The funniest thing about my work isn't the sex. It's watching middle-class men perform what they think masculinity looks like. They come to me with these carefully constructed personas, all hard edges and economic ambition, but underneath they're just desperately wanting to be seen. Truly seen.
I've had solicitors and accountants who spend hours talking before we ever touch. They want narrative more than physical contact. They want someone to listen to the performance of their professional self, then strip that away and reveal something more vulnerable. It's not about the physical transaction at all.
Class is weird in Ireland. We pretend it doesn't exist, but every interaction is layered with unspoken economic choreography. My clients are mostly professional men who've bought into this relentless capitalist dream of achievement. But achievement is lonely. And that's where I come in. Not as a sexual object, but as a space of genuine human acknowledgment.
Some nights I feel more like a therapist than a sex worker. Which, frankly, I'm better at than most therapists. At least I'm honest about the transaction.