These men don’t really like me. They like their projection of me—whatever that may be. Maybe I’m the coworker they secretly obsess over. Maybe I’m a young girl who's infatuated with them. Maybe I’m a confused woman down on her luck who needs saving. Their projections aren’t exactly unjustified. Our interactions are transactional. Still, playing out these projections has started to take a toll—more than ever before. I think it's because I recently chose celibacy.
The other day at the studio, it was busy, which I welcomed after a quiet month. I saw a client nearly every hour. They varied in age and energy: some old, some young, some rambling about their lives, some silent and distant. Some familiar faces, others new. But it wasn’t them that was the problem—it was me. That night, I left the studio and cried. I couldn’t hold a conversation without tears welling up. I knew something had to change.
In a previous post, I shared how I fell in love with a client and how it lowkey ruined my life. We met on Halloween 2023. I stopped charging him after our third session. He told me he wanted to take care of me in ways other men couldn’t—and I believed him. I thought I’d found the person I’d always been looking for. But he was married. At first, I didn’t care.
By not charging him, I lost out on a lot of money. But more than that, I gave up my power. Everything shifted. I became dependent—emotionally and sexually. I felt unrecognizable to myself. Powerless. My friends in the industry either pitied me or harshly judged me. I couldn’t explain what was happening to me. That relationship became one of the most miserable chapters of my adult life.
Dating and hooking up have always been central to my livelihood. Like a lot of people, I only feel somewhat worthy when someone wants me—whether or not I want them, or even like them. This is how I operated for a long time. And Steven—the client I fell for—triggered that craving for affirmation in a way I didn’t expect. The sex was amazing, sure. But there was something else. Something deeper. And I don’t know why it broke me so completely.
By March 2024, I knew I needed to end it. I told Steven I needed 30 days of no contact. On day 23, he called me. Said he missed me. Claimed it had been “about a month” so he figured he would give me a call. I was elated. He called me and talked to me like a person, not just a body to use when his wife wasn’t around. That small act of effort was all it took to pull me back in. And we started hooking up again.
One afternoon, we were in bed at my place. I noticed the yellow pamphlet on my nightstand I had bought recently—The Gift of No Contact. I turned over and looked at Steven instead. I wasn’t ready to leave, even though I knew the relationship was poisoning me. But it was not just me it hurt. I thought about his wife. Did she know? I doubted it. I felt sympathy for her. She was married to a man who used her money to cheat on her. One night, we even used her credit card to pull an all nighter at strip clubs in Jersey. When we finally rolled into my apartment at 6 a.m., I told him I thought I was in love with him. He didn’t even look at me, just stared at the wall. He told me he let things go too far. Then he pulled on his boots and left.
I spiraled. I tried to fill the hole with someone new. I spent hours swiping on dating apps so I didn’t have to feel the brokenness from Steven’s rejection of me. Finally, I connected with someone- let’s call him Jeremy. I was still sleeping with Steven when I started seeing Jeremy. But at least I had drawn one boundary: no more dating clients. If someone wasn’t offering a commitment or significant financial support, I wasn’t interested. Steven had ripped my heart out, and I wasn’t about to let that happen again.
Jeremy and I clicked. He was creative, worked in film, had a great sense of humor, and most importantly, he was not a client. But he was broke. So when I told him I needed some sort of commitment in order to continue being intimate with him, he said he just wanted to be friends. “Homies” as he put it. It took me a week but I held to my word, I told him “homies” don’t hook up with each other. We stayed friends for a while, made some cool art together even, but when he started seeing someone new, he became super secretive and shady about me to his new gf so our friendship ended in a dumpster fire.
After Jeremy, the pattern became impossible to ignore. Every time I felt discomfort, I reached for a person to soothe it. Sex and romance were my coping mechanisms. But no amount of desire or attention was ever enough. The relief was always temporary. I started asking myself: What if I stopped seeking validation from other people altogether? What if I dealt with the discomfort directly?
Steven wasn’t my first toxic relationship. He wasn’t even the first married person I’d been with. But I wanted to believe he was different. Looking back, I know better. And out of respect—for myself and his wife—I finally ended it for good. Yes, I found out who she was. Quick PSA: Just remember if a hooker has any of your personal info, she can end your shit real quick. She probably won’t but def don’t fuck her over.
Therapy was another turning point. I had been out of it for two years. Going back was life-saving. Now, thirteen months later, here I am- a celibate sex worker. In my work life, I work. I need income. But in my personal life, no dating. No sex. I even try not to flirt, though I’m not perfect with that one.
I still get crushes, but I find they’re always on unavailable people. I build fantasies around them—about how they’ll fix me, save me from discomfort. From life. But I know it’s fake. The moment someone wants me, I feel like everything is okay. But that feeling dies fast. Then I’m chasing the next one.
So yes, I’ve made progress. But recently, after that long day in the studio, I found myself on my knees—literally and spiritually. In the shower that night, I felt disgusted. I cried until my chest turned red. The sessions were consensual, so why did it feel like I had been violated? The answer: work. I’ve always known I had intimacy issues, but I avoided facing them out of fear—fear that if I acknowledged them, I wouldn’t be able to work anymore.
And now that I’m not seeking intimacy outside of work, there’s no cushion. No escape hatch. It’s brutal. I’m also sober, so there’s really no numbing the discomfort. But despite everything, I’m proud of myself. I told my therapist I didn’t think I could last a week without sex. I’ve made it way longer than that.
That said—I’m exhausted. So I’m taking a vacation. A break. I’ve always been terrified of taking time off. In this economy, who isn’t scared? But I’ve saved up enough. I’m giving myself three weeks to rest, reassess, and figure out what’s next. I’d be devastated to leave the industry—it’s funded my art and given me freedom. But I have to prioritize my sanity. At least for now.