I am proud of elements of myself that I do not share on my profile. Everyone has a right to privacy— Something that government spies, sex workers and clients have in common is the need for discretion.

 insert laugh track

When I invite a client into my home, one aspect of my life I prefer not to discuss is that I am a mother. I do not mention it unless scheduling conflicts require explanation. My family life and work life are separate.

Not due to shame. My proudest and most terrifying moment was finding out I was pregnant. I became repulsed by garlic—which I normally put in everything—and gin and tonics made me retch. The most precious moment: giving birth after 30 grueling hours to cradle a tiny, soft being whose cries silenced as soon as they felt my arms.

Being a mother is profoundly special to me.

But a mother is who I am. Sex work is what I do.

When I invite someone to my home, I do not hide my child's shoes, their pint-sized clothes on the drying rack, nor the abstract drawings they made for me. Baby pictures hang on the wall. Their tiny bike leans outside the front door.

This brings me to today.

I invited a client to my home. I vetted him: 11% ignore rate, one verification check, 11 profiles contacted before mine. No reviews. I asked for a small voucher to build mutual trust. He obliged. I sent a date request so we could leave reviews. He did not accept it.

The red flags were waving like the white flag at Appomattox.

He asked to come 30 minutes later, then another 10. The man arrived. He took off his shoes, walked in, and stared at me.

I smiled professionally to break the tension. I have a knack for putting timid clients at ease.

He asked to use the bathroom. I directed him there.

When he came out, I smiled and asked what he wanted for our session. He responded: "I will go. I feel uncomfortable."

"Oh.. okay.. why?"

He pointed to my child's drawings. "Because it is clear that a child lives here and that makes me feel uncomfortable."

I looked at him, stunned. My mind raced: does he feel deceived? Am I deceptive? Wait—why am I feeling apologetic? This is MY home. I am allowed to have a child.

Above me hung a cast of my pregnant belly—an art piece my child and I painted together. I looked to the hallway and saw framed ultrasound photos.

All of this in seconds.

He reached into his pocket and placed 20 euros in my hands. Then left.

I said with exasperation, "Well have a nice day."

I had never experienced this in my life, let alone as a sex worker. I took hours to process it. I spoke to friends. I walked through my house seeing how unapologetically my child's objects were displayed.

I even spoke to my "emotional carport client." He responded: "When I found out you had a kid I just thought, wow I fucked that hot milf."

crickets

Listen.. he's my "emotional labor king" but.. sigh he's still a man.

insert laugh track

For me, his rejection was deeper than sex. It was an assessment of my worth—not as a provider, but as a woman—based on one of the most priceless things I have ever done.

Being a mother is why I can hold space, affection and care for my clients in a way that goes beyond a sexual service. I listen. I hold them. For the short moments they are with me, I make them feel truly cared for.

This is precisely why, after nearly 50 reviewed dates I still maintain a 5 star rating.

A question that began to marinate: is the male ego so fragile that a woman who has given birth is no longer considered sexually viable, valuable or worthy?

I don't care to ponder that any further.

But let me be clear: my home is not only a sanctuary for myself. It is a sanctuary for one of the most precious gifts the universe has blessed me with. If you choose to enter it, approach it—and me—with respect. With reverence.