I’ve been one of the escorts in London for ten years now, and I can honestly say I’ve loved just about every minute of it. That still surprises me sometimes, because I came into this line of work quite late in life and from a place of real uncertainty. I was forty‑two before I finally allowed myself to even consider escorting, never mind actually going for it. For two decades, I’d played the part of the dutiful little housewife, putting my husband and home first, quietly shelving my own ambitions and desires because that was what I thought a “good wife” did. When the marriage broke down after twenty years, I found myself standing in the ruins of a life I no longer recognised as mine.
There’s a particular kind of shock that comes with suddenly realising you have to start again in middle age. I didn’t have a glittering career to fall back on, no tidy savings account waiting to cushion the blow. What I did have was a sharp mind, a reasonably good education, an instinctive understanding of people, and a body that—while no longer twenty—was still attractive, still capable of turning heads when I walked into a room. I also had needs of my own for the first time: the need to be independent, to be seen, to be valued for who I am rather than just for what I do for others. “Needs must,” as the saying goes, and the more I read and thought about escorting, the more it felt less like a last resort and more like an unexpected opportunity.
That doesn’t mean I wasn’t terrified at the start. I remember my very first booking vividly. My hands shook as I did my hair, and I changed my dress three times before I was satisfied that I looked elegant but not desperate, sensual but not cheap. On the way to the hotel, my heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat. I kept asking myself if I was mad, if this was some impulsive act I’d come to regret. But beneath the fear there was a quiet, stubborn excitement: a sense that, for the first time in decades, I was choosing something for myself.
A World of Glitter and Culture
My early days as an escort were a baptism of fire and glitter. Almost overnight, my world expanded. I began dining in restaurants I’d only ever seen in the glossy pages of Harpers & Queen and Vogue, places with starched white tablecloths, wine lists the size of novels, and waiters who glided rather than walked. I remember sitting beneath chandeliers worth more than my former house, tasting dishes with names I could barely pronounce, and thinking, Is this really my life now? The contrast with the frozen lasagnas and rushed midweek meals of my married years was almost comical.
Then there were the invitations—glittering opening ceremonies for galleries and hotels, champagne receptions on rooftops with views over the Thames, charity balls where the men wore tuxedos and the women shimmered in floor‑length gowns. I’d stand in front of vast, abstract canvases with a glass of vintage champagne in hand, listening to my companion explain why this particular splash of colour was genius, and feel a little thrill that I was being paid to be there, to share those moments.
Over the years, I’ve seen most of the operas and a great many theatre productions in my part of town. I’ve sat high up in velvety red seats, leaning over balconies to watch sopranos launch their voices into the rafters, and I’ve perched in intimate little playhouses where the actors were close enough for me to see the sweat on their brows. Some nights have been weighty and serious—three hours of tragedy that left me wrung out and thoughtful—while others have been light and wickedly funny, the kind of shows that make you laugh so hard your mascara threatens to run.
Companionship Beyond the Surface
But the venues and performances, as memorable as they are, aren’t the best part of what I do. What I cherish most is having a charming and interesting companion by my side at all of these engagements. My role isn’t just to decorate a man’s arm; it’s to help create a little world for a few hours where he can breathe, relax, and forget the pressures waiting outside. When we first meet, there are always nerves—his as much as mine. There’s that slightly stilted small talk, the careful gauging of each other’s mood and boundaries. Yet very often, within an hour or so, those early jitters melt away. We’re both caught up in whatever we’re doing: the food, the music, the conversation, the quiet intimacy of shared glances across a table.
More often than not, by the end of the evening, I find myself genuinely having fun. We’ll be laughing about something absurd we’ve just seen on stage, or debating the merits of a particular wine, or swapping stories about the most embarrassing things that have ever happened to us. In those moments, I almost forget that there’s a clock ticking somewhere in the background, marking the time until we say goodbye. When the evening ends and I step back into a taxi or walk alone through the night air towards home, there’s often a little pang—a reluctance to let go of the pleasant bubble we’ve created together.
Building a Regular Clientele
After ten years, I’ve become one of the reasonably successful escorts in London. That’s not just about money or appearances; it’s about having built a steady, reliable base of clients who genuinely value my company. These days, I probably see around twenty clients a week. That may sound like a lot, but more than half of them are regular gents—men I’ve known for years, even if I don’t see them every single week. With those men, there’s an ease and familiarity that’s hard to describe to someone outside this world. We remember each other’s favourite drinks, which topics are off‑limits, and the stories that make each other laugh. There’s a shorthand that comes from years of shared evenings and private conversations.
One of the most striking things, especially for those who only know this industry through stereotypes, is how courteous my clients are. All of them are over thirty, and most are firmly established in their careers—businessmen, executives, professionals with far more responsibility than time. They are, almost without exception, extremely chivalrous and charming. Doors are held open for me. Chairs are pulled out. Compliments are given with a thoughtfulness that feels genuinely appreciative rather than leering or possessive. They ask about my day. They remember when I mentioned being worried about a friend or excited about an exhibition, and they follow up.
People sometimes ask if I’m just very picky with my clients, as if that’s the only explanation for the kindness I encounter. The truth is more nuanced. Of course, I exercise judgment—I have boundaries, and I listen to my intuition—but in my experience, most escorts do. We look after ourselves, and we work with agencies or systems that help us stay as safe as possible. The real secret is simply that there are a lot of lovely clients out there, many of them nothing like the caricatures people imagine.
What Clients Really Want
So many of my gentlemen are, at heart, lonely. They’re men who spend their days steering companies, managing staff, dealing with numbers, deadlines, and decisions that affect hundreds of people. By the time they get to me, what they want isn’t someone to dazzle them with drama or perfection. They want someone who will look them in the eye and really listen, who will laugh at their jokes, who will touch their arm and remind them they’re more than their job title. They want a space where they can be a bit softer, a bit more vulnerable, without being judged or burdening anyone in their personal life.
On the surface, it might seem like they’re paying for glamour: the dress, the perfume, the high heels, the way I can hold a conversation about art, politics, or the latest restaurant openings. But underneath, what they’re really paying for is to feel seen and appreciated. They want to be pampered a little—nothing extravagant, just small gestures: a warm smile when they walk in, a genuine compliment on their tie, a hand resting lightly on their knee when they’re telling a difficult story. They want to be reminded that they’re not just a cog in some vast corporate machine, but a worthwhile, interesting, attractive human being.
And truly, that isn’t a lot to ask. To sit with another person and show them care and attention, to create a few hours where they can step outside their usual roles and remember who they are beneath all the expectations—that feels, to me, like meaningful work. It’s not conventional, and it certainly isn’t for everyone, but for me, after a life of putting myself last, it has been unexpectedly healing. In helping these men feel valued, I’ve learned to value myself too.
