Confessions of a London Escort: Real Stories from the Inside

Most people think of London escorts as glamorous, mysterious, or dangerous. The truth is quieter, messier, and more human than any movie or tabloid suggests. I’ve worked as an independent escort in London for seven years. Not because I wanted to be famous, or because I was desperate, but because it paid better than my office job, gave me control over my time, and let me meet people I never would’ve crossed paths with otherwise. This isn’t a story about exploitation or liberation. It’s just what it’s really like.

It’s Not About the Sex

The biggest myth? That this job is mostly about sex. In my experience, less than 30% of bookings involved physical intimacy. Most clients wanted company. Someone to talk to over dinner. Someone to sit with during a play. Someone who wouldn’t judge them for being lonely, awkward, or just tired of pretending everything was fine.

I once spent six hours walking through Hyde Park with a 68-year-old widower who hadn’t spoken to another person outside his family in three weeks. He told me stories about his late wife, his childhood in Belfast, and how he missed the smell of rain on pavement. I didn’t say much. I just listened. He paid me £200 and left me a handwritten note: ‘You made today feel like a day again.’

That’s the job more often than not. Companionship. Presence. Emotional labor. The sex part? That’s optional, negotiated upfront, and rarely the reason people book.

The Rules Are Never Written Down

There’s no handbook. No union. No HR department. Everything you need to know, you learn the hard way. Like never meeting a client in a hotel you’ve never been to before. Always check the room number yourself. Never let someone else open the door for you. Always have a backup phone with a different number.

One time, I showed up to a booking in Mayfair and the doorman said, ‘Mr. Henderson is waiting on the 12th floor.’ I didn’t recognize the name. I didn’t have a booking under that name. I turned around and walked out. Later, I found out the man had been arrested for impersonating a client and trying to lure women into his apartment. I didn’t report it. I didn’t need to. I just knew.

Trust your gut. If something feels off, it is. You don’t owe anyone your safety. Not even the client who pays you £500 an hour.

The Money Isn’t Always What You Think

Yes, some escorts make £1,000 a night. But that’s not the norm. Most of us make between £200 and £500 per session, and not every night. Some weeks I worked five times. Some weeks I worked zero. Rent in London doesn’t pause when you’re not working.

Taxes? You pay them. I file as self-employed. I keep receipts for everything: car rides, makeup, laundry, phone bills, even the coffee I drank before a booking. The government doesn’t care if your income comes from companionship. They just want their cut.

And the money doesn’t make you rich. It makes you free. Free to take a month off when I’m burnt out. Free to say no to a client who makes me uncomfortable. Free to travel for two weeks in the summer without asking anyone’s permission.

The Clients Are Not Monsters

People assume clients are creepy, rich old men. Some are. But many aren’t. I’ve met teachers, nurses, software engineers, single dads, retirees, and even a few other escorts who just wanted to hang out.

There was a guy who worked as a paramedic. He booked me every two weeks after a 12-hour shift. He didn’t want sex. He just wanted to sit on my couch, eat takeout, and watch old episodes of Doctor Who. He said it was the only time he felt like he could breathe. Another client was a university student who paid me with cash from his part-time job. He wanted to learn how to talk to women without sounding like a robot. We practiced conversations. We talked about books. He passed his finals.

These aren’t the stories you hear on the news. They’re the quiet ones. The ones that don’t fit the stereotype.

The Stigma Is the Hardest Part

The worst part of this job isn’t the clients. It’s the people who think they know you.

I used to tell my family I worked in marketing. It was easier than explaining. My sister still doesn’t know. My mum thinks I’m a ‘freelance consultant.’ I don’t correct her. Not because I’m ashamed, but because I don’t owe anyone an explanation for how I live.

When I’m out in public - at the grocery store, at the dentist, at my niece’s school play - I see the looks. The sideways glances. The way someone moves away if I’m wearing something a little too nice. I’ve had strangers assume I’m ‘easy’ because I have tattoos. I’ve had men try to proposition me in the street, thinking I’m ‘available.’

It’s exhausting. But I’ve learned to carry it quietly. I don’t fight it. I don’t beg for understanding. I just keep living my life.

It’s a Job. Not a Lifestyle.

People ask me if I miss it. If I’d go back. I don’t miss the anxiety. The constant checking of phones. The fear of being recognized. The way strangers sometimes treat you like you’re less than human.

But I do miss the freedom. The control. The way I could walk away from a bad day and never look back. I don’t regret it. But I don’t want to do it forever.

I’m training to become a mental health first aider. I want to help people who feel as alone as my clients did. I’m not trying to be a hero. I just want to turn what I’ve learned into something that lasts longer than a single evening.

What No One Tells You

If you’re thinking about this job - whether out of curiosity or necessity - here’s what nobody says:

• You will get lonely, even when you’re surrounded by people.
• You will learn to read silence better than words.
• You will meet people who change how you see humanity.
• You will learn to say no without guilt.
• You will be judged by strangers who know nothing about you.
• You will realize that dignity isn’t tied to your job title.

This isn’t a glamorous life. But it’s a real one. And the people who live it? They’re not ghosts. They’re not villains. They’re just trying to get by - one honest conversation at a time.