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I choose sex work for many reasons. Obviously making a decent income is one major factor, as is the flexibility. I don’t make an obscene amount of cash, I’m not the most successful or motivated hooker in town, but its a decent income. Comparable to what Id make doing the job I’m qualified to do but with less stress. And in hours that suit me.

The flexibility is definitely my favourite thing about my job. It has always worked around my social engagements, my studies, my parenting, my travelling, my other jobs, my relationships, my passions. Whatever. It’s always been there for me while I run around doing my thing.  I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a reliable source of income because it is so up and down, but I’ve always felt secure that I wont starve and I can put a roof over my head (even if it’s just the roof of the brothel im working at).

But Its more than just that..


When I broke up with the father of my children, I hadn’t done sex work for a number of years. I had myself a straight job and a family. But once we separated, still in my mid twenties, I knew what I wanted to do. After starting sex work again, I decided I had what it took to further my education. What it takes, as a single mum, to go to uni is, passion, motivation and a flexible well-paying job that lets you study between bookings, and having a mouthy whore attitude helps to insist the system works for you.

So back to you Uni I went, if you were around those parts in my day you might remember me because I took the opportunities  that university affords and indulged in self-expression. I had bright pink long dreadlocks.

And I studied hard and went home and did my best at playing perfect mum, and on Sundays I worked at the brothel.  Every Sunday the kids went to their dads. Every Sunday I worked from 10am until midnight.

Nobody knew what I did on Sundays. It really was my secret back then. No one at uni, none of my family, none of my friends. I’d had enough trouble telling people in the past and I just wanted to avoid it. I knew what I wanted to do, and I was just going to do it, my way, so I did.

For 2 years I Showed up to work every Sunday morning with my crazy hair, daggy jeans, sneakers and my bag of tricks. It was fun. Id enjoy watching myself in the mirror while I began my transformation. The other workers would watch and sometimes we’d laugh about it. I covered my dreadlocks with a shoulder length dark wig with a sharp fringe, id do my make up to match, darker around my eyes, red lips. I swapped my groovy glasses for bright green contact lenses and paint my nails pretty. Under my daggy clothes I’m scrubbed, moisturised and If I got around to it, waxed. Id take off my comfortable undies and put my sexy (but often cheap and tacky) lacy red matching bra and knickers, slinky one piece black nightclub dress (for easy slip off and on), stay up stockings and amazing heels. I was a different person. I loved it. I was so different under those brothel lights that you wouldn’t recognise me as the pink haired mother at uni. It was nice having a reason to be super sexy. Just as it was nice having an excuse to indulge in pink hair.

My favourite thing about my transformation was when new workers would start a shift in the middle of my long shift.   They would only see me as the dark-haired hooker Id transformed myself into. We’d work and chat for hours. And when the clock struck midnight, the spell would be broken. Id pull of my wig and shake out my long pink dreads and grin at them. I loved the look of shock and the surprise they would express by the time my transformation was complete, all showered clean of make up, back to my cotton undies and jeans.