“I have to say that each time I visit with you, I am left wanting to see you more,” he wrote after that. I heard this sort of thing all the time, often in more ardent forms. The sentiment came from married men, single men, men who were divorced, men a few years or a few decades older than me, men who were wealthy and men who were rich, men living under secret, crushing debt. Some cried over how much they felt for me, wrote me songs and poems, daydreamed aloud about marrying or impregnating me. I felt highly desired, and I was, verifiably, highly desired. Coveted, even. There was proof: the messages, the money, the affirmations. I became a sex worker because I suspected, and hoped, it would be this way: a private, minor form of celebrity. An alternate version of myself.