When I first started working in Dublin, I quickly learned that being a Black woman in this industry means something different. Not just different—fundamentally altered. My clients, mostly white Irish men, carry histories I can read in their glances, their hesitations, their too-careful touches.
I'm Nigerian-Irish. That hyphen matters. It's not just a description, it's a negotiation. In the escort world, race isn't just skin. It's currency. Preference. Fetish. Sometimes protection.
Some clients want me specifically because I'm Black. Others want me despite it. I've had bookings cancelled when they realize my accent is more Dublin than Lagos, more working-class inner city than exotic fantasy. Those moments sting, but they're also information. They tell me who people are before they even speak.
Dublin's changing. My generation knows this intimately. We're not the Ireland of twenty years ago. We're mixed, complicated, always in motion. And in my work, I feel that transformation most acutely. Every encounter is a small negotiation of identity, desire, power.
I don't romanticize this. I'm practical. But I'm also observant. And what I observe is how race plays out in intimacy—not just in my industry, but in this city's evolving heart.