Sometimes I look at my kitchen and wonder how many people would see this completely ordinary scene and have no idea. Dishes from the kids' breakfast, a half-folded load of laundry, my work diary open next to a cold cup of tea. This is my real life. And then there's the other part.
After my separation, I needed something that was just for me. Not just financially, though God knows that mattered. I wanted something that felt like my choice, my space. My work as an escort isn't a sad story or a trauma narrative. It's practical and sometimes surprisingly intimate.
Last week I had a client who just wanted to talk. Sounds mad, right? But some men aren't looking for what you might expect. They want connection, to be seen. We had tea. He told me about his job, his loneliness. I listened. That's work too.
The kids don't know, obviously. My mam helps with childcare and she knows I do 'consulting' which isn't exactly a lie. I'm careful. Always careful.
Freedom looks different for everyone. For me, it looks like control over my time, my finances, my choices. No one gets to decide my worth except me.