When people ask me what sex work means to me, they’re usually expecting a story about desperation, exploitation, or liberation. I’ve heard them all. But here’s the truth: it means the same thing it’s always meant - survival with dignity. I didn’t choose it because I wanted to be a fantasy. I chose it because I needed to pay rent, feed my sister, and keep my asthma medication stocked. And yes, that includes nights I did erotic massage in dubai - not because I loved the heat of the room, but because the pay was three times what I made cleaning offices in Footscray.
People think sex work is a monolith. It’s not. One person’s job is another’s trauma. For some, it’s about control. For others, it’s about escape. I’ve done it all: street work, webcam gigs, escorting, and yes, private massage in dubai. Not because I craved the attention, but because the hours were flexible, the cash was immediate, and no one asked me for a degree or a reference. I never thought I’d be the kind of person who’d do this. But life doesn’t wait for you to feel ready.
It’s Not About Sex
The word "sex" in sex work is misleading. Most of what I did wasn’t sexual at all. It was emotional labor. Holding space. Listening. Making someone feel seen when they’d been ignored all week. I’ve sat with men who cried because their wives left them. I’ve held women who just wanted to be touched without being judged. One client, a retired teacher from Perth, came every Thursday for a foot rub and a chat about his late wife. He never asked for more. He just needed someone to remember her name. That wasn’t sex work. That was human work.
Even when I did tantra massage, it wasn’t about arousal. It was about rhythm. Breathing. Slowing down. The client paid for stillness - something they couldn’t find in their boardrooms or their marriages. I learned to read silence. To know when to press harder, when to pull back, when to offer water and not a word. That skill? It’s not taught in nursing school. It’s learned on the job, through repetition and exhaustion.
The Stigma Is the Real Danger
The biggest threat I’ve faced isn’t a violent client. It’s the way strangers look at me when I say what I do. The flinch. The silence. The sudden need to check their phone. I’ve been called a prostitute in front of my niece. I’ve had doctors refuse to treat me unless I "got help." I’ve been denied housing because a landlord found my old ad on a defunct site. The law doesn’t protect me. The system doesn’t see me. But I’m still here.
Legalization doesn’t fix everything - but decriminalization? That’s a start. In New Zealand, sex workers can report abuse without fear of arrest. In Victoria, we’re inching closer. But until society stops treating us like a problem to be cleaned up, we’ll keep hiding. And hiding makes us vulnerable.
Money Doesn’t Define Worth
I used to think if I made enough, I could buy my way out of shame. So I saved. Bought a car. Paid off my student debt. Moved into a flat with real windows. But the shame didn’t leave with the debt. It followed me like a shadow. It wasn’t until I started talking - really talking - that I began to heal.
I met other sex workers at a community center in Collingwood. We didn’t talk about clients or money. We talked about sleep. About the way the sun hits the kitchen at 7 a.m. About which grocery store has the cheapest milk. We were just people. And that’s what I want the world to see: not a label, not a fantasy, not a statistic. Just a person who works hard, makes mistakes, loves deeply, and deserves to be treated like one.
What I’ve Learned
Sex work taught me more about humanity than any university ever could. I’ve seen the loneliness behind power. The tenderness behind cruelty. The fear behind arrogance. I’ve held hands with CEOs and ex-cons, priests and poets. Everyone wants the same thing: to be touched, to be heard, to be real.
I don’t miss the work. But I miss the clarity it gave me. There’s no illusion in sex work. You know exactly what you’re selling. No corporate jargon. No hidden fees. No pretending you’re "making a difference." You’re just doing a job. And if you’re good at it, you’re respected.
I’m not proud of how I got here. But I’m proud of how I stayed. I didn’t let the world define me. I defined myself - one massage, one conversation, one honest day at a time.
It’s Not a Choice - It’s a Reality
Some say sex work is a choice. I say it’s a survival tactic. For many, it’s the only option that lets them keep their kids, their health, or their dignity. I’ve seen women in their 50s doing private massage dubai because they lost their pensions. I’ve seen teenagers in regional towns trading sex for a place to sleep. This isn’t about fantasy. It’s about the gaps in our social safety net.
When we criminalize sex work, we don’t stop it. We just push it underground. And underground is where people get hurt.
I’m not asking for pity. I’m asking for recognition. I’m not asking to be saved. I’m asking to be seen.
And if you’re reading this and you’ve ever judged someone for doing this work - I get it. I did too. But now I know: we’re not broken. We’re just trying to survive in a world that doesn’t make space for us.