Escorts Have It Better: A Civilian’s Confession

[Beverley]

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.

 

[Eve Smith]

Absolutely brilliant — funny, sharp, and painfully true. We spend our days chasing deadlines and pretending to love our jobs, while others have the guts to own their worth and make it pay. Society loves to judge what it secretly envies. Here’s to every woman who sets her own price instead of letting the world decide her value.

 

[LongHair]

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.

Absolutley love it!!!!!
So, I wonder how this looks from the male perspective, the guy who visists a working lady compared to the day to day dealings with the "karens" in the workplace.

 

[Beverley]

Absolutley love it!!!!!
So, I wonder how this looks from the male perspective, the guy who visists a working lady compared to the day to day dealings with the "karens" in the workplace.

I will wait for the reply to this post from your perspective hun

 

[Mr G]

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.

Great little article

 

[Beverley]

Great little article

Thanks Hun... just typed my frustration away and envy of course

 

[Sally]

God, this post is pure sin wrapped in satire — and I’m so here for it.
You turned workplace despair into a striptease of wit and truth. Every line drips with that delicious mix of envy, honesty, and rebellion. Who knew Excel-induced moaning could sound so damn seductive? Here’s to silk robes, emotional invoices, and getting paid for the pleasure — not punished for the grind. Bravo, babe.

 

[Celeste_SJ]

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.

LOL, I love this.... and it is great to see some support coming from an understanding, compassionate and funny civilian. Langtrees welcomes suitable new ladies, if you ever want to make the jump from envious civilian to five star escort then give Langtrees a call!

 

[Beverley]

God, this post is pure sin wrapped in satire — and I’m so here for it.
You turned workplace despair into a striptease of wit and truth. Every line drips with that delicious mix of envy, honesty, and rebellion. Who knew Excel-induced moaning could sound so damn seductive? Here’s to silk robes, emotional invoices, and getting paid for the pleasure — not punished for the grind. Bravo, babe.

Thank you pretty one ... Although I hope I will still get my salary this month

 

[Beverley]

LOL, I love this.... and it is great to see some support coming from an understanding, compassionate and funny civilian. Langtrees welcomes suitable new ladies, if you ever want to make the jump from envious civilian to five star escort then give Langtrees a call!

Thanks beautiful... If I call langtrees.. il be the one picking up the call itself

 

[Celeste_SJ]

Thanks beautiful... If I call langtrees.. il be the one picking up the call itself

Good to know! Have a great night xxx

 

[Gobble_Doc]

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.

Can I come help you with your spreadsheets? I secretly love them. Did some amazing things with them over 35 years. Just all the other crap that came with jobs that got me down.
I could come in , do some guerrilla spreadsheeting and everyone could act like I’d never been there (“it was the spreadsheet fairy!”).
GD

 

[Master Yoda]

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.

This cracked me up and hurt a little, which usually means you’ve hit something true.

What you’re really circling, at least from where I’m sitting, isn’t “I wish I was a sex worker,” it’s:
“I wish my life was as honest about the transaction as theirs is.”

They say:

This is what I offer. This is the time. This is the price.
And the world still calls that degrading… while you’re out here doing emotional gymnastics, unpaid therapy and performance-level people-pleasing for a salary that doesn’t even cover the spiritual dry-cleaning.

The envy in your post sounds less like “I want their job” and more like:
“I want their boundaries. Their clarity. Their right to say, ‘If you want this part of me, it costs this much.’”

It makes me wonder — what would your life look like if you treated your time and emotional labour the way an escort treats her booking sheet?
• What’s on your “menu” that you’re currently giving away for free?
• What would count as “extras”?
• What’s completely off-limits, no matter how nicely someone asks?

You’ve already got the insight and the sense of humour about it. That’s half the work. The other half is quietly, stubbornly starting to live like your energy is billable… even when capitalism pretends it isn’t.

If you ever feel like unpacking that and turning it into something real, I’d be happy to listen. In a world that keeps fucking people for free, I think women who start charging properly for their sanity are the real revolution.

 

[Beverley]

Can I come help you with your spreadsheets? I secretly love them. Did some amazing things with them over 35 years. Just all the other crap that came with jobs that got me down.
I could come in , do some guerrilla spreadsheeting and everyone could act like I’d never been there (“it was the spreadsheet fairy!”).
GD

Deal! I’ll leave an offering of coffee and conditional formatting at my desk tonight — maybe the Spreadsheet Fairy will bless my formulas while I sleep.

 

[Beverley]

This cracked me up and hurt a little, which usually means you’ve hit something true.

What you’re really circling, at least from where I’m sitting, isn’t “I wish I was a sex worker,” it’s:
“I wish my life was as honest about the transaction as theirs is.”

They say:

This is what I offer. This is the time. This is the price.
And the world still calls that degrading… while you’re out here doing emotional gymnastics, unpaid therapy and performance-level people-pleasing for a salary that doesn’t even cover the spiritual dry-cleaning.

The envy in your post sounds less like “I want their job” and more like:
“I want their boundaries. Their clarity. Their right to say, ‘If you want this part of me, it costs this much.’”

It makes me wonder — what would your life look like if you treated your time and emotional labour the way an escort treats her booking sheet?
• What’s on your “menu” that you’re currently giving away for free?
• What would count as “extras”?
• What’s completely off-limits, no matter how nicely someone asks?

You’ve already got the insight and the sense of humour about it. That’s half the work. The other half is quietly, stubbornly starting to live like your energy is billable… even when capitalism pretends it isn’t.

If you ever feel like unpacking that and turning it into something real, I’d be happy to listen. In a world that keeps fucking people for free, I think women who start charging properly for their sanity are the real revolution.

Wow — that was brilliant, honestly. You just turned what could’ve been a throwaway thought into a masterclass on boundaries and self-worth. I felt that deep in my bones. You’re absolutely right — it’s not about wanting their job, it’s about wanting their unapologetic clarity. The permission to say, “this is what it costs to access my time, my heart, my peace.”
I think you just redefined “self-respect” in the most unfiltered, poetic way possible.
And yes — living like my energy is billable? That’s the new goal.
Thank you for that. That last line about women charging properly for their sanity? That’s going to stay with me for a while.

 

[Master Yoda]

Wow — that was brilliant, honestly. You just turned what could’ve been a throwaway thought into a masterclass on boundaries and self-worth. I felt that deep in my bones. You’re absolutely right — it’s not about wanting their job, it’s about wanting their unapologetic clarity. The permission to say, “this is what it costs to access my time, my heart, my peace.”
I think you just redefined “self-respect” in the most unfiltered, poetic way possible.
And yes — living like my energy is billable? That’s the new goal.
Thank you for that. That last line about women charging properly for their sanity? That’s going to stay with me for a while.

I’m really glad it landed with you.

The way I see it, everything I wrote was already in what you said — I just held up a mirror. You were already questioning why everyone praises “hustle” but flinches when a woman dares to put a clear price on her time, her care, her body, her sanity.

The world trains women to discount their own labour. Sex workers are just brutally honest about what the rest of us pretend isn’t there: nothing we give is free, it’s just either paid in money, energy, or pieces of ourselves.

“Living like my energy is billable” doesn’t mean turning life into an invoice; it just means this: before you say yes, quietly ask, does this honour me, or empty me? If it drains you and doesn’t nourish anything important, that’s something you’d never charge enough for anyway.

You write with a lot of clarity and fire already — I just nudged a few words into place. I’m really happy if any of this stays with you in a good way.

Take care of that energy. It’s worth more than most people know.

 

[Beverley]

I’m really glad it landed with you.

The way I see it, everything I wrote was already in what you said — I just held up a mirror. You were already questioning why everyone praises “hustle” but flinches when a woman dares to put a clear price on her time, her care, her body, her sanity.

The world trains women to discount their own labour. Sex workers are just brutally honest about what the rest of us pretend isn’t there: nothing we give is free, it’s just either paid in money, energy, or pieces of ourselves.

“Living like my energy is billable” doesn’t mean turning life into an invoice; it just means this: before you say yes, quietly ask, does this honour me, or empty me? If it drains you and doesn’t nourish anything important, that’s something you’d never charge enough for anyway.

You write with a lot of clarity and fire already — I just nudged a few words into place. I’m really happy if any of this stays with you in a good way.

Take care of that energy. It’s worth more than most people know.

That really hit me — especially that line, “does this honour me or empty me?” You put it perfectly. Thank you for reminding us to value our own energy the way we should. xx

 

[Phoebe]

Escorts Have It Better: A Civilian’s Confession..

I am going to go out on a limb... No other profession on earth can a woman have so many dress options including heels in her daily life, its amazing just how wonderful that could/must be, imagine taking out the day, but dressing for it.. what heels matches my mood, what dress/skirt/top combo suits and the most important things the lingerie/hosiery also to match her mood, the day, the season or the event/occasion that alone must be so great, the fun that would be, it would be so great to experience, the options/ combos are endless limited by the girls own imagination/style etc.

You walk in in a pair of leggings and top/runners and walk out of a change room dressed so beautifully, that to me is why Escorts have it better, especially when you can wear heels like these..

To all the escorts on here reading this thread, from my pov you are so lucky to enjoy the clothing side of this game, for that I am kinda envious not jealous/ but envious.