Confessions of a London Escort: Real Stories from the Industry

Most people think of London escorts as glamorous, mysterious, or dangerous. The truth? It’s just a job. A complicated, high-stakes, often lonely job that no one talks about openly. I’ve been doing this for over seven years. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to. And if you’re curious about what it’s really like behind the velvet curtains, here’s what no one tells you.

It’s Not What You See on TV

TV shows and movies make escorting look like luxury apartments, designer clothes, and champagne dates. Reality? I spent my first six months in a studio flat in Peckham with a leaky faucet and a mattress on the floor. My "client wardrobe"? Three blazers, two pairs of heels, and a black dress I bought off eBay for £18. No personal assistant. No security team. Just me, a phone, and a lot of anxiety.

Most clients aren’t billionaires. They’re accountants, teachers, truck drivers, and guys who just want to talk. One man came every Tuesday for six months. He never touched me. We watched old episodes of Doctor Who and talked about his divorce. He paid £120 and left me a handwritten note: "Thanks for not pretending you were someone else."

How It Actually Works

There’s no agency. Not the kind you see in movies. I work independently. I use a private messaging app, not a website. I screen every client before agreeing to meet. I ask for their full name, a photo of them holding a newspaper with today’s date, and a brief description of what they want. If it feels off, I say no. Always.

Payment is cash or bank transfer. No Venmo. No PayPal. I’ve had too many scams. I charge £150 for an hour, £250 for two. No discounts. No "first-time" deals. If you’re asking for a discount, you’re not my client.

I don’t do anything I’m not comfortable with. Ever. That’s non-negotiable. I’ve turned down jobs because someone asked for a foot rub. I’ve walked out because a client tried to record me. My boundaries aren’t flexible. They’re my only protection.

The Loneliness

People think this job is about connection. It’s not. It’s about performance. You smile. You listen. You laugh at the right moments. But you never let them in. You can’t.

I’ve had clients cry on my shoulder. I’ve held people who told me they hadn’t been hugged in years. I’ve had men confess they were afraid of dying alone. And then I’d clock out, take off my heels, and sit alone in my flat wondering if I’d ever feel real closeness again.

There’s no one to talk to. My family thinks I’m a receptionist. My friends think I’m "in marketing." I don’t tell anyone. Not because I’m ashamed. Because I know what happens when people find out. The looks. The whispers. The "I knew it" comments.

The Rules No One Talks About

There are unwritten rules in this world. And they’re strict.

• Never use your real name. Ever.
• Never show your face on social media. Not even in vacation photos.
• Never meet a client alone in their place. Always choose a neutral, public location first.
• Never accept a drink you didn’t open yourself.
• Always have a code word with a friend. If you text "The sky is blue," they call you immediately.
• Never work while drunk. Or high. Or tired. You’re not a machine. You’re a person.

I’ve had three close calls. One man followed me home. One tried to slip something into my drink. One called the police after I refused a second session. I had to change my number, my routine, my whole life. And I did it without crying.

The Money Isn’t the Point

I make between £3,000 and £5,000 a month. That’s more than most people I know. But I don’t spend it on luxury. I pay rent, I save for my daughter’s college fund, I pay for therapy. I have a savings account labeled "Escape Fund." It’s not for a house. It’s for a new life.

I don’t want to do this forever. I’m studying online for a degree in social work. I want to help women who got stuck like I did. But right now? This job pays for my freedom. And that’s worth more than any paycheck.

The Stigma

The worst part isn’t the danger. It’s the shame. People assume you’re broken. That you chose this because you’re desperate, immoral, or weak. I wasn’t. I was a single mom with a degree in literature. I worked two part-time jobs and still couldn’t afford childcare. I had one choice: work independently, or let my daughter grow up in a council flat with no heat and no future.

I’ve been called a prostitute. A hooker. A criminal. I’ve had strangers scream at me in the street. I’ve had landlords kick me out. I’ve had employers fire me after finding out. And yet-I’ve never felt more in control of my life.

There’s no hero here. No villain. Just a woman who made a hard decision and stuck with it. I don’t ask for pity. I don’t ask for applause. I just ask you to stop judging.

What People Get Wrong

People think escorts are all young, beautiful, and reckless. The truth? I’m 34. I have stretch marks. I hate my hair in the morning. I cry when I’m stressed. I have a cat named Winston. I binge-watch cooking shows. I love pancakes.

Most escorts aren’t in it for the thrill. They’re in it because they have no other options. Some are students. Some are single parents. Some are refugees. Some are just tired of being invisible.

And the ones who stay? They’re not victims. They’re survivors.

What You Should Know If You’re Thinking About It

If you’re considering this path-whether out of curiosity or desperation-here’s what I wish someone had told me:

1. Start slow. Test the waters with one client before committing.
2. Keep a separate bank account. Never mix personal and work money.
3. Learn your legal rights. In the UK, selling sex isn’t illegal. Soliciting, brothel-keeping, and pimping are. Know the difference.
4. Build a safety net. Have a friend, a therapist, a helpline. Keep their numbers saved.
5. Plan your exit. Even if you think you’ll never leave, have a goal. A degree. A business. A savings target. Something real.

This isn’t a lifestyle. It’s a survival strategy. And if you’re smart, you’ll treat it like one.

It’s Not a Secret Anymore

I’m not hiding anymore. Not because I want to. But because silence helped no one. There are hundreds of women like me in London. In Manchester. In Bristol. In every city where rent is high and wages are low.

We’re not monsters. We’re not broken. We’re just trying to survive. And if you’re reading this, maybe you’re one of them. Or maybe you know someone who is. Either way-don’t look away.