Alongside my work, I sometimes write about sex work, intimacy, and the politics of desire. These texts are personal reflections, not explanations or defenses.
They exist for those who wish to read more closely.
The Most Immoral Profession
There is no neutral body.
These bodies, the ones you look at, work, enjoy, care, negotiate, resist.
They dress and undress not only for the desire of others, but to reclaim the gaze.
They know the edge, the contract, the stigma.
They also know the game, the persona, the ritual.
Sex work is uncomfortable.
It unsettles because it dismantles morality, redraws the map of desire, and refuses to behave. It’s uncomfortable because it exists, because it insists, because it doesn’t ask for permission or forgiveness.
Sometimes it’s about sex. Other times it’s about talking.
Insulting, hitting, shitting, caressing, advising, pampering, listening.
Sometimes it’s playing the goddess, the bitch, the girlfriend, the therapist, the intellectual.
Sometimes it’s acting and believing it. Sometimes it’s not.
It’s stepping into a character and stepping out again.
It’s living a double life, and sometimes not even that.
It’s collecting stories, rituals, bodies.
It’s earning a lot of money in a short time.
But it’s also care.
It’s setting limits.
It’s confronting stigma again and again, even when it’s exhausting.
It’s sometimes babysitting men who need constant attention.
It’s tolerating the occasional idiot and putting him in his place.
It’s dealing with unsolicited questions and patronising opinions.
It’s explaining and defending your work, even when you don’t feel like it.
It is playing with immorality.
This Is Also Work
Some people wake up early to sit in an office. Others put on latex, light a scented candle, and teach someone, with or without a leash, how to ask for permission to come. Work is work.
The problem isn’t the whip. The problem is judgment. Stigma. That social obsession with telling others what to do with their bodies, their time, and their desires. And the question underneath it all, as uncomfortable as a wet sock: why do we still believe that pleasure, once paid for, stops being legitimate?
The idea that sex work is immoral or that it doesn’t exist lives alongside a strange paradox. There is hardly any other profession so carefully self-regulated. There are rules, and many of them. Codes, support networks, ban lists, negotiated boundaries, even emotional agreements. Meanwhile, the State looks the other way. While legislation claims a “gender perspective,” there are people making a living by touching those who have never been touched with care.
Sex work throws every framework into crisis. It doesn’t fit the fantasy of romantic love, nor the logic of conventional capitalist production, nor the manuals of institutional feminism. It is something else. It is desire professionalised. Intimacy as a business. Economics, politics, the body, and contradiction all at once.
This is not about romanticising it or condemning it. It’s about listening. About accepting it as part of the real world. About recognising that what truly unsettles us is not sex itself, but the fact that a woman, or a dissident body, charges for it, controls it, organises it, and says: this is mine too. This is also work.
Lila Love 