over-sexualized just because I reside in this body. Black girls are seen as sexual beings even at the age of five. I carry that burden. I am thirty-one years old. So, for at least twenty-six years …
There are a lot of things that weigh on me regarding how this story will be perceived. How will this affect my income? How will this affect my brand? How will it affect what I am looking to do with my career? Will clients still see me in the same light? See me in general? Will other sex workers want to be associated with someone who is very much spilling the beans? Sex workers paint this picture of perfection, because that’s what we sell: this perfect fantasy. And I’m coming up with a big-ass needle to that bubble, like, “Am I gonna do it?!”
I HAD JUST turned nineteen when I did my first porn films in California. Six months after that, I started working for Snaps, back in Texas. By the time I was twenty-two, I was done dealing with him. A lot happened in those three years.
When I started working with Snaps, I was nineteen and homeless. A friend of mine was fooling around with this guy whose best friend was a pimp. I made her set up a meeting between him and me. I grew up with men—uncles and other relatives—who were hustlers as well, so I knew hustlers had a connection to this other world.
My first impression of Snaps was that he was smooth. Very smooth. Seventeen years my senior. But I was the instigator in this. I was very much the one to be like, “I need to get some money up quickly. I can’t rely on anybody.” I wanted to make sure that he was a valid source of information and education. Because I knew that if I was going to be getting a pimp and I was going to be getting this money, I needed to get an education and it would be for a certain amount of time. I wanted to learn the game.
We met, went to his place. He was in Lancaster, not far from granny’s place, which was funny. His place was gorgeous. It was a three-bedroom house. Big backyard. It was very much a Texas home: a lot of space, well-appointed and decorated. His bottom was there. We chop it up. His chick clearly doesn’t like me, but it’s like, Well, I guess that this is what he wants to do. So she’s like biting her tongue. I need to make money. I don’t give a fuck about emotional shit.
The first call was honestly a con because Snaps just wanted to get me drunk and fuck me. Which is what a pimp does, right? He always tests the product. So he says that he has a call for me. It’s at this hotel in DeSoto, not far from mine. I go over there. Call ends up canceling. He’s just like, “Let’s have some drinks.” End up getting wasted. And he fucks me. And the sex was good. Like it was fucking great, honestly.
I WAS WALKING the track in the beginning, so I had a lot of like quick little wiggle outfits that you could wiggle in, wiggle out of really quickly. It wasn’t about fashion. It was what makes the titties pop, what makes the ass pop. You need to be able walk by a cop and not get arrested, but you could pull a trick in fairly quickly too.
No one saw me without makeup. Period. It was all high femme. I wore wigs. I wore extensions. And I was miserable in the process because it was uncomfortable. It was like I was wearing a hat in the Texas heat. All the time. I was a thicker girl at the time. It’s the Bible Belt. It’s Texas. It’s the South. Just a thick black chick. Oh god. Heels. All the time. I hate heels. They were like four-inchers or more. They were stripper heels, platforms.
There was this really ugly pair, these platforms with a thick heel. And it had the wrap around the ankle, the band across the toes. I’m a ten and a half, eleven, and that shit was like a nine and a half. Those motherfuckers cut! I’ve never had bunions as bad as those motherfuckers gave me, and I was in those shoes all the fucking time. So my foot would slowly slide up the peep toe, and then it’s like my three toes are suffocating! Oh my god, I hated it so much.
The track was this weird little cul-de-sac off Harry Hines in downtown Dallas, not far from the strip clubs. Just a quick little turn-in. The cars would line up. The pimps’ cars would be parked. Tricks would just roll through. I remember this one dude with the most bling’d out white Caddy. He was the most obnoxious fucking pimp. He had this all-white suit, this white hat. All-white everything. He had some badass chicks. But he had snow bunnies—white girls—out the wazoo. And he had track stars. Track stars work a track better than nobody’s motherfucking business.
Being a track star was a whole other world of existence. I had dreams of getting there but no ideas of how to actualize it. I was doing survival sex work. I was living at a motel room for forty dollars a day. Even that was a motherfucking struggle. Snaps wasn’t really giving me a whole bunch of play at the time. He wasn’t sending a bunch of tricks my way. Texas was very much a trick’s market. The tricks set the price for what it was that they were willing to pay you. “Nah, you a fat black chick. So, I’ma have to pay you less. And really, that’s if I wanna pay you at all.”
So I quickly found out I’m not a motherfucking track star.
One night, I got held up. I got into the car with these two guys. Go around the corner to the regular hookup spot. Start fooling around with the first guy. The second guy’s in the front seat. He gets a little bit too handsy, and he’s trying to fuck me without a condom. We’re both in the back seat. I give him a blow job. He gets a little bit irritated. And so they switch. I start fucking around with the second guy. The first guy’s still irritated that he can’t fuck me without a rubber. Things escalate quickly. Before I realize it, they’re cutting me up.
I always carried a knife with me, which was supposed to be my protection—but once things escalated, one of the guys lunged at me and took the knife. They both attacked me. One put the weight of his body on me to pin me down while the other cut me up. I remember one kept saying “pistola, pistola,” trying to find their gun. All I wanted to do was to get my phone and my wallet and get the fuck out of there. I didn’t care about anything else. I just needed my phone so I could call Snaps and I needed my wallet because it had my ID. My ID had my address. And even in the midst of all this, that’s where my mind goes. Luckily they weren’t stabbers. They were just slicers. Silver linings, man.
I remember there was this little sliver of light. One guy’s in the front seat, and the other guy’s in the back seat with me. There’s this one little sliver where I could push and like dive through it and get at the car door at the same time.
And so I do. I dive out onto the ground, and roll behind the car. It all happens in a matter of seconds. And in the midst of this, they start shooting into the sky. I’m fucking shaking, and I stay on the ground. I got cut on my arm and ribs, but I was able to get my phone. It felt slippery because blood was coming down my hand. I made the dive. Don’t get my wallet, leave the bag. Made this dive, and I’m on the ground outside of the car, and immediately running. I remember turning on my phone, and there’s blood on the screen. I called Snaps. I don’t even remember what I said. I was in such a panic. I’m like, “Come get me, come get me,” or whatever the fuck. He was right around the corner. And I remember thinking, How fucking long can it take you to get here? Finally he pulls up, and I’m still behind the bushes, holding on for dear life. And I peek through the bushes and see that he’s pulled up in the Caddy.
His Caddy was maroon red. Another default Texas staple!
I remember coming from behind the bushes, running and diving into the Caddy. He said something about me getting blood on the handle. Then, “Tell me where they’re at. I’m going to go find their asses.” And I’m just like, you ain’t gonna do shit.
AFTER THAT, I took off to the Caribbean to dance. You know how a two-year-old has a toy and is like, “It’s mine! I may not be playing with it, but it’s mine. And you can’t touch it.” Snaps’s toy had walked the fuck away without his permission. So when I came back, he found me in San Antonio. When he found me, it worked out because I was broke. I went back to Dallas to hustle with him. And that’s when shit goes in heavy and hard.
It’s in-calls, it’s out-calls. I’m traveling. I was posting ads, and developing a website, and getting reviews, and traveling all over Texas and Louisiana. I got busted three times. First time was in Shreveport, Louisiana. I kept telling Snaps I had a horrible feeling. I end up in jail for twenty-four hours. I got molested by the cops in Shreveport. And they took pictures.
The next time, it’s in Dallas about a year later. Horrible feeling. We’re gonna be leaving town that night. All I have to do is this session. Keep on telling him, “Something’s off. Something’s wrong.” Gotta do a session. Gotta make the money. He has shit to do. So I do the session, get arrested. I’m in jail for four days. He goes off to Louisiana. Leaves my ass in jail.
The first time I was arrested, he laughed at me. And it broke my fucking heart. And the second time, he just shrugged it off, like he expected it. I am apparently a fucking masochist, because I kept with that shit! After seeing so many negative interactions between women and men in my family, I got the idea that you are supposed to accept it and just turn the other cheek. And so this was just one of those situations that you just turn the other cheek.
I WAS TWENTY years old. Got a call. On Craigslist, you knew when they were doing stings. Back in the day screening was not like it is now, but you could tell when you had a cop on the phone. They’re a little too something. A little too calm. A little too chipper. A little too eager. Little too willing. Little too ready to pay more. A little too suspect. A little too quiet.
Versus you can tell when it’s a nervous trick.
Shreveport is a very small city, a casino city. And even though it definitely was a ho mecca, you got like a certain kind of call. You got a certain kind of caller. And there was a certain frequency. So when all of a sudden you start getting like five times as many calls, you notice. Ten times as many calls, something’s going on. Is it because there’s a convention? Is it because there’s something going on at the casino? Or is it because they’re busting bitches left and right? Ninety percent chance they’re busting bitches left and right. Plus, it’s election time.
I get this call from a Craigslist guy. And immediately my intuition, this gut, this spirit of mine, is very motherfucking in tune. As soon as I picked up the phone, I knew something was off. Soon as he started talking. But I’m not going to give it away. So I’m talking to him. Give him some information. He was a little too Southern. And I’m from Texas. We in Louisiana. I know country. But he was a little bit too Southern. Just a little bit too twangy.
I tell Snaps, and Snaps is tied up. It’s late night. Business had been slow. And I remember telling him I’m just uncomfortable. And he dismissed my gut intuition. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. We’re gonna go get this money.” You know you have this responsibility to make this money. You have a responsibility to do this job, because it is a job: One, as a bottom. Two, as a ho. Three, because you’re attached to this idea that’s outside of yourself. This stable, this pimp, this whatever. This family. You have to meet certain demands. And to pay your fucking bills! And that’s why the fuck you came here, to make this money. Craigslist ads are how much? It might be a dollar or two a day, but it’s a dollar or two out of your pocket that you’re not actually replenishing. You’re going out of pocket again. So you need to go make this money.
I remember when we pulled into the parking lot, I felt off the whole time. I felt like we were being watched. I get out of the car. I remember seeing this white van. And I go into the motel. And it’s just fucking eerily quiet. This guy asked for a session at like ten p.m., an out-call. And his hotel is seedier than mine. They have the night-watch window with the sliding glass, you can’t even talk to a person. Red carpet. That ugly, nasty red carpet that you always see—it’s not red, it’s maroon. The color of Snaps’s car. Smells like cigarettes. There were certain hotels that were safer to work at. As long as you’re not causing any problems and you’re discreet, they really don’t give a fuck.
I’m still telling Snaps this feels off. And Snaps was just like, “It’ll be cool. If you feel anything, just don’t take the money.” That doesn’t actually work! If you show up and they want to arrest you, they will fucking arrest you. It does not actually matter. That’s a lie we tell ourselves: Just don’t take the money.
I was wearing a purple skirt with a little bit of a twirl. And a blouse and a pleather jacket. Shoes were definitely some kind of heel, probably like a peep toe. Four inches. Maybe brown? I had a wig on. No, I had extensions. I had my father’s hairline. With extensions, that always fucks me up. It’s the worst fucking thing ever, because it doesn’t actually match the texture of the hair you have sewn into your head. I didn’t know how to really, like, do my makeup. I didn’t wear makeup until I graduated high school because I was a tomboy. It was just tacky. The weave was bad. It was probably stringy, because I had too much oil in it. It was a bad look, all right?
I was discreet though. I was never straight-up like ho shit. That was always a thing for me: plausible deniability. The thing about it is—talking to enough hoes—the shoes always give you away. Even if they’re brown. They always give you away.
WALKING IN FROM the parking lot into the lobby, which is just a hallway, the camera’s watching me and I can see myself. And I have to open this heavy lobby door. It just felt like The Shining. I can hear every footstep. And I get to the hotel room door. And I’m having a debate in my head. Not even three seconds go by. And I’m not going to knock. I’m about to turn and the door opens.
It’s this very nasty car salesman guy, right? He looks like he hasn’t washed. There’s a jacuzzi tub that has platform steps up to it. Nasty little couch that you don’t want to sit on bare. And then there was the bed. And a sliding glass door. I remember the glass door was cracked. When he opened the door, it registered in my mind immediately. It was cracked. And so he said that the money was on the steps up to the bathtub. I remember thinking automatically, I’m not taking the money. And I remember I put my bag on it. I didn’t touch it. Smart, right? Except not really. Because it doesn’t fucking matter.
And that was the thing! Snaps didn’t know how to educate me on what a fucking sting was because he’s not the one who’s going into the fucking call. He’s had bitches get arrested but he isn’t like, “Okay, baby, tell me what happened. What were the signs that you knew that this was about to go down? What did they do? What did you do?” It was none of that. I never got any kind of education from any of his girls. And I remember a number of different girls that he introduced, trying to add to the stable. I remember at a certain point thinking, He’s not educating them. I tried to protect them, even in the midst of being aware that, really, we’re not a family and this is just a competitive thing.
The men who arrested me, they were very much Louisianans. They got that drawl. Their energy was very much the dirty cop that caught you on the back roads and is going to pull up your skirt and rape you because you just don’t happen to be on the right road. That’s the vibe I got. And that’s very much the experience I got as well.
I WAS SNAPS’S bottom by the time I knew I had to get out. A bottom bitch is the main chick. The pimp’s right hand, first in command. But it’s all a fucking con. I was touring all the time. He sent me this girl to train in Philadelphia—she ended up being worthless, got me arrested. My birthday’s coming up—he cancels all the plans, he’s got a girl pregnant. It was tumultuous, more and more volatile.
He was a suave pimp. He was into psychological abuse. Emotional manipulation and gaslighting. You know, just that constant digging. You can violate my body, you can try and break that shit, but you can’t break my fucking spirit and you cannot violate a bond. Somebody can do all kinds of horrible, degrading shit, just defile me completely—but you act like you’re family and reveal to me you’re not, that’s a hard limit for me. Me and Snaps were working toward something tangible, like a home—property and land. He had his music business and I wanted to go to school. But it became clear that he was abusing me. And it became clear when it was past my tolerance for abuse. I was struggling with my gayness and presentation. He would attack my masculinity. He would say that I look like a man, too muscular, too buff. That’s part of what eventually led me to cutting ties and going independent.
I went up to New York. I saw some clients. Did some overnights. Got treated really well. Within a month, I was out. I had a shared Airbnb in Alphabet City. The owner of the apartment and his dog were in the other room, and I had this screaming match at three o’clock in the morning with my pimp about how I was done, saying, “I can’t do this shit anymore!”
Snaps emptied my apartment back in Houston by the time I got home: the safe-deposit boxes, all the money I sent back, everything. And I was a fucking dedicated-ass bottom! I had this hippie I was friends with pick me up from the airport. We rode over to my place, this gorgeous two-bedroom apartment with a garage. Walked in. It was fucking empty. My hippie started crying. And I said, “Well, at least it’s fucking done now.” I could have called to change the locks in the apartment. But I know I would’ve still been in debt to him. So I just let Snaps empty the apartment because that was the safest way to be done.
I called Snaps. “So you got everything you need? We’re good? The debt’s settled then?” He says, “I’m cutting your phone off. Just know it’ll be off in the next hour.” And I say, “There’s no reason for you to contact me, right? You’re good? Okay. Then we’re good.” And my fucking hippie, he’s bawling. I’m just like, “It means I’m out. He can take whatever. It’s fine. I’m out.”
I was no longer associated with a pimp. I was independent, and I left by way of buyout. Typically the only way you’re going to break loose from a pimp is if you buy yourself out. Which means you pay your debt and move forward. But the debt is an arbitrary moving target. My debt was what he deemed it to be.
For a good year, I was getting phone calls, all kinds of harassment. It was like, I’m watching you, bitch. That year, I lived in absolute terror of anybody knowing who the fuck I actually was. I was living in New York at the time, but if anybody had any connections to folks in Texas, I wouldn’t let them know where I lived. He knows my family. He knows everybody. He knew where my mom lived. I was afraid he would pop up. The thing about having a pimp is you’re ten toes down—meaning you are in the life. You’re grounded in that shit.
I used a different name then. I was Amazing Asia. I felt like Tina Turner, because he gave me that name, right? I kept my fucking name. That name was fucking money. If I ran into him now, I have no fucking clue what I would say to him. I probably wouldn’t say shit. The fuck. For what? Hell. Waste another fucking breath? Nah. But in the midst of all the inhumane shit I experienced with Snaps, I can still see his humanity. I will never give him another ounce of my energy, but he’s a human with flaws. I want to reconcile who I was then with who I am now, but I don’t like the idea of giving a platform to prove his humanity.
IT’S FUNNY BECAUSE now that I’m further into the fetish world and pro-Domming, I love a good mindfuck. Never having to lift a finger to fuck with someone, to really get them in this place of just, ugh.
But I always get consent. I’m not dehumanizing them beyond their limits. I’m not diminishing someone’s value. I’m not engaging in emotional manipulation. Those who I have mindfuck arrangements with, boundaries are discussed and limits are respected. There’s ongoing communication. There is ongoing checking in to make sure that, even though you might be a dirty little fucking hole, you’re genuinely present and excited to be here with me. And there’s a separation of what is fantasy and what is reality. Because when you walk away, you have to walk away whole. I can’t play with anyone who does not get that. That’s what a psychological abuser does, and Snaps excelled in that realm.
BDSM feels empowering. I am a person who is aware of my trauma, other people’s trauma, and do not want to perpetuate that. It feels really fucking good to be able to hold space for someone who wants to go into the space of being abused, defiled, humiliated. To be aware and present and empowered in that. We can go there and there is no judgment. And even if it goes past the point of desire, there is a safety net. We are able to come back and gently reintegrate into normal life, without all the shame and the guilt and the stuff that comes with wanting to indulge in a desire that is taboo.
On the top side, I have been the instigator (with consent) of abuse. I have been on the bottom side as well. To bridge those two places, it feels fucking wonderful. It feels like the shit that I’ve endured has given me some kind of understanding as to what I will or will not endure going forward. And being able to weave that into something that is positive for me and someone else—I really like kink for that shit.
WHILE I’VE WORKED in sex work, my family has mainly worked in the government. All different branches of the military and the IRS. They have suffered, experienced abuse in dealing with these institutions that are totally fucking legal.
My father is a brilliant man. But working with the Marines broke him psychologically and spiritually. He was an abusive piece of shit for a long time. He is no longer that man. The Marine Corps exacerbated his ability to disassociate and disconnect from anybody else’s humanity. To be able to perpetuate certain things upon those he says he loves. To just do things that are honestly atrocious. My father, as much as I love him—there are certain parts of him that are dangerous. I’m processing some of that still to this day.
My mom, my grandmother, and many aunts worked for the IRS for all of their adult lives. Last year my mom didn’t get paid for six months out of the year because she was on furlough. She’s had to do pretty much free labor at the expense of all of her bills. I’m lucky that I’m privileged enough where I can give my mom money if she needs it.
My mom is being exploited by the government—legally. The bullshit keeps her blood pressure in the stroke zone: taxpayers calling in and cussing her out, the boundaries she has to make sure she doesn’t cross because she’s being listened to. They’ll dock her pay if she acts like a human, tells someone, “I wish the fuck you would” over the phone. She has arthritis and her job is a detriment to her body: walk up the stairs, walk down the stairs to get to her car. That’s legal though. It’s just regular-ass bullshit that you have to deal with when you have a job. Everybody wants to say, “Oh, because it’s sex work, it’s this whole thing.” People are exploited every fucking day. People are abused every day. And it’s legal. It’s just because it’s sex work that we’re deemed dirty—but also holy and sanctified at the same time. No, it’s a job, man. I’ve had more #MeToo moments of exploitation outside of sex work.
The impact of the circumstance is definitely felt more intensely when it’s at the end of a knife. It is an automatic life-or-death situation. But if you survive it, it’s over—versus having to experience abuse again and again, not being able to get out of it because you need the paycheck, and it’s the only paycheck you can get.
That night in Dallas I got to dive out of that tiny little opening from the back seat and get out. I ran. I hid. I escaped the end of the knife, dodged those bullets, and mended my wounds. But I’ve also had jobs where I’ve been stuck, where I couldn’t even see that sliver of light, that tiny little hole to just dive out and fight for another day. And in the end, those were far graver times.