I think it's important to say first that I am still deciding whether or not this is something I want to do, and I hope it's okay that I haven't made up my mind yet. I appreciate the patience you've already had with me and I hope it's okay to take a bit more time to decide. This is not something I take lightly and I know that if I do say yes, I want to say yes without any doubts/fears on my side that may cause me to change my mind abruptly and run away at a later date and thus waste a great deal of your time and efforts.

- - -

“Lift going up”

- - -

I’m not sure this is a good idea. It feels like a completely unnecessary risk.

Yes, there is a part of me that likes the idea of the writing, of working with someone, of using that part of my mind again. Who knows, maybe it might help me to make some kind of sense of this. But the whole photography thing makes me very uncomfortable. I hate cameras, I hate that clicking sound, and if he points it anywhere near me he’s going to get punched.

He. A man. That’s pretty complicated in itself and makes it even stranger that I’m considering this. Why does he want to do this? And do I really want to spend any more time with men?

I guess he’s already spent quite a lot of time getting to know me. But is he genuine? If my support worker says it’s safe to try it then she must believe I’ll be safe with him. I think I can trust her, so maybe she’s right, maybe it’d be ok, maybe he’s doing it with good intentions.

I think he is. But I’ve never talked honestly to a man about how I feel about all this. I’m not sure. What if he’s like all the others? Even if he’s not, what if he can’t cope? People break down when I share even small things with them, so what makes him think he can manage? I don’t think he knows what he’s letting himself in for – should I really put him through that?

I know what I wouldn’t want this to be: another sob story about a young, “fallen” woman. Another victim. But then I don’t have a boss anymore, so maybe people are going to think I’m doing this because I want to.

I wouldn’t want anyone thinking I speak for other people, that my experiences are universal or even common. I have no idea.

I wouldn’t want to romanticise it, which is going to put some people off. It’s not pleasant. And no voyeurism – had enough of that.

But if it were none of those things then why would anyone care? People find the idea of what I do fascinating ­– they get all glassy eyed and I have to try to make it funny to snap them out of it – but if this isn’t going to be tragedy, farce or pornography then I find it hard to believe they’d care. Why spoil fantasy with reality?

I’ve been doing this since I was really young and there’s so much I wouldn’t want to include. I’m not sure. Where would I even begin? Would it even make sense? Maybe I should just do it. I’m not sure. 

Hey – good to see you on Tuesday. Just wanted to let you know I have emailed you the notes. As you can see, we came up with a lot of ideas. I hope you’re well and you’ve had a good week – as always, let me know if a chat would be helpful at any point between now and Tuesday. Hope you have a good weekend!

- - -

This place is a maze.

- - -

I start by counting the condoms. I have three boxes at the moment, carefully organised, with different sizes and always including latex-free ones. You’d be amazed at the number of guys who tell me they’re allergic to latex.

I pack gloves and fingerdoms. I check my first aid kit – burn gel, eye washes, a variety of plasters and bandages, antiseptic wipes, Arnica and a sponge tampon. If I could, I’d take an ice pack.

Sometimes, depending on the punter, I have a knife in my bag. I’ve never used it, and I don’t want to, but I’ve started carrying it more often to bookings. Sometimes I take a self-defence spray that you can get on Amazon, but I also carry deodorant which does pretty much the same job.

I have attack alarms which can be useful for car meets, but I tend to use them as a last resort. Most of the time I don’t want to draw attention to myself, I want to focus on what will do damage.

I always wear flat shoes to bookings. I bring heels with me if the punter requests them, but I always wear flats because you have to be able to run. It’s the same with clothes – guys might want the whole “nothing but an overcoat” thing, but I arrive and leave in a sensible, discreet outfit.

I charge my phones and check they’re working.

If it’s an online booking I make sure the address is real, and I use Google Street View if I have internet access. If it’s a big estate then sometimes I won’t take the job, it depends on the price and their past feedback. I’ve had bad experiences and traps are easily set on estates.

Sometimes I’ll text a friend before I leave to let them know where I’m going. I go through periods where friends will check in with me, at other times they won’t, especially for the more unpleasant guys. I understand that, and I’m conscious of the toll it can take on people. If not, then I just leave a note on the side wherever I’m living.

Checking in with friends and leaving notes is not about anyone coming to my rescue if I’m a minute late. Bookings overrun – chaps often want to talk endlessly afterwards – so the rule is never to call for help until six hours have passed. It’s not a preventative strategy, it’s about where you’ll find me, or at least where I last was.

I miss my boss sometimes. He would at least be there, waiting outside most of the time, and it made the punters less likely to do something horrible. He was there for the immediate aftermath, and he taught me a lot.

Once I know where I’m going I work out how I’m getting there and, more importantly, how I’m getting back. I make sure I know it off by heart.

I arrive early so I can scout the area. I won’t do this with hotels – I’ve been to so many I know where the exits are going to be – but with houses I scout them out. I look for the exits and watch for a while to see who goes in and out.

When I finally walk through the door I have to start reading the situation very quickly. I take in the environment. Are there pictures of kids? Is it an estate agent using a client’s home? Is it empty? If so, there might be a problem.

I check the room and look for cameras: the position of their mobile phone is very important to me at this point. Lots of guys try to film, some are just more obvious than others.

Money up front is a good sign. Respectful clients always pay up front and have no problem with me checking the money. They understand that it’s a business transaction – a quick peck on the cheek, how was your journey and then pay.

They’ll often offer me a drink. If so, I’ll watch it being poured in front of me, and if it’s already open then they have to drink it first. I’ve only been drugged a few times – those sorts of punters tend just to use brute force, to be frank – but I always check.

When I come out of the bathroom after counting the money I have the condoms out, and for the rest of the booking I keep an eye on them. I might get through as many as 12 in an hour, perhaps because they’re too tight, too loose, generally uncomfortable or because they keep trying to slip them off, pretending they fell off or moaning they don’t like it.

Usually you have a quick chat and then you’re into it.

I sometimes check whether they’re respecting my boundaries – I might say I have a dead leg and ask them to stop for a moment. If they stop, that’s a good sign, if they don’t, it’s bad. By that point there’s no real planning, though, it’s just about instinct.

Some guys are incredibly good actors, so all that preparation can amount to nothing. And if something has got into my head beforehand, if I’m upset or feeling vulnerable, then my ability to sense danger will be skewed.

I’ve read about sex workers who say they think about what they’re having for dinner during a booking. Hearing things like that sits uncomfortably with me. Has he still got a condom on? Is he filming it? Has he got a knife? That’s what’s going through my head – if your mind drifts you could be in trouble.

Sometimes I’ll let them do anything just so I can get out of there alive – the best way to stay safe can be to show no fear, because some of them get off on you panicking.

Once it’s over, the second stage of the safety plan kicks in. You need to leave with all your items, including the money, without looking like you’re rushing.

If it’s a house, you’re praying that the front door will open, and as soon as you’re out, you get away as quickly as possible. You don’t hang around outside waiting for a cab, you need to get out of sight, fast.

If it’s a day booking, after I’ve walked for a few minutes I might stop for a cigarette to see if anyone’s followed me.

If I’m travelling by train, I take a different route back. I change platforms, go in different directions. I might get off the tube at one stop then walk to another, and I always try to walk so that traffic is coming towards me, so I can see who’s driving. These precautions are all responses to things that have happened to me.

Sometimes, if I get a funny feeling, I go to a friend’s house afterwards or to a park, rather than home. Often I’m right, and I’ve ignored that funny feeling in the past to my cost.

When I get back, I shower. I write down details in my diary and lock the money away as quickly as I can, as I have a tendency to want to get rid of it.

My support workers tell me I have a really good safety plan and yet all too often it still doesn’t work. I think about why that is a lot. Is it my age? My vulnerability? My race? An aura I give off? And is it just me? Do dominatrixes in their 40s have the same problems?

So sometimes I do all of this, tick every safety box, but there are times when I’m so tired that I do none of it. I just want to get home and I will put myself at risk just to get away as quickly as possible. And sometimes I think who gives a shit, anyway – I’m just a whore.

Hey, sorry for the late reply [...] A chat tomorrow would be great if just to work out plan for next week if that’s okay? Need to alter slightly if ok with you but easier to explain on phone. Also after a slight revelation this morning I have an idea for a slightly different angle!

- - - 

He seems pretty nervous.

- - -

I first heard about proxemics in drama at school. It’s the study of the space that exists between people, and how that space is used. On stage it’s used to tell the audience something about the relationship between characters as they interact.

For example, if two people stand face on, that can be seen as confrontational, or it might imply they want something from each other. If one or both are turned slightly to the side it’s more casual – the space between is not so threatening, there are exit routes.

If you stand close enough to put your hand on someone’s shoulder it implies intimacy, and if you can touch the other person’s chest without extending your elbow then it suggests a very close relationship – most obviously lovers. It can also symbolise the overstepping of boundaries.

If one person is behind the other and the space is closed then this can signify control and threat, as one person can’t see the other. If one person is behind the other, but they’re further apart, it can mean a lack of interest – possibly rejection – on the part of the person facing away. They’re not afraid, the person behind represents no threat.

How someone moves in the space between you and them can tell you a lot about the sort of person they are. I think my drama teacher would be surprised to know quite how valuable what they taught me has proved to be.

I use proxemics in the first 10-15 seconds when I meet a guy. This is the time between them saying hello and when – hopefully – money changes hands. In those first few seconds, when they haven’t paid yet, how they use the space between us, and particularly how quickly they close it, is one of the most reliable indicators of when things are going to go wrong.

Hey – hope you’re well. I’m so glad to hear that your new place is such an improvement! Thank you for all the feedback – totally agree about re-ordering the vignette, I think it will work much better that way.

- - -

Flowers. Great. What’s he going to want now?

- - -

Homelessness doesn’t always mean sleeping rough and I think that’s something a lot of people don’t get. I’ve been homeless many times but I’ve only spent a few nights actually sleeping on the streets. Mostly I’ve had enough for an Oyster card, so I could get on a night bus or a train. There are a lot of people doing this in London right now.

Sometimes I’ve slept on friends’ floors, sometimes I’ve stayed at punters’ houses. Sometimes, when I’ve had a hotel job, they’ve left and let me keep the room for the night. 

So, when I’m anxious, I look up and down. If I have a roof above me and a floor below me then I know things aren’t too bad. Even when I was homeless I’d do it – I’d look up and down on the night bus. If I wasn’t on the street, I was alright. There are bathrooms you can use, warm places you can spend time, but a roof that’s your own is hard to find.

Being given a key and walking into a room that you know is yours is a feeling that’s difficult to describe. A sense of relief, of gratitude – but it’s more complicated than that.

I remember a time when one of my support workers had been offered a place for me. I hadn’t made it easy for them – I kept getting scared and running away at the last minute – but they persevered. What’s more, they made sure I was at the top of the house because they knew I was afraid of ground floors, and why.

The first thing I thought when they finally persuaded me to walk into that room was that I didn’t deserve it. It was simple, just a bed and a chest of drawers, but it was for me, and I couldn’t get my head around that.

My worker handed me the keys and I turned to the window and started to cry. She asked why I was upset, but it wasn’t sadness – it felt like somewhere in the universe someone was giving me a hug.

It took a while to get used to the idea that it was really mine. I slept on the floor that night, with the brand new mattress still wrapped in plastic on the bed, but I slept like a log, for the first time in a long time.

After a few days I finally took the wrapper off, bought some pillows in a charity shop and got a blanket from Primark. It was blue with sparkles on and it reminded me of stars in the night sky. That was when I finally slept on the bed. It was a strange feeling.

I didn’t feel safe – I never really feel safe – but I felt that someone cared, and it’s been the same feeling each time I’ve been found a place.

The first time it happened I was 17. It was winter, I’d been outside and I can still remember how cold I felt. I think I was in shock and I just sat on the bed and sobbed. I couldn’t believe it was real.

At one point I had a proper flat, and that was the only place that ever really felt like home. Every time I woke up in that room, I felt fine. Even if I’d been attacked the night before, even if my boss was still there – it was home.

Some things people have said to me:

“Oh! I’ve never met a sex worker before. How intriguing! What do you do? Do you do it all?”

“It’s the oldest profession in the book, isn’t it? It can’t be that bad.”

“But it’s good money, isn’t it?”

“Have you ever been hurt in your work?”

“But indoor work is safer, isn’t it?”

“You don’t look like one.”

“You’re too pretty to be doing this.”

“You don’t look like the other girls.”

“You must get a lot of nice regulars.”

“You’re too nice to be one.”

"You must do well because, you know, you still look human."

“You’re so intelligent, why are you doing this?”

“You’re just doing this to hurt yourself.”

“You’re just doing this for attention. We need to find you something else you can get attention from.”

“Are you a support worker?”

“She thought you were an undercover journalist.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“We can’t work with you.”

“Have you gone back to sex work? Well good luck with that.”

“Why did you let him do it?”

“Why don’t you just stop?”

After going through my notes last night I just wanted to check in to see if you’re ok. […] I thought about how hard it must have been for you to go over it all. I strongly agree that next week we focus on something lighter – or let me know if you’d like to pause

- - -

The bed’s covered in plastic. What, am I that dirty?

- - -

In July 2018 I sat in my room and watched a House of Commons debate on Commercial Sexual Exploitation on my phone. I’d paid to get BT wifi especially for it, and I watched it from start to finish. It wasn’t much of a debate, to be honest.

MP after MP stood up and spoke, but they were all basically saying the same thing. These are people who want the Government to change the law in the UK, to adopt something called the “Nordic model”. This would make selling sex legal, but buying it illegal.

It was developed in Sweden and it aims to reduce demand for prostitution by criminalising punters, while making people like me safer by decriminalising us, so we can report things like assault without fear of prosecution. That’s the theory, anyway.

As the MPs made clear, people who support this position tend to believe that prostitutes are always victims, even if we don’t think we are. They talked repeatedly about websites, websites that my boss used and later taught me to use to advertise and vet punters (he didn’t like time wasters). They unanimously spoke in favour of banning them.

Of all the MPs I heard who stood up and spoke, not one mentioned having any experience of selling or being sold for sex. They briefly quoted two survivors, but they weren’t there. The only other voices of those not in political power were punters, in the form of online reviews that one MP read out. I wondered whether they’d asked the women in those reviews for their consent before reading them out so crudely, publicly.

At the same time there were sex workers outside the building protesting and having difficulties getting in to witness the debate. I sat watching in growing disbelief. How could people with so much power know so little? They were proposing things that I knew could get me killed while claiming, and probably believing, that they would make me safer.

Part of me could see that they were coming from a good place, that they cared, that they were trying to help – and I agreed with them that something needed to change.

But the other part of me was crying at my phone, begging them to stop, to listen, to try to understand. It was strange. Watching them speak for me, powerless, as they told the world that I was a victim, feeling like my opinion on the matter was worthless, felt painfully familiar. It was like when punters tell me that I love it.

There are a lot of names for what I do – over the years I’ve been called pretty much all of them – but most of the time I find myself labelled as one of two things: a prostitute or a sex worker.

The distinction might seem trivial, but each term can tell you a lot about the person or organisation using it. They tend to represent two sides of a very bitter debate, and those MPs represented one side – the Nordic lobby. To them, I am a prostitute. I have no autonomy.

On the other side is the decrim lobby. They want to decriminalise sex work, to remove all legislation relating to it, so that neither party is doing anything illegal. Laws around trafficking, rape, assault and child sexual exploitation would still apply, but their argument is that sex work is a form of work and so should be treated as such. To them, I am a sex worker. Autonomy is achievable.

They’re sometimes called the “pimp lobby”, but it’s more complicated than that. Yes, some of them are the pimps and madams, and I despise them, but there are also some vocal individual sex workers arguing for this model. Some enjoy what they do, some believe it’s their human right to sell their bodies if they want to and some argue that until socio-economic equality improves, this is the best option. They, and organisations like Amnesty and the World Health Organisation, argue that criminalising punters will only make what we do more dangerous.

I support people’s right to choose, where it is a choice, but some on this side have made me feel like it was my fault when punters did bad things. I’ve seen them question sex workers who say they’ve been raped, and ask them – was it really rape? They’ve made me feel weak, like I’m giving sex work a bad name. Their experiences seem a world away from mine.

I think it’s fair to say that the two sides don’t like each other very much, and there doesn’t seem to be much of a middle ground. The problem for me is that I don’t feel represented by either of them. Both claim to speak for me, but I think my experiences don’t really suit either of their narratives.

It’s worth pointing out that no one has ever asked me how I want to be described. We’re labelled without consultation or consideration based on the ideological preference of whoever’s doing the labelling. At least my old boss gave me a couple of options when he named me. For the record, I’ve always preferred working girl.

I’ve read books, studies and countless articles about it, lost hours watching both sides argue on the internet, and it leaves me feeling utterly alienated. It’s complicated and I find it quite demoralising, so I’m not going to attempt to sum it all up here – just Google “Nordic model” and “decriminalisation of sex work” if you really want to get into it.

What I will say is that I’m anxious about how what I say here will be taken by people on both sides of the debate. I’m worried about being dismissed and my experiences questioned because they don’t suit a particular agenda.

I don’t really care what punters or the general public think, but I feel like I need a suit of armour to protect me from critics in the Nordic and decrim camps. I’ve gone back over my words again and again, looking for a chink, doubting myself.

I’ve seen people on both sides take the words of people like me out of context and twist them. I’ve seen them cherry pick and manipulate the little data that exists. If I’m honest, they both scare me. 

I don’t know what the answer is. I’ve wavered between the arguments over the years, and I can change my mind before and after a punter. Ultimately I think that both are flawed, that both ignore reality and that they hesitate to acknowledge those who don’t fit neatly into their categories.

For all this, it’s important to say that I’ve been helped by people and organisations on both sides of the debate – good people, who haven’t judged me, trying to make things better, doing what they believe is right.

I just wish people would be more honest and not let ideology blind them to practicality. Whatever road we go down, I’d hope to see greater acceptance of people who have experience of this. As much as I don’t enjoy what I do, I’m not going to say that I want to see a world without prostitution when there are people who want to do it. Who am I to deny them that choice?

But for those who are forced into it, or who want to stop/leave/exit, I’d allocate a lot more money to organisations that help people to do that – and properly monitor those organisations. In my experience there’s very little support for people once they’ve actually got out, at least after the first few months. So people go back.

I’d provide more (and much better) training to police, health workers, social services and teachers. My life might be very different right now if my school had known what to look out for.

I’d educate people to understand that sex is not a human right, because I don’t believe it is.

I’d invest money in trying to reach out to those who sell or are sold for sex online, who can be hard to track down. I’ve found there’s less knowledge of how this side of things works within support services. Most specialise in street-based – but online is what’s growing, and fast. I’ve done both and I can tell you that those MPs didn’t get it at all.

I’d give more funding to drug and alcohol services. I’d raise the minimum wage. I’d get rid of the gender pay gap and I’d provide free childcare. I’d ban zero hours contracts, enforce lower rents, invest in mental health and youth services, cut university fees, sort out the mess that is Universal Cre–

I know. It sounds impossibly idealistic. But this is what I think it would take for things to actually improve. Changing the law one way or another isn’t going to fix things – to me it’s just playing politics. And while those MPs make speeches in their fancy back rooms, people are being violated, raped, murdered.

Irrespective of whether you think it’s a job, always rape or something else, don’t we all agree that no-one should be hurt selling sex? That no-one should be left with no choice but to sell sex? Can’t we stop arguing? Fundamentally, isn’t safety the first thing we should focus on? But since neither side can agree what makes everyone safe, we have to learn to keep ourselves as safe as we can.

I don’t think anything meaningful is going to change any time soon. Let’s face it, spending billions to protect prossies isn’t going to win you an election. In the meantime, both sides will continue to argue, the websites will probably get shut down and I’ll be stuck in the middle, lost in the grey area.

- - -

Too many fucking lifts. Got to get out. Quick, quick, quick.

- - -

I’m sending this now as I don’t think I will otherwise, but is it ok if we don’t meet next week? Don’t feel like I can do the story next week. Just feeling shaky and need a bit of time. Think I haven’t processed anything this past month and I’m not going to be able to for a while as all the people I would talk to process are busy […] Would it be okay to drop you a text in a few days? Just to let you know when I want to start again?

Friends are the ones that remind me I’m a human. They’re the reason I value laughter so much. They can make even the darkest situation funny – and I don’t mean a smile, I mean crying with laughter and giggling in hysterics.

They really see me – just me – although they do sometimes get confused with the number of names I have. They remind me that I’m not alone, that things will get better, and they stay.

They don’t tell me outright that what I’m doing is wrong, and they don’t stop me from going out to work or try to rescue me, they know I wouldn’t let them anyway. They just go quiet, and their silence means a lot.

They let me be there for them. I can’t quite understand why but they value my opinion and moan that I’m always right. They just wish I could take my own advice sometimes.

They might not do anything heroic, but they will pretend to be Superman in public sometimes (I prefer to be the fairy princess). These moments are just little happinesses, like making a monkey sound in a really quiet bookshop or pretending to be an eagle. They make me laugh and have fun and not care who’s watching.

There’s a lot I don’t tell them and a lot they don’t need to know, but most of the time they listen and I’m grateful they’ve stuck with me.

They remind me that normal life is possible, and I watch them grow and achieve and I’m so proud of them all. It puts this nagging thought in the back of my head that I could be one of them. Because I am one of them. My background might be very different to theirs, but I’m still a person and if they don’t judge me, maybe others won’t.

Some of them say that my experiences are a kind of asset, and they’re teaching me not to be ashamed of them. They give me hope.

Hey James hope you’re well and have had a good week. I’m feeling a bit better and I was wondering if you’d be up for a phonecall at some point in the next week or so to talk about starting up again?

- - -

An English beauty? Oh just giggle.

- - -

I remember very clearly the first time a support worker acknowledged that I was selling and being sold for sex. I’d been to the sexual health clinic a few days before and through my naivety and their rigorous questioning they’d worked out what I was doing.

I didn’t realise the gravity of the situation at that point and I hadn’t made the link between what I was doing and the word “prostitution”. I’d never even heard of the terms “sexually exploited” or “sex worker”.

The nurses at the clinic breached my confidentiality and contacted my youth worker, but they didn’t tell me they were going to do it. It was only when I went to see her that I found out.

I remember sitting in a horrible little interview room with her, with this light brown wooden desk and bright fluorescent lights overhead. We’d been talking about other things, then she got up to go and get me something I needed from the storeroom.

When she came back she put down what I was expecting, but placed next to it several paper bags filled with condoms. There must have been at least 40. I couldn’t see what was in the bags at first, but she pushed them towards me without saying a word. When I looked inside I was initially confused and a bit insulted. I said I’d take one bag, that I didn’t need that many, that I wasn’t a slut.

She pulled a half smile and just pushed the others towards me. I was 17.

Support services like these have been part of my life for a long time. Everyone relies on GPs and hospitals, but there are other, more specialist services that deal with things like homelessness, mental health, domestic violence – and sex work. Over the years, for various reasons, I’ve encountered quite a few, some good, some bad.

No service is perfect. Often, they’re working under very difficult circumstances, with tiny budgets and not enough staff – but even under this kind of pressure they still manage to do some amazing things.

When you come across a good service, when you meet a kind support worker, there’s nothing quite like it. Most of the time all I ever am is looked at and objectified, so when someone actually sees you and treats you like a human being it’s very powerful. Suddenly you’re not just a number, you’re a person.

It’s not only about the time they give you, it’s knowing that there’s someone out there, thinking of you, someone who – to be blunt – isn’t just thinking about how they’re going to fuck you or hurt you. That means a lot.

Not all services are helpful. Sometimes it’s because they’re overwhelmed, they can’t cope, and that’s common. Sometimes, though, it’s because they can’t cope with you, and that’s harder to take. I’ve had experienced support workers cry in front of me when I’ve talked to them about things that have happened to me. If they can’t cope, how am I supposed to?

So sometimes they push you away, even when you later discover they had a legal obligation to support you. Because of this I’ve learnt to deflect – I say I’m fine to make people feel more comfortable, or I make jokes. Mostly, though, I’ve just stopped talking about things that I think might upset them.

Occasionally, at their worst, services can crush you. When they get things wrong the damage they cause can be profound. Think of it like this: when you see the man in the dark alley you know what’s going to happen, you’re prepared for it. When a support service hurts you, you start to wonder whether you deserve the things that have happened to you.

The first time I was let down by a service it made me want to end my life. This was before the youth worker and the bag of condoms. They didn’t just crush me, they put me in danger. I was just a kid. 

Not everyone is cut out to work for support services. I think you have to really care and I think you have to give something of yourself. It’s not about sharing your life story – I understand the importance of boundaries – but you have to be human and remember that the people you’re working with are human too.

I’ve been lucky enough to meet some fantastic workers, and some of them are still helping me today. They listen and don’t judge, they’ve called me on their days off and always do more than they should. I think they would help even if they didn’t have to – it’s who they are.

They’d probably tell you they’re just doing their jobs, but I know that it’s ultimately their choice who they invest time in. If they’re willing to invest time in me, it gives me hope. If they think things can change for the better, maybe they can. Bad support workers make you feel like a slut – good ones remind you that you can be more than that.

- - -

Let’s just stare at the ceiling. This one has ridges.

- - -

I’ll text you tomorrow when I head out for lunch to check if it’s still an ok time to talk. With the vignettes, we could always get more, but I’m really conscious of […] the toll recounting them can take on you, and what the last week has given me a chance to think about is how much we already have and what we actually need to still cover (and what perhaps we don’t). Obviously the job of us actually writing it up and editing it comes next, but I feel like we have more than enough to start that process.

- - -

You stupid idiot. Why did you tell him that?

- - -

I find most punters relatively easy to cope with, once I know what to expect. They might not be pleasant, they might have strange kinks or be violent, but for the most part what you see is what you get.

There are some, however, that are trickier to handle. They try to manipulate you, and there are two types in particular that I want to talk about. They’re the ones I worry about the most.  

The first are what I call Creeping Toms. What they want is to get under your skin, and some of them have actually said those exact words to me. In fact, because they’re often quite open about it, they can seem deceptively straightforward.

At first they don’t want sex, and I don’t think it’s ever really about that for them. They pay well and will pay extra for things like personal possessions. To a naïve girl it can seem like easy money, but they think long-term and their ultimate goal is psychological domination. They tend to be single and you can usually understand why.

I see Creeping Toms because I know how to play their game, but I have to be prepared. I’ll have five or six different life stories ready, layers they can peel back over weeks and months, because they’ll push hard to get beneath them.

These punters will do extensive research on you, then tell you about it to watch your reaction. They’ll book you for hours, ply you with cheap wine and ask questions relentlessly, trying to catch you out. These are the ones that can become stalkers, and I catch myself looking over my shoulder more often after seeing one.

When they think they’ve got the real you, that they’ve won their strange game, they change and at that point it becomes nastier, sometimes violent. They feel like they’ve conquered you, that you’re weak – and they want to show off their power. Or, if they sense they haven’t got past your defences, they sometimes lash out in frustration.

The second type I call Collectors. What they want is similar, but how they go about it, and how they come across, is very different. I think they’re the most dangerous of all.

With Collectors, the first few times you see them you come out feeling good – it can actually feel like you’ve had a nice time. They’ve been respectful, friendly, chatty, and while the sex is there, it’s not all about that. They make you feel like a person and you feel weirdly in control.

It’s an illusion, but it’s only after you’ve seen them five or six times that you start to realise you’re in too deep, and that it’s a game for them, whether consciously or not.

They come across as non-threatening, give you gifts and seem genuinely concerned about you. If you don’t have many people in your life to talk to other than punters then it can be very easy to fall into their trap.

I sometimes wonder if they trick themselves into thinking they care about the people they see. I think some of them see themselves as saviours, protectors, rescuers. They’re usually married with children – they’re the ones you would never suspect are punters, the nice dad at the school gates.

I think they get off on the risk and the thrill of the false narrative they’ve created about themselves and what we’re doing together. I think in part it’s because they feel guilty – they want to believe they’re not like the other punters, that it’s a real relationship. In reality, they’re usually addicted to paying for sex and getting to know you is like a trophy.

Some of them will boast about it in punter forums or in online reviews and when they do, they share every last detail they’ve collected on you, putting your outside life in danger. Sometimes it’s blatant one-upmanship between them and the other Collectors, but at others it’s dressed up as concern – they’ll tell you how “worried” they are about the people they’re paying for sex. Either way, they seem to have a fundamental need to show off.

Even the smallest act of kindness from a punter when you’re vulnerable can make you feel good at first, but this game, this blurring of the line, is exactly what can break you if you’re not prepared. You’ve lowered your guard and allowed yourself to believe for a moment that someone might actually care about you as a person.

They don’t, of course, even if they kid themselves they do – you’re a plaything to them, a doll. They can get you out and play with you when they want to, and put you away when they get bored. There are always more dolls to collect.

Once they’ve squeezed all the personal information out of you they think they can, they drop you and move on. More often, though, you break first.

It’s not just Creeping Toms that can turn nasty. One Collector who I’d known for a long time, who had never been violent, out of nowhere hit me in the face, knocking me to the ground, then pissed on me. It was such a sudden switch – I think he wanted to shock me, to show me that I was nothing. Or perhaps he was just bored.

Collectors and Creeping Toms see themselves very differently, but they’re two sides of the same coin. They want to own you, to possess you completely.

These are the punters, I think, that can make working girls go cold. Their mind games can be the last straw when you’re at your lowest. They take something from you that wasn’t for sale, that you didn’t want to give away, and that you can’t get back.

Morning! Sorry for delay in response! I’m glad we got a lot done, and not at all taxing for me. Thank you for being so patient and getting it all down on paper […] And thank you for your positive words of encouragement, the second meeting went well yesterday and they’re happy for me to go ahead with my plan. Have a good day!

- - -

Ah. So he had locked the front door.

- - -

So. We’re nearly at the end now and there’s something I need to ask you. It’s a question that’s been on my mind from the start, but I’ve been putting it off because it’s not pleasant. You know a lot about me, though, so I hope that after what you’ve read you understand why.

Have you ever paid someone for sex?

I’m sorry to ask, but have you? They say that one in 10 men have.

Perhaps it was just a one-off. That blurry weekend away with the lads, something you’d rather forget. The business trip where you got a bit carried away. Maybe it was the girl you chatted up on the street but who turned out to be “offering services”. Or maybe you’re a regular punter – although you probably think of yourself as a client.

Maybe you jump in your car on a Friday night, looking for some fun, or maybe you scroll through profiles at leisure in your lunch break. Maybe a friend of a friend knows a girl, or perhaps you swing by that flat near your work on the way home.

Maybe you booked me with your missus to spice up your love life – or maybe you are the missus, who booked me so you wouldn’t have to do that thing your husband likes.

Maybe you shower me with gifts, or with hundreds, even thousands, of pounds. You look after me, you say. Maybe you like to beat me and tell me I’m asking for it, but then pay me to ensure your conscience is clear. Or maybe you’re the sort who prefers to beat and not pay.

Maybe you do it because you’re lonely. Maybe you think you’re entitled to it. Maybe it’s because you don’t want to waste time chatting up a girl in a club, spending your hard-earned cash on drinks when you might not get what you want. This way you probably will – and if you don’t, then perhaps you’re the sort to leave a review online to warn others not to invest in a mediocre service.  

Have you ever asked me why I do it? Watched me smile and say I love it? Have you ever had a sinking feeling that I might not be telling the truth, but put it out of your head because you’re paying me, so who cares?

Have you ever wondered if telling me your fantasy about raping and beating me isn’t ok, even if it is just a fantasy? You’d never act on it, of course, because you’re a decent man, but it’s ok to indulge your kinks with a professional.

Have you ever felt irritated to be the last of the night because I was tired and not at my best? You forget that I’m not a machine, and if you remember then I know you choose to ignore it.

Some of you think you’re not guilty because all you do is talk to me, and there are some of you who just look at the photos online and never meet me. You are just the same.

You say you know when a girl’s not enjoying it, and if you suspect that I’m not then you write in your review how I was mechanical, how I watched the clock, how I only let you come once. But you put it down to me being spoilt, greedy, entitled – and you, the hardworking gent who spent money on a hotel, are being cheated. You’re a paying customer and you expect to get what you want.

You have a daughter the same age as me, but that’s ok because she would never do anything like this, and neither would your sister, your niece, your goddaughter, your mate’s teenage daughter, your granddaughter.

You tell yourself that we’re both in it for a good time, it’s all a bit of fun. No-one could do this if they didn’t enjoy it, you explain. You praise my intellect, my ability to hold a conversation, but I know when to hold my tongue, because you have to be the smartest in the room. Naturally I will always tell you that you’re the biggest and the best, and I act so convincingly you actually believe me.

Some of you will question me. Never before, I should add, always after, about whether I have a pimp and how old I was when I started. What on earth makes you think I’d be honest with you?

Others of you will ply me with alcohol then ask if I get a lot of rough punters. I’ll smile sweetly and say that, out of a hundred, I might get one who’s a bit dodgy.

You’ll push me for details. You’ll ask if I was raped or beaten up, and I’ll smile sweetly and say “No, he just tried to underpay me by £20”, because I know you’re feigning concern and you either don’t want to hear the truth because you’re trying to ease your conscience, or you want to hear how I’ve been abused so you can get off on it and have another go – but rougher, because now you think I can take it.

I know you think you’re helping us to pay off student debt, to feed our kids, to keep us off the streets. I know you think you’re not that bad, that you’re not one of the nasty ones. But you knew that driver wasn’t just a driver. You saw me wince. You heard me say no.

 No?

 Not you?

Forgive me – I had to ask. You see punters are a bit like rats: they’re very good at hiding and you’re never too far away from one. Look around you. Do you know one? Are you sure?

It’s a cliché, but when you’ve worked on the street and online you see they really do come from all walks of life. Socio-economic status, class, nationality, ethnicity, age, education, profession, faith, political persuasion, relationship status, parenthood, perceived “niceness”… none, in my experience, are barriers. Some you’d spot a mile off, others you simply wouldn’t believe me if I pointed them out.

For all that, though, I think it’s important to say that it isn’t only punters who have caused me harm, who have put me at risk, who have made me question my worth.

Ah, the police. Always so efficient at moving us on when residents complain, but when I’m attacked they say there’s nothing they can do. And of course sometimes they’re the punters.

What about those residents? So worried about house prices, quietly dialling 101, writing to their MPs, signing petitions, wanting us cleaned up like rubbish. Terribly sad, they say, but not in my back yard, please.

Preachers and believers of every denomination line up to judge us and condemn us. Politicians and campaigners claim to speak for us but so rarely speak to us. And then there are those who tell us we can’t be feminists because our very existence undermines the cause. Thanks for that.

What about the groups queuing for those vile Jack the Ripper tours that promise to make you laugh and scream? Trust me, I’m not laughing.

Sometimes it’s the support workers – the bad ones, the box tickers – who secure their funding and get paid but who judge us, dismiss us and leave us feeling like dirt.

And there are women who look at me, who pity me, who sympathise, they say, but who reassure themselves that no matter how bad things got they would never, ever sink so low. I am very familiar with that look.

Sometimes, though, it’s just the TV. The endless, relentless, repetitive stream of dramas and movies where people like me exist only to offer a brief, voyeuristic thrill before inevitably being killed off.

Why is that always the ending for us?

- - -

He’s not going to kill you. See, he has board games under his bed.

- - -

Hey! Good to see you yesterday. Can’t believe how much we achieved. […] I just wanted to say how impressed I am with your plan and how you’re approaching it. I am very happy to hear it

I hope there will be a last time I hear a man call me beautiful with a suck of expectation between his teeth. I hope there will be a last time a stranger lays his hands on me with a groan of entitlement. I hope there is a last time I knock on an unknown door and step into vulnerability, naked.

I hope there is a last time I clench my fists, squeeze my eyes shut and grit my teeth in pain as they thrust themselves through all my boundaries. I hope there is a last time I have to slip my hand down to double check they’re still wearing the only thing protecting me. I hope one day my heart won’t sink when I see an email notification and that it won’t skip a beat when a stranger’s phone with the same ringtone as his echoes in my ears.

I hope I stop flinching when people reach out to reassure me and that my thoughts won’t race when someone stands close to me in the supermarket queue. I hope there will be a last time I’m out at 1am looking for my rent or my electric bill. I hope there’s a last time I stick price tags on my body and a last time a man rips them all off and takes me anyway.

I hope one day I don’t check my door is locked six times. Just twice would be nice. I hope that one day I won’t sit for hours trying to scream a scream that never comes and just scream. I hope there’s a last time I hide my face to avoid tourists taking selfies or as I slip past hotel reception, and a last time I climb into a stranger’s car for a fiver.

I hope for the last time I’m told by friends I’m lazy because I earn money lying on my back. I hope there will be a last review of my performance published online. I hope that one day I won’t have to smile and say I love my job to ease the conscience of the man naked before me. I hope that one day I’ll always use soap instead of bleach in the shower.

I hope for the last time I walk into a room knowing the only thing between me and the money to help my friends, to live, to get out of this life for good is my ability to handle an hour, five hours, an overnight with them. I wish for the last time I look up into their eyes and wonder if this is the last thing I’ll ever see.

I beg for a last time that someone other than me controls my breathing. I hope for the last time I desperately cling onto any lighter moments with punters to distract from the rest. I hope for the last time I resort to counting the number of slaps, punches, whips and kicks to get through it. I hope that one day I won’t resort to silently praying that they’ll knock me out so I won’t remember it all. I beg for the last time I’m told it’s my fault because I was paid for it and the last time I’m told I’m asking for it and that deep down I wanted it.

I hope for the last time I’ll take the night tube, my hands still smelling of them and my handbag heavy with Monopoly money. I hope for the last time people tell me they are concerned but don’t know what to do. I hope for the last time people take money from me under the pretence that it’s easy for me to get more.

I hope for the last time I leave the details of where to find my body on the table for a friend to find in case I don’t come back. I hope there will be a last day that I only speak to punters and a last time I turn my mirror to face the wall. I hope that one day, one day soon, will be the last booking, the last punter, the last fake smile, the last condom, the last time.

- - -

He seems happy. I think he’ll book me again.

- - -

Morning, thank you for checking in with me. I’m doing okay and if anything I think talking it through […] has further concreted how much I want things to change. It didn’t upset me but it did drain me a little, so definitely need either to talk about a lighter topic or just meet for a coffee next week. I don’t however feel the need to pause right now.

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