My friend Delia (she uses a different name professionally) and I both do some work for an Escort Agency. Sometimes we even work as a pair, because there’s a certain thrill for many men in having two very different women on their arm at once.
Complete Opposites
Delia is a complete physical contrast to me. She’s slim and wiry, all lean lines and quiet strength, with short dark hair that shows off her cheekbones and a warm, dark colouring that makes her look like she’s just come back from somewhere sunnier and more glamorous. When she walks into a room, she moves with this easy, feline grace; she doesn’t have to try to be noticed, people are just drawn to her.
I, on the other hand, am curvier and softer around the edges. I’ve got long blonde hair that falls down my back, blue eyes, and the kind of English rose colouring that makes people assume I grew up in some peaceful village rather than in the chaos I actually did. Next to Delia’s angular elegance, I look rounder, softer, brighter. Side by side, we’re like deliberate opposites: dark and light, sharp and soft, midnight and afternoon sun. You can see why we look good together, and why the Agency is always delighted to send us out as a duo.
Delia the Actress
Delia has another job outside the Agency. She’s an actress – a serious one, not the kind you’d recognise from glossy magazine spreads or supermarket tabloids. In fact, she’s such a good actress that if you did happen to see her in something, you probably wouldn’t realise it was her at all. That sounds strange, I know, but I’ve always thought that’s the mark of a truly great performer: someone who disappears so completely into a role that you only ever see the character, never the person underneath.
Most of Delia’s work is on the stage – small theatres, intense rehearsals, long nights, tiny dressing rooms with peeling paint and bad mirrors. It’s not steady work, though. The roles come in bursts: a few good months when she’s living on adrenaline, followed by long, uncertain stretches of waiting for the phone to ring. That’s where the escort work fits in. It fills the gaps between productions, the financial holes and the empty hours that theatre so generously provides.
Playing a Part
In a way, I suppose I do something similar, even though I’m not an actress in the formal sense. When I’m on a date with a client, I step into a version of myself that’s tailored around him. Before we meet, I try to find out as much as I can: What does he enjoy talking about? Is he into business, politics, football, art, or something more obscure? Does he want a night that feels light and silly, or something quieter and more reflective? What makes him feel seen, admired, and important?
Once I think I’ve got a sense of that, I settle into the part. I shape my conversation around his interests, and I follow his lead – sometimes gently nudging, sometimes just letting him talk. I match his energy: playful or serious, flirtatious or reserved. Whatever he wants to do with the evening, as long as it’s within reason, I’ll usually oblige. It’s a kind of emotional costume I put on: the perfect date, stitched together from hints and guesses and the way his face changes when he talks about the things he loves.
Ordinary Fantasies
You’d probably be surprised, though, at how ordinary some of these “fantasies” turn out to be. People imagine wild nights, champagne, grand gestures and drama, but a lot of clients don’t actually want that. They’re tired, or lonely, or simply overwhelmed by their own lives. They come to us not just for sex or glamour, but for a few hours in which they don’t have to carry everything alone.
Just the other week, for instance, I had a client through the Agency who confounded all the clichés. He’d booked me for the whole evening, and I’d prepared myself for the usual: dinner somewhere discreet, maybe a hotel bar, possibly dancing or at least a long, slow drink together. Instead, when I arrived, he told me he really wanted to go to a quiet pub, have a couple of drinks, and then go back to his room to watch TV.
I know – on paper it sounds like a complete waste of an evening, doesn’t it? You’d think, why pay for a companion just to sit on a sofa and stare at a screen? But he was in the city overnight on business, staying in a generic hotel that could have been anywhere. He didn’t know anyone here, had nothing to do, and nowhere he especially wanted to go. He confessed, almost shyly, that what he really missed was the feeling of just having someone next to him – the easy, half-distracted intimacy of an ordinary night in.
A Surprisingly Tender Night
So we went to the pub, one of those unremarkable places with sticky tables, unflattering lighting and a television humming in the corner. We chatted a little, about nothing especially memorable – work, the city, the football match that happened to be on the screen. After a while, we headed back to his room. He kicked off his shoes, loosened his tie, and turned on the TV. I curled up beside him on the bed, close enough that our shoulders touched, but not so close that it felt forced.
For most of the night, that was it. We watched whatever was on – some drama neither of us was really following, then some mindless late-night comedy. Every so often, he’d make a small comment or ask me something, and we’d chat for a few minutes before drifting back into silence. It was strangely peaceful. I’m not a big fan of pubs, and I don’t care much for television either, but I’ve definitely had worse evenings.
There was something oddly tender about it: two strangers sharing the kind of simple, domestic moment that most people take for granted. For him, I think, the luxury wasn’t in the extravagance of the night, but in the normality of it – in the feeling that, just for a few hours, he didn’t have to be the visiting executive in a faceless hotel room. He could just be a man at the end of a long day, with someone warm beside him while the TV murmured in the background.
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