They told me I’d end up dead or in prison. Not both, but one was guaranteed. I was 19, broke, and living in a studio flat in Montmartre with no heat and a roommate who stole my socks. That’s when I started doing sexe escort paris. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to. I didn’t know it then, but that decision didn’t just pay my rent-it rewrote my entire life.
I didn’t call myself an escort girl paris. at first. I called myself a ‘companion.’ That word felt safer, like it hid the truth behind velvet curtains. But truth doesn’t stay hidden when you’re sleeping on a mattress you bought from a flea market and eating canned beans for dinner. I learned quickly that clients weren’t all monsters. Some were lonely professors who just wanted someone to talk to about Nietzsche. Others were tired dads who missed their kids. One man brought me a copy of Proust in French and asked if I’d read it. I hadn’t. He sat with me for three hours while I read the first page out loud. He paid me €200. I bought a coat with it.
There were bad days. Of course there were. One client showed up drunk and angry, screaming about how I looked like his ex-wife. I didn’t cry. I just told him to leave. He did. I called the police the next day-not because I was scared, but because I realized I deserved better than silence. That was the day I started keeping a log: names, times, locations, what happened. Not for legal reasons. For me. So I could see the pattern. So I could remember I was still in control.
How I Built Something From Nothing
I didn’t start with a website. I didn’t have a marketing budget. I had a phone, a burner SIM, and a friend who knew how to make a basic website on Wix. I didn’t even know what SEO meant. I just wrote down what I could offer: conversation, discretion, no pressure. I didn’t advertise on backstreet boards. I didn’t post photos. I didn’t need to. Word spread. Not because I was beautiful-though people said I was-but because I showed up. On time. Calm. Honest.
By year two, I had regulars. Not because they wanted sex. Because they wanted peace. One woman, 68, came every Tuesday. She’d bring tea and biscuits. We talked about her late husband, her garden, the fact that her children never called. She never touched me. Just sat. Sometimes for two hours. She left me €150 every time. I saved every euro. By the end of that year, I had enough to move out of Montmartre and into a real apartment with a window that let in sunlight.
The Moment Everything Changed
I didn’t quit because I got rich. I quit because I got bored.
One day, I realized I hadn’t laughed in weeks. Not the kind of laugh that makes your stomach hurt. Just the quiet, tired kind that comes after pretending to be interested in someone else’s life for the hundredth time. I started asking myself: Is this who I am now? Or is this just what I did to survive?
I sold my phone. I closed the website. I enrolled in night classes for psychology. Took a job as a receptionist at a small clinic. My boss asked why I’d left the escort world. I told her I’d done what I needed to do. She nodded. Said, ‘Some people build empires. Others just build themselves.’
Now, I work in therapy. I help people who’ve been through trauma. I don’t tell them I used to be an escort girl paris. I don’t have to. They see it in my eyes. They know I’ve been where they are. And that’s enough.
What No One Tells You About This Work
People think it’s about sex. It’s not. It’s about presence. About being the one person in a room who doesn’t judge, doesn’t ask for more, doesn’t leave. That’s the real currency. Not money. Not looks. Not youth. Presence.
Most clients aren’t looking for a fantasy. They’re looking for a mirror that doesn’t crack. They want to feel seen. And if you can give them that-even for an hour-you’ve given them something most of the world refuses to offer.
But here’s the thing: you can’t give that forever without losing yourself. I saw women who stayed too long. Who started believing the roles they played. Who forgot their own names. That’s the danger. Not the danger of the job. The danger of forgetting who you are when no one’s paying you to be someone else.
Why I Laugh Now
I laugh because I made it. Not because I became famous. Not because I got rich. But because I didn’t let the work define me. I used it. I learned from it. I walked away when it stopped serving me.
People ask if I regret it. I say no. I don’t regret the nights. I regret the times I thought I wasn’t worthy of more. That’s the real trap-not the job, but the shame people try to stick to you. I carried that shame for years. I carried it like a second skin.
Now, when I hear someone say ‘prostitute’ or ‘whore,’ I don’t flinch. I just think: That’s not who they were. That’s just what they did. And that’s not the whole story.
There’s a woman in my therapy group right now. She’s 22. She’s working as a sex escort paris. She doesn’t say it out loud. But I see it in her hands. The way she holds her coffee. The way she won’t look anyone in the eye. I don’t say anything. I just sit with her. And when she’s ready, I’ll tell her my story. Not to impress her. Not to make her feel better. But to remind her: You’re not your job. You’re not your past. You’re not what they paid you for.
What You Should Know Before You Start
- You don’t need to be beautiful. You need to be steady.
- You don’t need to say yes to everything. You need to know your limits-and stick to them.
- You need a system. A log. A trusted friend. A way out.
- You need to separate your identity from your income. If you can’t do that, you’ll lose yourself.
- It’s not glamorous. It’s not romantic. It’s work. Hard, lonely, sometimes dangerous work. And if you’re doing it, you deserve respect-not pity.
I didn’t have any of those things when I started. I learned them the hard way. But I learned them.
It’s Not About the Money
People think sex work is about the cash. It’s not. It’s about the silence. The quiet moments when someone finally lets down their guard. The way a man will cry because you didn’t flinch when he said, ‘I’m not good enough.’ The way a woman will whisper, ‘No one’s ever listened to me like this.’
That’s the real cost. Not the risk. Not the stigma. The weight of carrying other people’s brokenness. And if you’re not careful, you’ll start thinking it’s yours to carry.
I carry my own now. And I carry it well.
Final Thought
I don’t miss the work. But I miss the clarity it gave me. When you’re doing something most people won’t talk about, you learn who you really are. You learn what you’ll tolerate. What you won’t. What you’ll fight for. What you’ll walk away from.
Today, I sit in my office in Birmingham. The rain taps against the window. My therapist’s license hangs on the wall. I don’t tell my clients my story. But sometimes, when they’re quiet too long, I say, ‘I’ve been where you are.’
And they look at me like I’ve handed them a key.
They don’t know it yet. But they’re not alone.