L Z Hansen

Join us on September 15th, 8pm at 308 Bowery, NYC.

The Secret Lives of Prostitute Moms

by Tracy Quan

Mothers who sell sex for a living face a whole different style of life-work balance. From dealing with judgmental teachers to faking orgasms before the kids get home from school, Tracy Quan on the difficulties of living a double life.
What’s the worst thing you could say about a person’s mother? Everyone seems to agree that Dez Bryant had a right to be offended when an NFL executive, vetting Bryant for a draft, asked him if his mom was a prostitute.
I see no reason to make assumptions about Bryant’s mom, and I’m glad the NFL apologized, but the fact remains that there are many children in the world for whom the true answer is yes.
Zoe Hansen, a writer and former prostitute raising a child with her husband in Manhattan’s East Village, has her own maternal take on this.

“If someone asking my son if his mother was a whore is the worst possible thing that happens to him, I’ll consider him extremely fortunate and my job well done,” she says. And yet, Zoe doesn’t feel that her 7 year old is ready to learn about reproduction, and she wants to protect him from the facts of her own life “so he can be a child for as long as
possible.”

Read the full article here.

Four of us filed into the small dimly lit living room to line up and introduce ourselves to a new client. Dani wore a skimpy black lace teddy that barely contained her latest purchase: huge fake tits. Standing next to her was Desiree, skin black as night, long blond hair cascading down her back in waves of weaves. Jennifer, in a waist cinching corset, had short red pixie styled hair and freckled skin. Then there was me. I had real breasts, no fake orange tan, and shiny jet black hair that went down to my ass.

It was almost one a.m. I’d seen five clients and was satisfied with my earnings. My eyes lazily focused on a shaggy haired client sitting slouched in our ‘hot-seat.’ Adrenaline surged through my body. I looked to my left. Dani raised her painted eyebrow in a ‘he’s mine’ look. On my right Desiree jabbed me in the ribs. I whispered “shush.” We all stood there thinking the same thing: “Damn, this man is hot!” We sometimes made remarks about a handsome man, but not often. I liked the way his jeans were tight around thick muscular thighs. Under a mop of golden brown hair he had dark eyes, a prominent nose and a chiseled jaw. He made me nervous.

Dani was first. She pushed her surgeon bought breasts out and used a very Marilyn Monroe-esque voice I’d never heard before.

“Oh… Sorry, me first? OOP’.… Ok then, (giggle giggle) Helloo I’m Daniella.” She smiled a very none Dani coquettish smile. I rolled my eyes. He nodded his head at Dani and grinned. The client was sitting forward with his arm sticking up and bent at the elbow, fist on thigh. Very masculine pose. I could feel the women all exhale together. He was clearly comfortable. Not at all nervous, unlike most the men who sat in that chair.

‘Please God not me I dont want him. It’s too embarrassing to fuck a guy I might see out in my neighborhood, someone I know I’d date. Please God let someone else make the money, don’t let him pick me.’

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A Penthouse Forum cover story that was based on an interview with Zoe. Her name was changed to Dyana for legal reasons because she was still in the sex industry when she granted the interview.

The Lady is a Pimp

I was interviewed by Steve Lewis of BlackBook about Hos, Hookers, Call Girls, & Rent Boys.

Read the whole interview here.

My short story “Anti-Semitism as Fetish” was published on Carnal Nation on December 1st 2009.

“Lizzy, your eight o’clock is here. Room three. Hurry.” Ingrid yelled from the office.

I’d been lounging in the living room with the other women. I stubbed my cigarette out and pulled myself up from the couch

“On my way up now.” I yelled back.

I had been prepared for Sidney Glick, a client of the house who favored domme sessions. We had never met. Ingrid had directed him to me as I was the only girl on schedule who didn’t mind doing dominance sessions. I lunged up the stairs two at a time in my six-inch heels to the third floor. I knocked on the door and walked in, morphing into Mistress.

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HEROIN MY LOVE

by LZ Hansen

I was a sweet  looking child. I had a long thick mane of brown hair, that seemed to be constantly tangled, pure white skin and a pout, that kept people at bay. I was shy, withdrawn and at that age obeyed my parents…. And I had a secret. A secret I had cultivated from overheard conversations between adults, American TV shows, and later rock n roll memoirs I obsessed over. My secret was that I aspired to be a junkie, a really good junkie.

I copied the fashions of skinny straggly haired women who smoked unfiltered cigarettes and had far away eyes.

When I reached my teens and tired of the other substances I was indulging. I found heroin. It had been a fifteen year search and I was… excited. More than excited. I was turned on. I was a virgin on her honeymoon.

My new runaway boyfriend lived in a squat in Earls Court not far from my parents home. It was a teenage hangout, home, shooting gallery. I had a plan. At 5:30 Friday afternoon. I’d meet Tommy at his squat where he would have the drugs waiting. My heroin, my dream, my future.

I wanted to feel all of it, experience every moment. My life was in front of me. This was more than a love affair or a crush on a boy this was the gateway into myself, this was me, heroin was me.

Butterflies fought in my stomach, the anticipation. We sat on the floor…Tommy began to mix my hit with expert handling. He measured half a syringe of water and scooped a small amount of perfectly brown smooth beautiful heroin into a dirty spoon. With concentration and steady hands he held the spoon over a cigarette lighter, until the brown mixture almost boiled. Tommy bit off a tiny piece of a cigarette filter, rolled it between his filthy thumb and forefinger, and dropped it into the sweet mixture. With a old bent syringe he drew up my hit. Tommy tied my thin arm tightly with his leather belt and smiled at me. Holding the syringe to the light he flicked out an air bubble, and licked the tip of the needle.

I wasn’t nervous or scared I had waited for for, so long. I needed it. My lips felt loose, wet, trembling. He jammed the spike in my arm, shock at first…but… the pain felt good.  I saw the blood register, thick red virgin blood swirled up into the barrel in a slow dance, he plunged the muddy heroin downward, and immediately like a blissful transcending  orgasm, the heroin hit my mind, my crotch, my breasts. I could taste it in my veins feel it swirl in my wrists, my cheeks, my eyeballs, warm soft warmth.

I had had my first sexual orgasm when I was a young teenager. I was kissing and making out with a boy named Chris. He was a smart, handsome, & went to a good English public school. We were under the covers in his bed. After a long slow make out session he reached into my underpants and began to rub my clit. We touched each other softly, it was very sweet and innocent. With his fingers on my vagina suddenly I was shook. A flood, a wave of warmth and bliss curdled my blood. I was lifted into another world my eyes rolled back in my head as I came in a shocking surprise.

As Tommy pulled the spike out of my arm I sunk back against the side of the bed, limp. I felt him pull the belt from my arm and ask if “I was all right?” I opened my eyes to try and focus. I felt completely fucked.  As the hours passed my mind drifted. Images flickered, snapshots, moments in my life, horrific terrifying childhood pictures sizzled in a strobe like effect …but they… didn’t bother me any longer. I saw colors, reds and gold’s. Masturbating naked nymphs danced, and uncircumcised angles played in my mind. I tripped and fell into a warm soft comforting womb and cried in the devils arms.

I saw my soul.…I was in love, truly passionately, obsessively. I had been given my wings, my first time, I was on my way…..

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I’m guest-blogging on thedirtygirldiaries.com, run by Jodi Sh. Doff.

source

I just received the sample jacket covers for my soon-to-be-published novel, My American Dream – Going Down in Gotham:

Photography and Design by Scott Gillis.

Available now for purchase from Amazon.com