My very first client came along when I was working with a top Escort Agency in the city centre. It was a smart, discreet sort of place: thick carpets that muffled the sound of heels, low lighting that made everyone look a little more interesting, and a receptionist who always spoke in a whisper, as though secrets might shatter if she raised her voice. It was a fine place to work; professional, organised, and relatively safe. The only downside was that they didn’t charge very much, seeing as many of the girls were just starting out in the profession and the agency liked to market us as an “affordable luxury”.
Were we wet behind the ears? Maybe a little. A lot of us had only the vaguest idea of what to expect beyond the stories we traded in the break room – anecdotes passed down from the more experienced women, half warning and half brag. We practised our smiles, our small talk, even our exits in the bathroom mirror. But inexperience has a way of burning off quickly in this line of work. We soon made up for our lack of practice, learned when to flirt and when to pull back, and before long, many of us had moved on to better gigs with higher fees and more selective client lists.
Meeting the French Gentleman
Still, you always remember your first time, don’t you? That combination of fear, anticipation, and that strange sense that you’re stepping over an invisible line. Mine was with a gentleman from France. He must have been in his mid-forties: slim, dark-haired, and immaculately dressed in a charcoal suit that looked tailored rather than off-the-rack. He wore a subtle cologne that reminded me of cedarwood and citrus, and he had that effortless European way of holding himself, as if he’d been born in a good restaurant under low chandeliers.
He was attentive in the old-fashioned sense of the word. He stood up when I entered the room, pulled out my chair, and asked how my evening had been so far, as though we were on an ordinary date rather than a paid arrangement. He was kind, actually. I could tell he’d clocked my nerves within seconds – the slightly stiff smile, the way I kept adjusting my dress, the way my fingers toyed with the stem of the wine glass. He did his best not to appear too dominant or insistent. Instead of launching into compliments or innuendo, he asked me about the city, about my favourite restaurants, about whether I preferred red or white wine.
Easing Into the Night
We chatted for ages. He told me about his home near Lyon, about his work in finance, about the daughter who wanted to study art instead of economics and how secretly he was proud of her for it. I relaxed bit by bit, almost without realising it. My laughter started to come more easily, my shoulders dropped, and I stopped worrying about what I should say next. Conversation became natural, almost enjoyable, and for a little while, I forgot I was being paid at all.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur – but a good one, hazy at the edges like a memory seen through gauze. There were soft touches and careful kisses, nothing rushed or greedy. He checked in with me often, with questions that were gentle rather than clinical: “Are you comfortable?”, “Is this alright?” The nervousness I’d carried in with me slowly melted away, replaced by a quiet sense of competence, a feeling that maybe I actually knew what I was doing after all. And then, almost before I could register it, the night was over. I could hardly believe how quickly it had gone.
At the door, there were kisses – not just a perfunctory brush of lips, but several, warm and unhurried. He took my hand in his, thanked me for the evening, and promised he’d be back in touch. For a brief moment, as the lift doors closed between us, I wondered if he meant it. Of course, he never did call again, but I’ve come to understand that this is quite common. Men get caught up in the moment, in the fantasy and the closeness, and they let their mouths make promises their day-to-day lives have no intention of keeping. When reality hits them the next morning – wives, children, meetings, the weight of their own guilt – they tend to shy away.
Lessons in Detachment
Not that I was complaining. Quite the opposite, actually. Before I started, I’d heard endless stories from the older girls about clients who confused what we offered with something deeper: men who fell in love, or at least convinced themselves they had; men who sent long, anguished emails; men who waited outside the agency in their cars just in case they “happened” to see their favourite girl leaving. The way they told it, the whole business could get too messy for words if you weren’t careful.
It’s something I’ve learned over time: how to keep a detached distance so that strong emotions don’t start leaking into places they don’t belong. You develop an inner partition. On one side, there’s warmth, charm, laughter, and a genuine desire to make someone feel good. On the other hand, there’s the part of you that stays cool and observant, that remembers why you’re there and what the arrangement truly is. Passion is fine – passion is great, in fact. It’s part of the service, part of the performance. Love, though – love is a complication, and complications cost more than they’re worth.
Growing Into the Role
Anyway, after that night and my inauguration into the world of escorting, the weeks and months that followed sped past. Not so fast that clients blurred into a single faceless mass – I could still distinguish them: the nervous solicitor, the overconfident tech entrepreneur, the lonely widower who only wanted to talk. What changed wasn’t them; it was me. I stopped lying awake afterwards, wondering if I’d done well enough, if I’d said the right things, if I’d been worth the envelope of notes at the end of the evening.
Gradually, I stopped worrying about my capability. I learned my pace, my strengths, my boundaries. I knew how to dress for each man before I’d even met him, just from the tone of his booking notes. I could sense within minutes whether he wanted conversation or quiet, whether he preferred to be led or to lead. And somewhere in the middle of all that, I started to enjoy myself.
There is a particular satisfaction in competence, in knowing you can take charge of a situation and guide it exactly where you want it to go. I might not have been in love, and I certainly wasn’t deluding myself that they were, but there was pleasure in the work all the same. And I know for a fact that my clients enjoyed themselves too – their smiles, their relaxed shoulders, and the way they walked a little lighter as they left were all the confirmation I needed.
