As a sex worker, people think they love me — they don’t know the truth

‘I think I’m in love with you,’ my client said, and I did what I always do. I smiled.

This 40-something woman had been seeing me for nearly a year by then. Once a month, sometimes twice, or if she’d had a bad week at work, she’d book herself in for a spanking.

A corporate solicitor with an appetite for control in the office and surrender everywhere else, she liked me brisk, immaculate, and faintly amused. I would wear a navy silk dress she’d once admired and keep my voice low and steady. She liked to be told exactly what to do.

That evening, though, as I was easing off my heels, hoping she’d take the hint and go, she was watching me in a way that made my skin prickle.

‘I don’t just mean in the room,’ she said. ‘I think about you all the time.’

I nodded — warmly, professionally — as if she’d just complimented my hair. ‘That’s very flattering,’ I said. ‘But what you love is the experience. I’m very good at providing that.’

She looked stricken.

This happens more than you might think, with women and men alike. As a sex worker, people fall in love with a version of me that has been precision-engineered to suit them.

That version exists to be attentive, unflappable, elegantly wicked. I do not get PMS. I do not rage at my inbox at 6am. I do not have bad skin or a bad temper. I do not, crucially, need anything.

When clients fall for me, they aren’t falling for the woman who eats toast over the sink in an old toothpaste-spattered hoodie, refreshing her bank app and wondering if her literary career will ever properly ignite.

They are falling for the woman who holds their gaze without blinking, satisfies their every sexual proclivity, and seems to find their every confession fascinating.

The trick – and it is a trick – is not encouraging these confessions of the heart, lest they get out of hand.

With her, I drew the line immediately. No affectionate nicknames in emails anymore. No drifting into personal anecdotes. I moved her to strictly pre-booked sessions only; no last-minute ‘I was just thinking about you’ texts.

In the room, I kept things structured. When she tried to linger afterwards to ask what I was doing at the weekend, I would tilt my head and say lightly, ‘probably invoicing someone’.

When she once asked, half-smiling: ‘Do you ever think about me when I’m not here?’ I replied: ‘Only in a strictly administrative capacity.’

It sounds cold. It is, slightly. But clarity is kinder than indulgence.

Because here’s the uncomfortable truth: the more someone insists they love me, the less seen I feel. Their love depends entirely on my erasure as a feeling, thinking, wanting, human being.

The woman they adore has no inconvenient moods, no competing priorities, no jealousy, no boredom. She is endlessly receptive. She is generous. She is tireless. She isn’t real.

Increasingly, I find I have less patience for being adored in that way. Maybe, it’s age, or the slow, hormonal recalibration that comes for us all. Or perhaps it’s simply that I no longer need to be quite so accommodating. I’ve made my money, and I’m not strapped for cash like I once was.

When you’re younger, or newer, in the industry, the attention can feel intoxicating. Look how desirable I am. Look how desperately she wants me. What power.

Now, it just feels like paperwork.

That solicitor did eventually tell me she loved me again. Properly this time. Sat upright, hands folded, like she was presenting a case in court.

‘I know it’s ridiculous,’ she said. ‘But it feels real.’

I softened then. ‘I don’t doubt that it feels real,’ I told her. ‘But it isn’t about me. It’s about what I represent for you.’

She stopped booking a few months later, unable to stomach the rejection. I suspect she found someone more available to project onto. I hope she did. It’s exhausting loving a mirror.

People assume it must be marvellous, being constantly desired. And it can be. My ego is robust enough to enjoy the tribute without mistaking it for truth. But there is something oddly lonely about being loved only in theory.

They only want the polished surface. The careful smile. The woman who exists solely in relation to them.

Of course they love her. I just wish they’d try loving someone who was more than a reflection of their own needs.

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