Beverley
Gold Member
Disclaimer : I Love my job Mrs Langtrees 
Alright, hear me out before you clutch your pearls and your oat milk latte.
I’m not saying I want to be a sex worker. I’m just saying I sometimes, while doom-scrolling through work emails and reheating my depression pasta, I think…
“Damn, maybe I chose the wrong hustle.”
Let’s compare, shall we?
While I’m out here drowning in Slack notifications and existential dread, somewhere, a gorgeous woman is making rent — and then some — by doing what I pretend to enjoy after two glasses of wine and a “babe, I’ve got a headache” escape plan.
She’s moaning her way to financial freedom.
I’m moaning my way through Excel spreadsheets.
Life is a joke, and I’m clearly the punchline.
The Dress Code Dilemma
Me: Office Wear that smells like despair.
Her: Silk robe, heels, and confidence.
She gets paid to undress.
I get an HR warning for showing shoulder.
Honestly, who’s the professional here?
Workplace Perks
Her clients bring wine, compliments, and cash.
Mine bring unsolicited opinions about “team synergy.”
She gets aftercare and boundaries.
I get burnout and Brad from accounting asking why I don’t “smile more.”
She’s got a panic button for safety.
I’ve got a “team-building” Zoom call that’s the real cry for help.
Emotional Labour Olympics
Sex workers get paid for listening, soothing, and pretending to care.
I do it for free, like a discount therapist with anxiety.
I give mine away for free like a sad Oprah of emotional support.
“You get advice, you get validation, you get unpaid therapy!”
Meanwhile, she’s counting hundreds, I’m counting calories and bad decisions.
The Myth of Respectability
Society: “Sex work is degrading.”
Also society: “But make sure your nails, hair, body, and vibes are perfect at all times, Karen.”
She counts cash.
I count calories and regrets.
So let me get this straight — we all sell something, but only one of us gets called a slut for doing it honestly?
Make it make sense.
The Freedom Fantasy
She clocks out when she wants.
I clock in at emotional rock bottom.
She fakes orgasms with purpose and gets paid for it.
I fake it looking at the ceiling wondering how many more bills I have to pay or if I dried out the clothes in the washing machine while he turns over and gives the chain saw a run for its money.
If there’s a heaven, it’s probably just full of escorts drinking Prosecco and laughing at all of us still sending “per my last email.”
Closing Thoughts from Your Envious Civilian
Maybe I don’t envy the work itself — it’s hard, it’s risky, it’s misunderstood.
But I envy the clarity. The no-bullshit energy.
The “this is what I offer, and here’s the price.”
Imagine applying that to every damn area of life.
Dinner with in-laws? $200.
Listening to your friend’s boyfriend drama again? $150 plus emotional damages.
Answering emails past 6pm? Double time, bitch.
Honestly, if we all took a page from their playbook, the world would be a lot saner — and a hell of a lot sexier.
So here’s to the women who charge what they’re worth.
And to the rest of us?
Well… we’re just underpaid in different positions.
Here’s to the women who charge what they’re worth — and to the rest of us, still getting f**ked by capitalism.
Alright, hear me out before you clutch your pearls and your oat milk latte.
I’m not saying I want to be a sex worker. I’m just saying I sometimes, while doom-scrolling through work emails and reheating my depression pasta, I think…
“Damn, maybe I chose the wrong hustle.”
Let’s compare, shall we?
While I’m out here drowning in Slack notifications and existential dread, somewhere, a gorgeous woman is making rent — and then some — by doing what I pretend to enjoy after two glasses of wine and a “babe, I’ve got a headache” escape plan.
She’s moaning her way to financial freedom.
I’m moaning my way through Excel spreadsheets.
Life is a joke, and I’m clearly the punchline.
The Dress Code Dilemma
Me: Office Wear that smells like despair.
Her: Silk robe, heels, and confidence.
She gets paid to undress.
I get an HR warning for showing shoulder.
Honestly, who’s the professional here?
Workplace Perks
Her clients bring wine, compliments, and cash.
Mine bring unsolicited opinions about “team synergy.”
She gets aftercare and boundaries.
I get burnout and Brad from accounting asking why I don’t “smile more.”
She’s got a panic button for safety.
I’ve got a “team-building” Zoom call that’s the real cry for help.
Emotional Labour Olympics
Sex workers get paid for listening, soothing, and pretending to care.
I do it for free, like a discount therapist with anxiety.
I give mine away for free like a sad Oprah of emotional support.
“You get advice, you get validation, you get unpaid therapy!”
Meanwhile, she’s counting hundreds, I’m counting calories and bad decisions.
The Myth of Respectability
Society: “Sex work is degrading.”
Also society: “But make sure your nails, hair, body, and vibes are perfect at all times, Karen.”
She counts cash.
I count calories and regrets.
So let me get this straight — we all sell something, but only one of us gets called a slut for doing it honestly?
Make it make sense.
The Freedom Fantasy
She clocks out when she wants.
I clock in at emotional rock bottom.
She fakes orgasms with purpose and gets paid for it.
I fake it looking at the ceiling wondering how many more bills I have to pay or if I dried out the clothes in the washing machine while he turns over and gives the chain saw a run for its money.
If there’s a heaven, it’s probably just full of escorts drinking Prosecco and laughing at all of us still sending “per my last email.”
Closing Thoughts from Your Envious Civilian
Maybe I don’t envy the work itself — it’s hard, it’s risky, it’s misunderstood.
But I envy the clarity. The no-bullshit energy.
The “this is what I offer, and here’s the price.”
Imagine applying that to every damn area of life.
Dinner with in-laws? $200.
Listening to your friend’s boyfriend drama again? $150 plus emotional damages.
Answering emails past 6pm? Double time, bitch.
Honestly, if we all took a page from their playbook, the world would be a lot saner — and a hell of a lot sexier.
So here’s to the women who charge what they’re worth.
And to the rest of us?
Well… we’re just underpaid in different positions.
Here’s to the women who charge what they’re worth — and to the rest of us, still getting f**ked by capitalism.
