As a sex worker, people often believe they love me, but they don't know the truth. 'I think I'm in love with you,' my client declared, and I responded as I always do: with a practiced smile. This woman in her forties had been visiting me for nearly a year by that point. A corporate solicitor with a taste for control at work and surrender elsewhere, she booked sessions for spanking once or twice a month, or whenever a difficult week demanded release.
The Carefully Constructed Persona
She preferred me brisk, immaculate, and slightly amused. I would wear a navy silk dress she once admired, keeping my voice low and steady while giving explicit instructions. However, that particular evening, as I removed my heels hoping she would leave, her gaze made my skin prickle. 'I don't just mean in the room,' she continued. 'I think about you all the time.'
I nodded warmly and professionally, as if she had complimented my hairstyle. 'That's very flattering,' I replied. 'But what you love is the experience. I'm exceptionally skilled at providing that.' She looked devastated. This scenario occurs more frequently than one might imagine, with both male and female clients.
Falling for a Precision-Engineered Version
As a sex worker, people fall in love with a version of me that has been meticulously crafted to suit their desires. That version is attentive, unflappable, and elegantly wicked. She never experiences PMS, never rages at her inbox at dawn, never suffers from bad skin or a foul temper. Most crucially, she never needs anything.
When clients profess their affection, they aren't falling for the real woman who eats toast over the sink in a toothpaste-stained hoodie, constantly checking her bank balance and wondering if her literary career will ever take off. They adore the woman who maintains unwavering eye contact, satisfies every sexual preference, and appears fascinated by every confession.
Maintaining Professional Boundaries
The essential technique—and it is indeed a technique—involves not encouraging these emotional declarations, to prevent them from escalating. With this solicitor, I established clear boundaries immediately. I eliminated affectionate nicknames from our emails and avoided sharing personal anecdotes. I shifted her to strictly pre-booked appointments only, disallowing last-minute 'I was just thinking about you' messages.
During our sessions, I maintained a structured approach. When she attempted to linger afterward to inquire about my weekend plans, I would tilt my head and remark lightly, 'probably invoicing someone.' When she once asked, half-smiling, 'Do you ever think about me when I'm not here?' I responded, 'Only in a strictly administrative capacity.'
Clarity Over Indulgence
This may sound cold, and it is, to some degree. However, clarity proves kinder than indulgence. Here lies the uncomfortable reality: the more intensely someone insists they love me, the less truly seen I feel. Their affection depends entirely on my erasure as a feeling, thinking, wanting human being.
The woman they idolize has no inconvenient moods, no competing priorities, no jealousy, no boredom. She is endlessly receptive, generous, and tireless. She is not real. Increasingly, I find I possess less patience for being adored in this manner. Perhaps it's age, or the gradual hormonal shifts that affect everyone. Maybe I simply no longer need to be quite so accommodating, having achieved financial stability unlike my earlier years.
The Intoxication and Exhaustion of False Adoration
When you're younger or newer to the industry, such attention can feel intoxicating. 'Look how desirable I am. Look how desperately she wants me. What power.' Now, it merely feels like additional paperwork. That solicitor eventually told me she loved me again, properly this time. Sitting upright with hands folded, as if presenting a legal case, she stated, 'I know it's ridiculous, but it feels real.'
I softened momentarily. '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 ceased booking sessions a few months later, unable to endure the rejection. I suspect she found someone more available for projection. I genuinely hope she did. Loving a mirror is utterly exhausting.
The Loneliness of Theoretical Love
People assume it must be marvelous to be constantly desired. And it can be. My ego is robust enough to appreciate the tribute without confusing it for truth. Yet, there is something profoundly lonely about being loved only in theory. They desire solely the polished surface, the careful smile, the woman who exists exclusively in relation to them.
Naturally, they love that version. I simply wish they would attempt to love someone who represents more than a reflection of their own needs. The professional persona performs a service, but the real human behind it remains separate, complete with her own complexities and life beyond the curated experience.
