People always assume sex work is about sex. It's not. Not really. After eight years, I can tell you it's about something far more complicated: emotional labor and performance.
Take last week. I had a client who barely touched me. He just wanted to sit and talk about his failing marriage, his sense of being invisible at work. He paid for two hours and we maybe had five minutes of physical contact. The rest was pure listening.
Class dynamics fascinate me. Most of my clients are middle management types. They're not wealthy. They're not powerful. But they've got just enough disposable income to buy a few hours where someone actually sees them. Truly sees them.
Money isn't just transactional here. It's a permission slip. A way to create a space where vulnerability is possible. Where the usual social scripts get suspended. Where a 45-year-old accountant can admit he feels lonely without judgment.
I'm not a therapist. I'm not a girlfriend. I'm a professional who understands how to create a momentary sanctuary. And that, frankly, is worth every euro.