I've only met a small number of women who claim to have entered the industry out of a desire to be empowered by embodying the sacred prostitute archetype. I don't know how to empathize with them or any worker who entered the industry for a reason other than pressing financial needs.
It bears repeating that I discovered the sex industry at twenty-one while living abroad on a holiday work visa. I hadn't planned on going to live abroad alone, but that's what happened, and I tried to make the best of it. In my third month in the UK, I'd been paid only a fraction of the wages I was owed at the two places I'd been employed. It became clear they had no intention of paying me, telling me something along the lines of I wasn't a citizen so what was I going to do about it. I didn't know what to do aside from look for a new job, again. Though, I'd recently learnt, twice, that getting another job wasn’t a guarantee of income. So, now what?
I had never so much as considered the existence of the sex industry until I was browsing for jobs, again, and found suspicious ads for work. After realizing the ads were for sex work, I instantly closed the tabs. After a few more days, I thought about it more. Unsure what else to do, I began telling myself a bunch of mantras trying to coax myself into being okay with the idea. I needed the money; I didn't know how I’d pay rent or live in the coming months, and this offered a solution.
I'd spent my first month in hostels, then found a room in a shared apartment with four male university students. Our place shared a tiny kitchen, a single bathroom, and a small room with a table and four chairs in the middle of the unit that connected all our individual rooms. It was the end of my third month in the UK and I'd made a couple friends. One was a woman I worked with briefly, and the other a sassy gay man, who we’ll call Patrick, who I met through a friend of a co-worker.
Patrick and I were the same age and got along well. We liked to go socialize with strangers in random bars around town. It was now my fourth month living in the UK. I’d quit the jobs that weren’t paying me and had been working full-time for a local escort agency for a month or so. I’d amassed almost a thousand pounds. I felt relaxed for the first time since arriving in the country.
The room I was renting was close to the centre of town, whereas Patrick lived further out of town with his parents. One weekend night, when I was already in bed, he texted to ask if he could sleep at my place. He knew my roommates were gone that weekend, and the buses had stopped for the night. So, he'd have to take an expensive taxi home unless I'd kindly let him crash. I happily offered to let him stay.
When he rang the doorbell, I was already in bed. I got up quickly to let him in, said we’d hang out in the morning when he could tell me all about his night out without me, and went back to sleep. The next day I woke up and he was gone. I texted him making a joke about being an early riser and went to make coffee. An hour or so later, I was about to head out to buy some food and grabbed my wallet. There was no cash in my wallet. Odd. I'd just put cash in, I swear. Whatever. I went to the wardrobe where I kept my earnings, and it was all gone. I was confused for a moment, then realized the only other person that knew about my work was Patrick. We’d gone out a few days prior and I always paid for drinks for both of us, so I needed to grab more cash before we left, and he’d seen me reach into my wardrobe. Patrick had taken the stash in my wardrobe, then also diligently checked my wallet for any extra cash. All while I was sleeping in my bed in the middle of the room. Very thorough of him. I messaged him in confusion, certain that I’d misunderstood reality. He eventually replied he didn't know what I was talking about, and I was crazy. Then, he blocked my number and deleted his Facebook account.
Seriously? Over a thousand pounds? He wasn’t homeless or anything, he had a job and lived with his parents. What did he need money for that badly? Did he understand what I did to earn that money? That I’d had sex with handfuls of men I didn't know or like? He was okay with me putting myself through those experiences for his benefit, was he? I trusted him. I wanted to throw up, that was, between bouts of sobbing and staring blankly out the window.
I’d been casually sleeping with a man for a few weeks at the time and didn’t know who else to tell about what had happened. He insisted I call the police, but I declined. He ignored me and called them on my behalf. An officer showed up an hour later. She asked why I had so much cash in my wardrobe. I said it was from family and I'd taken it out of an ATM — hadn’t gotten around to depositing it yet. I don't think she believed me, but the answer was logical. She said unless I had proof, or Patrick admitted he stole from me, I was out of luck.
I started to learn the man I was casually sleeping with loved any excuse to act out. He wouldn’t leave the situation alone. He was much more pissed off than I was and wouldn’t stop bringing it up every hour for the next few days any spare moment he got. He wanted to go intimidate Patrick with a warning to go confess to the police or else. I didn't want to do any of that. I didn't want to call the police. I refused to sign off and give my friend’s address. After almost a week of endless nagging, I agreed so long as there was no violence. I just wanted the situation over with, and to forget it ever happened.
The man’s looming threat of I don’t know what worked and Patrick went to the station the next day to confess. The policewoman called me, informing me Patrick had confessed, which was almost unheard of. In any case, she wanted to let me know I wasn't legally entitled to getting any money back, and Patrick said he’d already spent it. But, she said, Patrick would be charged with theft, and from now on wouldn't be able to work any cash handling jobs, among other things.
Wow.
Well, I somehow felt even worse about it all. Didn’t know that was possible. What he did was despicable, but I didn't think he deserved a lifetime sentence for it. Instant stomach cramps. Nothing good had come out of any of this...not me having unwanted sex with old men I didn't know or like to pay my bills, not this guy's life being tainted forever, not us losing our friendship entirely. Not a single thing. All these subsequent bad events were a result of my initial bad choice at the end of the day. That was objectively true.
So, that was my first taste of the sex work industry. And that’s leaving out my actual experience of the industry, for now.
If there was ever a time I was mildly carefree about being a prostitute, it would have been that first month. Before I stopped to give it thought. Before I considered if it was a worthwhile trade-off or something I was okay with. Before the idea that I’d allowed unwanted sex for nothing entered my mind. In this case, I was robbed it wasn’t objectively nothing, but I still ended up with nothing for those experiences. Almost immediately after starting in the industry, the thought that ‘I needed to make up what I lost or I can’t stop’ was already implanted and growing in my mind. The fallacy of sunk costs near immediately present. The trade-off was one I wouldn’t be able to live with if I thought about it too much. What is the price of betraying your soul? Making it do something it’s saying ‘no’ to? Best not to think about it. Life wasn’t about what I wanted anymore. Life was about survival. It was a luxury to get to do what you wanted in life. I did what I needed to support myself and not ask for help. I didn’t think anything mattered anymore anyway.
I write more on this period in my book so that’s all for now.
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As a side note, one day while unlocking my front door, I’d met my neighbour in the hallway. He used to be a drug dealer and his friend gifted him a big block of MDMA as a farewell gift or something. He gave me some, probably because he wanted to sleep with me. I’d smoked weed once in high school but aside from that never tried drugs. Figured twenty-one was a good time to try out some recreational fun. I didn’t have an event in mind for the drugs, until the following week when I decided I’d try escorting. Then, I had anxiety about the whole sex for money situation. Stick the happy drugs with the scary situation et voila. I didn’t drink much at the time. I was mildly high on MDMA for the first 5-6 bookings I ever had and then sporadically for the next two/three months while working for that agency. My experience of escorting was made to seem like it was no biggy because I was literally high on love drugs. It’s not good for your brain to do MDMA that much in a small period. It’s a seriously dark day the day after you use it because your brain has used up all the happy drugs (serotonin, dopamine, etc.) reserves in your brain. I stopped doing the drug after seeing my friend extremely high one night. I didn’t partake with her, and the others visiting in my apartment and opted for bed. Eight hours later I woke up and they were still taking new doses of MDMA. Horrific sight. They all looked like zombies with the most surreal, contorted looks on their faces with weird, jerky mannerisms in their movements. My very own anti-drugs advertisement. Worked like a charm. I didn’t take the drug again. Too bad, I know it’s used in a lot of really useful therapies for curing depression, PTSD, and more. Maybe I’ll try it one day. Wonder if I’ve ruined that therapy option because of the messed-up way I first discovered the drug.
My goodness, the ranting!
What was I saying?
Right.
All of this was to say, I’ve met many escorts in the past decade. The majority enter the industry out of financial need. From that starting point is then where most different narratives start to emerge: hate it whole time, don’t mind it, love it, etc. Depends on many factors like how lucky you get with clients, how much effort you put into your work behind the scenes, how normatively beautiful you are or if you get surgeries to enhance your looks thereby attracting a larger pool of clients to choose from, etc. There are many factors that influence a worker’s experience, so to claim any one take is universal is dumb.
The universal part is getting paid for consent to sex with men we would not otherwise let touch us. That we share. By that unequivocal logic, the sex is therefore unwanted. If we wanted it, we wouldn’t require payment or consider it rape if a client stiffs us. So, unwanted sex we are paid to consent to – that’s what unites us all. If you don’t like how I’ve phrased it, then logically show me the flaw in my description. I’m happy to discuss. It is entirely true; it’s just the version entirely void of marketing to seem attractive to clients. Not speaking on whether clients are good or bad. Not speaking on what kind of person a client is. These are facts of the nature of the transaction. I’m sick of solely hearing the glamourized version.
So, I’ve only met small number of women who claim to love it, which is either why they joined the industry in the first place or stay in it. I cannot speak on that take. If you want that take, you'll have to go elsewhere on the internet. It just may be hard to find with any credibility. Any escort still actively working and marketing themselves is incentivized to lie about loving it. So, unless someone is retired, and no longer has anything to gain from keeping up appearances, I don't know that you'll get the real story about how they feel.
Not to call her out, but Lola Davina comes to mind as someone that is retired and speaks fondly about her work in the industry. I love her as a person but wrote some not so loving notes about my thoughts on her book. Not the whole thing, just parts. I think it’s a labour of love and she made it with the best intentions. To say she has nothing to gain from keeping up appearances around loving sex work would be false though, she has built a mini empire on selling books to sex workers. So, that part is debatable. I don’t think she is being disingenuous, for the record. I’ll share my notes in an upcoming article if desired.
I lied to myself for a long time to make myself okay with paid intimacy, it’s a hard industry to leave. A large reason being stigma out in the world. I didn't want to ruin my brain. The removal of the self-imposed brainwashing/Stockholm syndrome effect of loving being paid for consent to sex by men I was faking a relationship with isn’t for everyone (relationship isn’t real because it’s built on lies and fake love that is literally paid for). I can tell you, it's not pleasant. I'm not having a grand ol' time with reality at the moment, haha. The delusions were much more tolerable and fruitful. Only, my pesky body stopped obeying my brain’s commands to believe the delusions. Literally stopped being able to force myself to do things I didn’t want to do. Begun increasingly self-destructing, finding no other way out of the cycle of endless soul-destroying activity.
I think I’ll eventually feel better. Think sharing what I learnt is a big part of that.
So, thank you for reading, dear reader. I couldn't tell you where my bias lies exactly anymore these days in the stories I share, that's for you to decide.
I often wonder if I'd be writing any of this if I got luckier with clients and hadn’t forced myself to put up with so many horrible experiences. Maybe I'd have no qualms with this industry. Who knows? That wasn’t my experience. And honestly, I think I’d still have my few core issues. Maybe not the ones you’d think of off the top of your head though. We’ll get there in time, reader.
It's funny. My ‘waking up’ to stopping a soul-destroying fake life of escorting happened alongside my red pilling with the world in general. Isn’t that something? Wonder if that’s the big coincidence I think it is, or actually quite logical.
Either way, it’s undeniably going to make for some interesting writing.
Lots of love and stay curious!
xx
Too bad you got forced into the sex industry due to financial circumstances. It's probably a fairly common tale for women to trade sex for sustenance being the 'oldest profession' and all. I'm sure you knew a few women attending school for their MRS degree. Bit of a difference in the sexes wrt life choices. A reasonably pretty girl needs simply to open her legs and she can support herself. It's just a matter of what kind of payment she's looking for whether as a prostitute or wife. As for men, options are limited if they're down on their luck. I'm not sure how you would rate sex work to ditch digging but both are not professions most people aspire to. Being at the bottom, scratching for money is a horrible feeling, much worse when you're trying to support a family.
I hope your writing is giving you the therapy you need. I'm enjoying the stories.