The Nights I’d Like to Forget from My Life as an Escort

No one tells you what this is really like. No one who’s actually done it warns you about what’s waiting for you, about the moments you won’t be able to get out of your head no matter how hard you try. There’s a romanticized version of sex work that circulates online, full of elegant meetings in five-star hotels and clients who treat you like a person. That version exists. But it wasn’t the one I knew most of the time.

What follows are some of the experiences that marked that period of my life. I’m telling them because they’re spoken about too little, and because there’s something I want to make clear from the start: on the other side of every transaction there is someone with a body, with limits, and with the capacity to feel pain.

I started at twenty-three. I had just left a northern city where there was no way to pay the rent with what I earned in the service sector. An acquaintance explained how it worked, told me there was a lot of demand and that if you were discreet there was no problem. It was easy, and he was right about that. But easy and without cost are not the same thing.

***

The first client I’m going to talk about is someone I had for several months. He contacted me through one of the usual platforms. On his profile it simply said, “mature man, well-mannered, seeking discretion.” In the photo he sent me he looked like a stocky man, but within the normal range. Nothing that prepared me for what I found.

When he opened the apartment door, I immediately understood the picture was old. The man standing in front of me must have weighed more than one hundred and twenty kilos, moved with difficulty, and was wearing a T-shirt clinging to his body with sweat even though the air conditioning was on full blast.

I made it a rule to ask any client to shower before we started. He did, without complaining. The problem was that ten minutes later the sweat was back, along with a sour, thick smell that settled in my throat and wouldn’t go away.

The first time I knelt in front of him, it took much more effort than I expected. I had to lift his belly with both hands, push it against his chest, so that his cock would be visible, short and thick, hidden among folds of wet skin. I put it in my mouth directly, without preamble, because I knew that if I stopped to think about it I wouldn’t be able to do it. The taste of old sweat and poorly rinsed soap hit me all at once, and I had to close my eyes and swallow twice so I wouldn’t vomit. I sucked it from top to bottom, tightening my lips around it, running my tongue over the head again and again until it was fully hard. He breathed hard above me, with thick gasps that made all that mass of flesh above my head tremble.

“Keep going, keep going like that,” he said, his hand resting on the back of my neck without pressing.

I sucked his cock for what felt like twenty minutes, while he asked me to lick his balls, to take them into my mouth one by one. I did. I ran my tongue over his perineum, over the inside of his thighs where the skin was irritated, and went back up to the tip. I got up for a moment on some pretext, went to the bathroom, breathed in front of the half-open window with my stomach churning, rinsed out my mouth, and went back.

To finish, I got on top of him. It was the only position that worked with that body. I made my way between his legs, spat into my hand and rubbed his cock to make it thoroughly wet, and then I started easing it into my ass little by little, lowering myself centimeter by centimeter. The sensation of that hot, damp mass under my hands, with my palms braced on his belly so I wouldn’t lose my balance, is something I still struggle to remember without my stomach turning over. I started moving up and down, riding him, feeling how his cock filled me completely every time I dropped my hips. He grabbed my ass with both hands, spread my cheeks, dug his fingers into my skin.

“Ride me, ride me properly,” he panted, his face red and his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

I sped up. I came down hard, squeezing my ass around his cock, feeling it swell inside me. He asked me to talk dirty and I told him what he wanted to hear, that he was fucking me well, that he had a cock that filled me completely, anything as long as he came already. When he came, it was with a long, muffled groan, grabbing my hips and pulling me hard against him to empty himself to the last drop. I felt the hot cum rise inside and overflow around me when I stood up. A thick thread ran down my thigh to my knee.

I kept seeing him five or six more times. He paid on time and was never rude. But every time I got home I showered until the hot water ran out.

***

A few months later, a different proposition came my way. A middleman who knew people in the scene explained that he had a client who wanted to organize a “private evening with a performance.” The price was double the usual.

I asked what exactly that entailed. He explained it bluntly: there would be four men participating directly and between six and eight more people watching. A proper show, in the living room of a villa outside the city.

I went. It was a Saturday night and the place had every sign of belonging to someone with money: dark, expensive furniture, bottles of whiskey with gold labels, chairs arranged in a semicircle facing a clear space in the center of the room.

The four men approached one by one. I knelt on a cushion in the middle of that room while the others watched from their chairs with drinks in hand, as if they were in a theater. The first one stood in front of me with his cock already out of his pants, hard, thick, and shoved it into my mouth without saying a word. He took my head with both hands and started fucking my throat at his own pace, not letting me breathe properly. I forced myself to relax my jaw and swallow every time he pushed all the way in. The spectators murmured under their breath, and someone let out a laugh. When he was done using my mouth, he moved away, tapped my cheek twice with his cock, leaving a trail of saliva mixed with pre-cum, and went back to his seat.

The second preferred face-to-face. He sucked my nipples, bit my neck, and then turned me around and shoved it into my mouth from another angle, slower, forcing me to suck him while looking upward. The third simply sat in a chair in the center and asked me to kneel between his legs to suck him while he stroked my hair with the casual calm of someone at the end of a meal. The fourth didn’t want mouth. From the start, he wanted to put it in another hole and made that clear with a tilt of his chin.

Then came the penetrations, one by one as well. They put me on all fours on a rug that smelled new. The first one rammed into me without care, gripping my hips, and fucked me for minutes with a steady, dry rhythm that made me bite my lip so I wouldn’t make a sound. I could feel his cock going in and out, slicker and slicker each time from the lubricant someone handed him without a word. When it was the second man’s turn, he flipped me onto my back, lifted my legs to his shoulders, and penetrated me like that, very deep, staring at my face while he came inside without warning. I felt the hot jet and it came out with a wet sound that could be heard all over the room.

The third man fucked me standing up, bent over the back of the sofa, with one hand on my neck pressing my cheek against the leather. It was fast and rough. At some point, while the third was still inside me, two of them wanted to do something simultaneous that I had not agreed to: the fourth came up in front and shoved his cock into my mouth at the same time, forcing me to suck him while the other kept driving into me from behind. The two of them moving at once, one inside and one outside, uncoordinated, colliding with me from both sides. I hadn’t agreed to it, but I let it pass because by then all I wanted was for it to end. My eyes watered from the effort of swallowing and breathing at the same time. The one in front came first, in my mouth, and forced me to swallow by clamping my jaw shut. The one behind pulled his cock out and finished by splattering my back with a thick, abundant load.

The end of the night hadn’t been agreed with anyone. Four of them, including two of the spectators who had stayed silent in their chairs the whole time, stood up and surrounded me with their cocks out and urinated on me while the rest applauded as if they’d just watched a magic act. The hot streams fell over my hair, my face, my shoulders, my back. I closed my eyes and waited for them to finish.

I showered in the villa bathroom before leaving. It took a long time for the water to run clear.

***

There are clients whose fetishes, seen from the outside, seem odd but don’t hurt anyone. With one of them I had a relationship that lasted several months and was, in general terms, one of the calmest things I experienced in that time.

He was an older man, about sixty-five, who said he had worked in public administration for decades. He spoke with an almost old-fashioned correctness, always arrived at the agreed time, and his fetish was exactly one thing: urine.

The dynamic was always the same. He filled the bathtub halfway, lay down in it, and asked me to stand on the edge and piss on him, aiming first at his chest, then at his face, then at his cock, which would get hard slowly while the stream soaked his balls. When I finished peeing, he’d masturbate for a few minutes with that calm hand of someone who has done it a thousand times before, without hurry, looking up at me. Sometimes he asked me to kneel beside the tub and suck his wet cock until he came into the water, in slow streams that dissolved right away. Then it was his turn. He stood up, I lay down in the empty tub, and he pissed on me with the same ritual, without saying a word, very focused. It always ended with a double shower and he always had the towels folded and ready.

It wasn’t something I would have sought out on my own. But compared to the rest, those encounters were almost relaxing. He asked how I was, sometimes made coffee before I left, and never crossed any boundary we hadn’t agreed on. In that job, that is worth more than it seems.

***

Most of the difficult requests arrived with advance warning. A message in which the client explained his preferences with enough time for me to say no. I appreciated that. The problem was when the request itself crossed a line that had nothing to do with what I was willing to do.

One of those cases was a man who owned a cattle farm on the outskirts of a provincial city. His first message was reasonable: he was looking for someone for domination, submission, and spanking. Nothing I hadn’t handled before.

At the end of the same message, as if it were just another item on a shopping list, he asked whether I would be willing to take part in an encounter with one of the animals on his farm.

I told him no. He sent another message explaining that it was something people did, that it was completely safe with the right animals, that he would pay me triple. I said no again and blocked the number.

There’s money that isn’t worth what it costs to accept it.

***

That same week, through one of those coincidences that make you think the world has a very particular sense of humor, I received two other requests that I also didn’t accept.

The first was from someone who wanted to make a small cut on me during the encounter and then lick the wound. He explained it very carefully, in full detail, as if that would make it more acceptable.

The second was from someone who wanted me to defecate on him while we were in contact.

I told both of them no, without further explanation. Neither of them insisted much. But the fact that those requests exist, that someone writes them in a message with the same casualness as ordering a pizza, tells you something about people you’d rather not know.

***

The most surreal story of that whole time was the one involving a woman.

I worked more often with men, but I had no restrictions. When she contacted me, she was direct: she wanted an encounter in an apartment she would book, the price was good, and beyond that she gave no more details. I arrived without knowing exactly what to expect.

She must have been in her forties, dressed well, and she opened the door holding a glass in one hand and wearing a smile that was not exactly desire. It was something else. Something calculated and satisfied at the same time.

We started talking while she poured me a drink. That was when she told me, with all the calm in the world, that her husband had cheated on her with a coworker. She had discovered it four months earlier while looking at the phone he had left unlocked on the nightstand. She hadn’t filed for divorce yet, but she had made up her mind. What she wanted first was for him to receive the same images she had received in her day.

She took out her phone and set it on a shelf, framing the bed from an angle that kept our faces out of view. She stripped without stopping talking, with the same calm she had used to serve the drink. She had big tits, with dark, hard nipples, and a completely shaved cunt that she showed me by spreading her legs at the edge of the mattress.

“Start down there,” she said, pointing with two fingers.

I knelt between her thighs and ate her pussy slowly, running my whole tongue from bottom to clit, learning the rhythm of how she responded. I slid two fingers inside and curved them upward while I licked her clit, and she arched her back at once, grabbing my hair with one hand to keep me where she wanted me. She was very wet. I licked her until she came against my mouth, pressing her thighs around my head with a long gasp. Then she tugged my hair upward and told me to fuck her already.

I put on a condom and shoved into her in one thrust, with her legs resting on my shoulders. I started pumping hard from the outset, watching her tits bounce with every hip stroke. Every so often she glanced sidelong at the phone camera, checking the framing, and asked me to give it to her harder, to push it all the way in. I turned her over and put her on all fours facing the camera, her face hidden against the pillow, and fucked her from behind while gripping her hips. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room. I gave her a couple of spanks at her request, and she pushed her ass back to take it deeper. When I finished, she asked me to pull out and cum on her back, over her ass, so it would be clearly visible.

When I saw her pick up the phone, I asked her directly what she was going to do with the pictures.

“Just for him,” she said. “You’re out of frame. No one will know who you are.”

I finished the encounter. I got paid. I went out into the street without knowing how that marriage story would end or whether the husband in question deserved whatever came to him.

***

The last client I’m going to talk about was the one who made me quit everything.

He came to me recommended by a regular client, which was normally a sign he was reasonable. He was about forty-five, athletic build, and from the first message he made it clear that he took medication for the encounters. He said it like an informational detail, the way someone might mention the weather.

The first meeting was long but went no further than that. He fucked me for more than an hour in several positions, with his cock always hard as a board because of the medication, and although I ended up tired, nothing else happened. The second was more intense. He began by asking me to suck his cock on my knees and held my head to fuck my throat for a long time, letting me choke and making my eyes water before pulling out. Then he lay me face down on the bed and penetrated me without further ado, driving hard for a long time without coming, without pauses, until my hips ached and the sheets were wet with sweat and lubricant. From the third encounter on, I started to understand what the real problem was: it wasn’t the time itself, but the way he used that time.

He was strong and he got into a state where he stopped paying attention to the other person’s signals. I would ask him to slow down or change position and he would do it for a moment, but then he’d go back to the same thing almost mechanically. He dug his fingers into my hips, pinned my wrists to the mattress, and kept fucking with the same force even when I told him to stop for a second. The medication took away his ability to read the body in front of him.

By the fourth meeting, I was already arriving with my body tense in advance. That day he put me on all fours at the edge of the bed and shoved it in with barely any preparation. He started fucking me faster and faster, grabbing my hair with one hand and my shoulder with the other, pulling backward so his cock would go in to the root with each thrust. I asked him twice to stop for a moment. The first time he paused for three seconds. The second time he ignored me. He changed positions on his own, turned me onto my back with my legs against his chest, and kept fucking me with the same force, pressing my thighs against my ribs, not taking his eyes off some lost point on the wall. It was too long, too hard, and there was no real restraint. At some point I felt something tear inside, a hot, sharp pull unlike the rest, and even so he kept going for a while before coming, without pulling out, emptying himself inside me with a low groan. When he finally left, the pain I felt was different from ordinary exhaustion. It was something deeper, more fixed.

I waited two days for it to go away. It didn’t. I ended up in the ER with a tear that took weeks to heal enough for me to sit without pain. The first few nights I couldn’t sleep properly.

The doctor didn’t ask. I didn’t explain.

While I was lying in that bed waiting for the results, I made a decision I didn’t need to think about for very long. That same week I deactivated all my profiles. I didn’t answer the messages that kept coming in. I let everything expire on its own.

I didn’t miss it.

***

I’m telling this because there’s a very widespread idea that sex work is a transaction that equalizes everything, that money washes away any situation. It doesn’t work like that.

There are people who pay and sincerely believe that gives them rights over the body in front of them. People who confuse “being available” with “having no boundaries.” People who simply don’t see a person when they look at the worker standing before them.

If you ever hire someone for this, remember it: there is a person on the other side. With a body that gets tired, that breaks, and that doesn’t forget.