Confessions of a London Escort: Real Stories from Inside the Industry

Most people think they know what being an escort in London is like. Movies, tabloids, and late-night podcasts paint a picture-glamour, danger, money flying around. The truth? It’s nothing like that. It’s messy, lonely, exhausting, and sometimes deeply human. I’ve worked as an independent escort in London for seven years. Not because I wanted to be famous or rich. But because it paid the rent when nothing else did. This isn’t a confession of sin. It’s a record of what actually happens behind closed doors.

It’s Not About the Money-At Least, Not Mostly

People assume escorts make tens of thousands a month. Some do. But most don’t. I started charging £150 an hour in 2018. By 2023, I was at £250. That sounds like a lot until you break it down. You pay for your own car, your own cleaning supplies, your own phone plan, your own taxes. You don’t get sick leave. You don’t get holidays. You don’t get paid if you’re too tired to work.

I averaged 15 clients a month. That’s £3,750 before expenses. After cleaning, transport, app subscriptions, and taxes, I took home about £2,200. That’s not luxury. That’s survival. I lived in a one-bedroom flat in Peckham. I ate beans on toast most nights. I didn’t buy designer clothes. I bought groceries and bus tickets.

The clients who paid £500 an hour? They weren’t billionaires. They were middle-aged accountants, divorced lawyers, lonely tech guys. One guy paid me £800 to sit with him while he watched Netflix and cried. Another paid me £600 just to listen to him talk about his dead wife. Money doesn’t always mean sex. Sometimes, it means silence. Sometimes, it means being the only person who doesn’t tell them they’re being dramatic.

The Rules Nobody Talks About

There are unwritten rules in this work. No one teaches them. You learn them the hard way.

• Never meet a client without checking their ID-even if they seem nice. I once turned down a man who offered me £1,000. He had no ID. He said he was a doctor. He wasn’t. Two weeks later, his face was all over the news. He’d been arrested for impersonating a police officer.
• Always meet in a public place first. Even if you’re going to his place. I’ve walked into hotel lobbies with clients, ordered coffee, and walked out if something felt off. Once, a man asked me to go to his flat in Mayfair. He had a dog. The dog barked nonstop. I said no. He didn’t argue. He just smiled. I never saw him again.
• Never use your real name. I go by ‘Lena’ everywhere. My bank account is under a different name. My phone number is a burner. My Uber account is under a fake name. You don’t become invisible-you become careful.

There’s also the rule about boundaries. No one tells you how hard it is to say no. Not to sex-everyone expects that. But to hugs. To compliments. To being asked if you’re single. To being invited to birthdays. To being told you’re the only one who understands them. I’ve had clients cry because I wouldn’t let them text me after the session. I’ve had men ask me to be their girlfriend. I’ve had women ask me if I’d be their best friend.

I learned to say: ‘I’m here for an hour. That’s it.’ And mean it.

The Loneliness Is Worse Than the Stigma

The biggest myth? That people hate escorts. The truth? Most people don’t care. They don’t think about us at all. The real pain isn’t the judgment-it’s the isolation.

I couldn’t tell my family. My sister thought I was a model. My mum thought I worked in marketing. I didn’t have friends who knew. I didn’t go to parties. I didn’t post photos on Instagram. I didn’t date. I didn’t let anyone close.

One winter, I got sick. Flu. High fever. I couldn’t move. I called a friend from university-someone I hadn’t spoken to in three years. I told her the truth. She didn’t hang up. She didn’t judge. She brought me soup. Sat with me. Didn’t say a word about it after. That was the first time in years I cried.

That’s the secret no one talks about: you’re not alone in your loneliness. Other escorts feel it too. We don’t talk about it. We don’t text. We don’t meet. But if you ever see someone at a train station wearing the same coat as you, you know. You nod. You don’t speak. You keep walking. You both understand.

It’s Not a Choice-It’s a Survival Strategy

I didn’t wake up one day and say, ‘I want to be an escort.’ I was 27, working two part-time jobs. One at a café. One at a call center. I was behind on rent. My student loan had just ballooned. I had no savings. No family support. I Googled ‘how to make money fast in London.’

That’s how I found it. Not because I wanted to. Because I had to.

There’s no glory in it. No empowerment fantasy. Just math. I could make £200 in an hour. Or I could make £12 an hour serving coffee to people who didn’t say thank you. I chose the one that kept me off the streets.

And yes, I’ve been robbed. Once, a client took my phone and left. I didn’t call the police. I didn’t report it. I bought a new one. It cost me £400. That was two clients gone.

I’ve been yelled at. I’ve been called names. I’ve been told I’m disgusting. I’ve been told I’m brave. I’ve been told I’m lucky. None of it mattered. What mattered was that I got paid.

The Clients Are People-Just Like You

Here’s what no one tells you: most clients are ordinary. They’re not predators. They’re not rich playboys. They’re people who feel invisible.

I met a man who came every Tuesday for six months. He never asked for sex. He just wanted someone to sit with him while he ate his lunch. He brought his own food. We talked about books. He read poetry. He told me about his daughter who moved to Australia. He cried once. I didn’t hug him. I handed him a tissue.

Another client was a retired teacher. He paid me to read to him. He had Parkinson’s. His hands shook. He couldn’t hold a book. I read him Dickens. He fell asleep halfway through. I left quietly. He left me a £200 tip the next week. No note. Just cash.

These aren’t stories of exploitation. They’re stories of quiet connection. Of two strangers sharing a moment in a world that rarely lets people be vulnerable.

Leaving Wasn’t a Victory-It Was a Necessity

I stopped in 2024. Not because I got rich. Not because I found love. Not because I had a breakthrough.

I stopped because I couldn’t take the silence anymore.

The fear. The exhaustion. The way I’d stare at my reflection and not recognize myself. The way I’d flinch when someone raised their voice. The way I’d panic if my phone rang after 10 p.m.

I got a job in a library. £14 an hour. Benefits. Holidays. A pension. It’s not glamorous. But I sleep through the night now. I go to the park on Sundays. I talk to my sister. I call my mum. I don’t have to lie anymore.

I still think about them sometimes. The clients. The quiet ones. The ones who didn’t ask for much. The ones who left me a chocolate bar on the table. The ones who said thank you like they meant it.

I don’t regret it. But I don’t miss it either.

What No One Tells You About Being an Escort

• You don’t need to be beautiful. You need to be calm.
• You don’t need to be sexy. You need to be present.
• You don’t need to be fearless. You need to be prepared.
• You don’t need to be free. You need to be safe.
• You don’t need to be proud. You need to survive.

If you’re thinking about it-don’t do it because it seems easy. Do it only if you have no other choice. And if you do, learn the rules. Protect yourself. Keep your name hidden. Trust your gut. And when it’s over, know this: you didn’t lose anything. You bought time. And that’s worth more than any price tag.