The Escort Kind of Holiday

A friend asked me last week, “So, do you ever take a holiday from the fabled Escorts business?”

I could tell from her tone exactly what she meant: a proper holiday, the kind that comes with an out‑of‑office reply and two weeks of sunburn on the Spanish coast. A little villa, kids shrieking in the pool, a sad buffet, that sort of thing. I shook my head and said, “No.”

Her face softened into this mixture of pity and concern, as if I’d just confessed to never having seen the sea. She murmured something about burnout and self‑care. I just smiled to myself. Little does she know.

The Luxury of Choosing My Own Time

In case you didn’t already guess, my job means I dictate my own time and hours. I don’t see an HR department monitoring my annual leave, and there’s no shared calendar people can peer into. If I want a Tuesday off, I take a Tuesday off. If I want to disappear for forty‑eight hours, I simply stop answering my phone. Freedom, in my world, doesn’t come with a travel insurance policy.

So the other week, when London was doing that rare thing of turning into an oven — the sort of heat where the pavements radiate, the Tube feels like a mobile sauna, and even the pigeons look faint — I decided a mini break was in order. Not a major production, just a brief, delicious escape.

Escaping to Brighton

I threw a few essentials into an overnight bag: my favourite silk chemise, a soft T‑shirt that has seen better days but feels like a hug, a book I’d been pretending to read for months, sunscreen I would inevitably forget to reapply, and, of course, a matching underwear set. You never know when you might feel like being admired. Then I headed for the station.

The train to Brighton was blissfully quiet. Mid‑week, most sensible people were at their desks, wilting under strip lighting instead of actual sunshine. I took a window seat, kicked off my shoes, and watched the suburbs loosen their grip and fall away. Rows of terraced houses gave way to fields, then to that strange in‑between landscape of scrappy greenery and industrial estates, until finally there was a low, shimmering line of blue in the distance.

By the time I stepped off the train, the heat had mellowed into something softer, wrapped in sea air and the faint smell of frying. Brighton does that thing I love: it feels both slightly shabby and utterly alive. The streets tilt towards the water, gulls screech overhead, and there’s always someone stranger than you, which is comforting in its own way.

As it was mid‑week, the hordes weren’t out in force. No stag parties yet, no families dragging reluctant teenagers from arcade to arcade. Just scattered couples, a few sun‑seekers stretched out on the pebbles, locals moving at that particular unbothered coastal pace. I wandered through the Lanes, letting myself drift from one boutique to another.

Silk, Lace, and Dangerous Heels

I visited my favourite little lingerie shop first — the one with frosted windows, flattering lighting, and a sales assistant who looks like she has a PhD in seduction. She greeted me with a knowing smile, the kind reserved for repeat customers with vivid imaginations and a flexible budget. Within minutes, I was ensconced in a changing room, drowning in silk, lace, and temptation.

I stocked up on lots of gorgeous underwear: black lace that hinted more than it revealed, an indecently sheer bra that made even me raise an eyebrow, and a deep red set that looked like sin stitched into fabric. I found an incredible pair of high heels as well — impossibly high, the kind that lengthen your legs and shorten your good intentions. The combination was sublime: a private little armour of satin, lace, and leather.

Shopping bags in hand, I made my way down to the seafront. The pebbles crunched underfoot as I picked my way to a deckchair, the kind that always feels on the verge of collapsing but miraculously never does. I bought fish and chips from a stall that smelt like every British childhood holiday rolled into one: vinegar, salt, and hot oil.

I sat there, shoes off, toes pressed into the warm stones, balancing the cardboard tray on my knees. The chips were too hot, the batter too crisp, and the seagulls entirely too hopeful. Grease smeared my fingers; the sea stretched out in front of me, silver and endless, the horizon a soft blur. People wandered past, couples arguing quietly, kids darting in and out of the shallows, someone walking a dog that clearly disapproved of water. I felt entirely anonymous and completely at home.

Now that was contentment.

Champagne and Boyish Bravado

Later that evening, after I’d showered off the salt and sweat of the day, I slipped into one of my new sets and my freshly acquired heels. Not for anyone else — just for me. There’s a particular kind of confidence that comes from knowing you look obscene under perfectly respectable clothes.

I found a cosy bar tucked away on a side street, all mismatched chairs and candles melted down to stumps. I ordered a glass of something cold and white and settled in at the bar, half‑listening to the gentle hum of conversations, half‑lost in my own pleasantly idle thoughts.

That’s when they descended: a rather sweet group of young men, clearly several drinks into celebrating one of their number’s 21st birthday. You could smell the boyish bravado from across the room — aftershave, cheap lager, and the faint whiff of panic that comes with trying to impress women in the wild.

They hovered first, then one of them plucked up the courage to approach, all charm and nerves. I batted off their attentions with practised ease: a smile here, a deflection there, making it clear I was flattered but not available. They were endearingly clumsy in their attempts at flirting, all half‑remembered lines and exaggerated laughter.

I did, however, allow them to buy me a glass of champagne. A girl needs standards, after all, and there’s no reason good champagne should go to waste just because I’m not taking anyone home.

Three Days to Reset

By day three, the novelty had worn off. The sea was still beautiful, the shops still tempting, but I could feel the faint tug of my other life — my real life — calling me back. Freedom is delicious, but so is the familiar rhythm of my London Agency Escort existence. So I checked out of my little hotel, slung my bag over my shoulder, and headed for the train.

London welcomed me back with its usual mix of noise, impatience, and possibility. That evening, I had a booking with a regular client, someone I know well enough to read like a book.

He arrived freshly returned from a two‑week family holiday on the Spanish coast, the very kind my friend had in mind. On paper, he’d had the dream break: flights, beachfront hotel, kids’ club, all‑inclusive wristbands. In reality, he looked utterly frazzled. Sun‑tanned, yes, but with that tightness around his eyes that comes from too much togetherness and too little actual rest.

By contrast, I was as relaxed as it’s possible to be without actually lying down — although we did do a bit of that later. I could feel the difference in our energies the moment he walked in: his buzzing with residual stress and obligation, mine soft and lazy, like a cat in a patch of sunlight.

As the evening went on, I watched those little knots of tension start to seep out of him. It’s in the way a man’s shoulders drop, the way his laugh loosens, the way he stops checking his phone every five minutes. A proper unwind has nothing to do with location and everything to do with being allowed, for a few hours, to just be.

Two Very Different Holidays

“I tried to get you earlier in the week,” he said later, his gaze lingering appreciatively on the underwear/stiletto combo that Brighton had so kindly provided. “But you weren’t available?”

“Busy, busy,” I replied lightly, letting the words hang between us with just enough mystery. My holiday and his holiday were two very different entities; his dictated by obligation, expectation, and the tyranny of school holidays, and mine only by hedonism, impulse, and the weather forecast.

I didn’t want to make him jealous — that wasn’t the point. But as he relaxed against the pillows, sun‑tired and finally unwinding, I couldn’t help the small, private smile that curved at the corner of my mouth. He had been away for two weeks and came back exhausted. I had escaped for three days and returned utterly restored.

Some holidays come with plane tickets and family photos. Mine comes with a train ticket, a deckchair, and a very good pair of heels. And between the two of us, I know which version of rest I’d choose every time.