Confessions Of A Prostitute: Why I Do It


I knew I wanted to tell a story. But like, I didn’t want to sit down and make it up or imagine what it would be like. Since I was a kid, I had to do it, live it and be it to express it. So I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t want to road test being a murderer. Although, some would say that I should be treated as such.

What could I do that evokes such disdain from strangers?

I’m a prostitute. I have sex for money.


I know a lot of people expect me to be laden with daddy issues, ghosts of abuse or worse still financial hardship (in our society the embarrassment of being poor seems to eclipse all of life’s real, emotional, hard hitting issues) but fortunately, I’m in this business because I want to be. (Yep, it’s not all Polish sex workers and pimp slaps. Now go and have a cuppa and bring your heart rate down, Love)

As a kid, I loved two things: acting and writing. Once I became a teenager, sex was added to the mix and then I was left trying to go against the shit that was running through my veins; I just wanted to shag. Socially, romantically, intellectually; fucking was where it was at.

New to the world and not understanding that ‘square pegs can’t fuck round holes’, I moved forward as everyone else does. Working for ‘The Man’ becoming overwhelmed with gratitude when you score a job over minimum wage, writing a shitty blog on the side and believing that one day, a fairy fuck mother would descend and I would be free to live creatively, shag who I want and keep the lights on.

That ho, did not show.

And as the years unraveled it became painfully obvious that I would have to trust that stepping out and doing it for myself was best. My father died. While that was sad it meant that financially I was free. It started as a diary, funny post coital stories, mixed in with current gossip references. Then a friend got diagnosed with HIV.  It became serious. I had small but firm following and was able to communicate that safe sex was the best sex. Yet still, something was missing.

I stalked my local funeral home until they gave me a two-week placement

I was freelancing to pay the bills. I tried reaching out to sex magazines, shops and industries to score a job in my chosen field. I’m a thorough bitch. After my father’s death, I became OBSESSED with it. I stalked my local funeral home until they gave me a two-week placement. Once I’d seen a body embalmed, I was over it. I had gathered my information and now wanted to move on.

This is how I felt about sex. I wanted to be in the industry but no one would let me in.

After a great sex session with my boyfriend at the time, it hit me like Chris did Rihanna.

I didn’t need to be in the sex industry. I AM the sex industry.

Of course it wasn’t that easy. I had to be sure that I was ok with the stigma, which comes with the job role, I was about to undertake. The thing with dirty laundry is that less people are interested if you hang it before they can get their mitts on it. So who needs to know, knows. Did my family and friends rebuke me? Quite the opposite.

I’m blessed to have family and friends who are fine with the fact that I’m the black sheep

‘You’re doing nothing different to a woman that has a one night stand for less than a Happy Meal.’  One frank-talking friend said as she munched her way through an expensive box of macaroons.

‘If only I was twenty years younger.’ A family member noted.

I’m blessed to have family and friends who are fine with the fact that I’m the black sheep. In fact, they encourage it because black is slimming. And yes, I said ‘blessed’ as in by ‘God’ Something that folk always find interesting is that I’m a practicing, churchgoing, Christian, who just happens to have for sex for money.

I know.

Sometimes I mind fuck myself.

But never for free.

I am a prostitute, and over the next few weeks you will be my Priest and I will do a lot of confessing.

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