It wasn’t the money that scared me first. It was the silence after the door closed. The way the room felt too warm, too still, like it was holding its breath. I’d spent three weeks working at a call center in Tampa, staring at screens and answering the same five questions over and over. I was 22, broke, and tired of feeling invisible. So I tried something else. I became a sex worker.
People ask me if I knew what I was getting into. I didn’t. I thought it would be like the movies-glamorous, controlled, safe. But reality doesn’t come with lighting cues or scripted lines. The first client walked in with a briefcase and no smile. He didn’t say a word until he handed me cash and asked if I’d ever been to Dubai. I told him no. He nodded and said, "I’ve seen hooker in Dubai on forums. They don’t look like you." I didn’t know what to say. I just nodded back. Later, I Googled it. Found a site with photos and names. One page listed escorte dubai. I closed the tab fast. It felt wrong to compare myself to someone I’d never met, in a city I’d never seen.
Why I Chose This Path
I didn’t wake up one day and decide to sell sex. It crept up on me. I was working two jobs, still living with my mom, and my student loans were eating my paycheck. A friend of mine, Jess, had been doing it part-time for two years. She said it was flexible, the pay was decent, and she got to set her own hours. "You don’t have to be a saint," she told me. "You just have to be smart." I started small. Online profiles. No faces. Just text and voice notes. I picked a name that didn’t sound like mine. I practiced saying "I’m available tonight" without sounding like I was selling a vacuum cleaner. The first booking came through a platform that didn’t ask for ID. I was nervous the whole drive over. My hands shook on the wheel. When I got there, the apartment smelled like lavender air freshener and old carpet. He was polite. Paid on time. Left without a word. I sat in my car afterward and cried-not because I was scared, but because I felt… seen. For the first time in months, someone paid me for exactly what I gave them.
The Rules I Made for Myself
I didn’t have a mentor. No handbook. So I wrote my own rules. They’re simple, but they keep me alive.
- No drugs. No alcohol. I don’t touch either before or during a session. If someone shows up high, I cancel. No negotiation.
- Always meet in public first. Coffee shop. Parking lot. Library. If they won’t meet before, I don’t go.
- Screen every client. I check names, photos, reviews. I use a third-party verification service that’s free for workers. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing.
- Keep a log. Date, time, location, client ID, payment method. I save it in an encrypted app. If something goes wrong, I have proof.
- Never work alone in a private space. I have a friend who checks in every 30 minutes during sessions. If I don’t respond, she calls the cops.
These aren’t glamorous. They’re survival tools. And they work. I’ve had three bad experiences. Two clients lied about their names. One tried to record me without consent. I walked out each time. I reported them. I got paid back. No one’s ever hurt me.
The Stigma That Doesn’t Go Away
My mom still doesn’t know. My coworkers at the temp agency think I’m a "freelance graphic designer." I don’t correct them. I used to feel ashamed. Now I just feel tired of explaining.
People assume sex workers are desperate, trafficked, or broken. Some are. But not all of us. I’m not a victim. I’m not a villain. I’m just someone who chose a job that pays well and doesn’t require me to fake enthusiasm for quarterly reports.
When I tell people I work in the sex industry, their faces change. They look away. They ask if I’ve been arrested. If I’m "addicted." If I plan to "get out soon." I don’t have an exit strategy. Not yet. This job pays my rent. It lets me save for a car. It gives me control over my time. That’s not something you get at a 9-to-5.
How the Industry Has Changed
Fifteen years ago, sex work meant street corners, pimps, and hidden alleyways. Now? It’s apps, encrypted chats, and digital portfolios. I use three platforms. One is for video calls. One is for local meetups. One is for international clients who want to send gifts or pay for long-term companionship.
Some of my clients are from Europe. Others are from the Middle East. One guy from Dubai sent me a gift card for a luxury hotel chain. He said he was tired of the "dubai eacorts" he’d seen online and wanted someone real. I didn’t know what to say. I thanked him. I didn’t take the card. I sent it back with a note: "I’m not a fantasy. I’m a person." He replied: "Then I’m glad I found you." I still think about that message.
What No One Tells You
People think sex work is all about sex. It’s not. Most of the time, it’s about listening. About holding space. About being calm when someone else is falling apart.
I’ve had clients cry on my couch. One man told me his wife left him after 22 years. Another said his son died of an overdose. I didn’t fix them. I didn’t give advice. I just sat there. And when they were done, I handed them a tissue and said, "You’re not alone right now." That’s the part no one talks about. The humanity. The quiet dignity. The fact that people pay for connection-not just bodies.
What I’ve Learned
I thought I was doing this for the money. I was wrong.
I’m doing it because I finally feel like I matter. Not because I’m pretty. Not because I’m good at sex. But because I show up. Even when I’m tired. Even when I’m scared. Even when the world tells me I shouldn’t exist.
I don’t know where this path leads. Maybe I’ll go back to office work. Maybe I’ll open a support group for other workers. Maybe I’ll move to another city. But for now, I’m here. And I’m not apologizing for it.
Some days, I still look at photos of women in Dubai-hooker in Dubai, they call them-and wonder if they feel the same way I do. If they, too, are just trying to survive, to be seen, to be paid fairly. I hope they are. I hope they know they’re not alone.