Hey stranger!

Every year and a half or so, my phone lights up with some variation of this text. No name. No context. Just the easy familiarity of two college roommates who haven’t caught up since Homecoming.

Hey stranger!

And every time, I stare at the number thinking the same thing.

Yes. You are, in fact, a stranger.

If I can find his number, I scroll through our texts. Usually, there are only a handful of messages. Something complimentary about my tits. A declaration that he had an amazing time. Maybe: I have ideas for next time.

Ah.

One of those.

Sometimes even that isn’t enough, and I have to conduct an archaeological dig through the sediment of my professional life to figure out who the hell this man is.

Eventually, I find him.

The One-Hour Man.

You know him.

You’ve sat beside him on an airplane. You’ll know because he’s conducting a business call before takeoff at a volume that allows everyone from rows 7 through 14 to learn that somebody really dropped the ball on the Henderson account.

You marvel at your good fortune. What were the odds that you’d be seated beside the most important man in America? He’s a decent-looking white guy of a certain age. Former fraternity brother turned golfer. Successful sales career. Striped polo. Lululemon golf pants. University of Alabama ballcap.

I’ve met him many times over the years, although not always as the same man. The One-Hour Man is a composite, assembled from enough appointments that eventually the individual men begin to blur into a single, extremely confident person.

He is every Chad you’ve ever passed in Starbucks. And he doesn’t just arrive. He saunters. Sometimes he saunters in ten minutes late carrying an enormous glass of red wine.

“Did you get lost?” I ask.

“No. There was a line at the bar.”

Oh.

Of course.

There was a line at the bar.

My time is elastic.

His is not.

For all the sauntering, though, his body is giving him away. His voice is a little wobbly. He seems slightly winded. When he sets down the wine, I notice his hands are shaking. But he works hard to appear calm, cool, and collected.

Within minutes, I know quite a lot about him.

People sometimes ask how I can possibly learn so much about someone during a one-hour appointment. You’d be surprised. Sixty minutes is actually plenty of time, especially with the One-Hour Man.

He asks me questions, too. He wants to give the impression that he’s interested in me. That this is a conversation. An exchange.

It isn’t.

“Do you have kids?”

I start to answer.

He has kids, too.

Exceptional ones.

“Do you travel for pleasure much?”

I do, actually.

So does he.

Let me tell you about it.

“Do you play golf?”

Sometimes.

He does. A lot.

“In fact, I shot a 62 today. You should have seen it!”

His questions are mostly jumping-off points, little conversational trapdoors that somehow deposit us right back into another story about him. But I’m not really his conversational partner. I’m a one-woman audience for the soliloquy he’s performing.

Within twenty minutes, I could probably write his Christmas letter. He has an incredible wife. Exceptional children. Seriously. Exceptional.

These aren’t regular children wandering around contributing adequately to society. These kids are crushing life. Perfect college entrance scores. Great schools. Fantastic careers. Wonderful marriages. Every parent wishes these children were their children.

The grandchildren are presumably also showing early signs of greatness.

His wife drives a Range Rover. He can’t believe what she spent on it. In fact, if she didn’t spend so much of his money, he tells me, he could probably see me more often.

I hate that about wives.

When the kids were younger, they went to Disney. But they didn’t go to Disney the way you did. They had some sort of elite pass. There were special doors. Secret passageways. Premier areas ordinary families didn’t even know existed.

The Disney Illuminati.

Of course they did.

His son once practiced with a famous professional athlete. A couple of times, actually. There is a somewhat complicated chain of friendships involving mothers and friends of mothers that explains how this happened, but that’s not important.

What’s important is that it happened.

Then there’s the dog.

Eventually, the phone comes out.

“That’s a cute dog,” I say after noticing his screensaver.

Wrong.

This is not a cute dog. This is the greatest fucking dog that has ever lived. He’s incredibly smart. Loyal. Intuitive. And everyone loves him.

“You know, he can open doors.”

No lie.

He literally opens doors.

Apparently even the dog has figured out access.

In case you haven’t figured it out, the One-Hour Man has been extraordinarily blessed. God has given him an incredible wife, exceptional children, beautiful grandchildren, great friends, a successful career, and a Labrador that can operate doors.

Nobody could ask for more, he says as he lies in bed with me.

His family is everything. God has blessed him beyond measure.

Also, my tits are unbelievable.

The One-Hour Man has opinions.

Lots of them.

He doesn’t really wonder about things. He knows things.

Pickleball is stupid.

He wouldn’t be caught dead watching the WNBA.

Some prominent public-health official is a crook.

His golf course is better than the other golf course.

The steakhouse near his house has gone downhill.

These aren’t topics for discussion so much as rulings handed down from the bench.

And the funny thing is, none of this is particularly complicated.

You could have this life too.

Really.

Anyone could.

Work hard. Get a good job. Marry a great woman. Raise exceptional children. Buy a nice house. Save your money. Invest wisely. Play a little golf. Surround yourself with good people.

It’s really not that hard.

He doesn’t understand why some people make everything so difficult.

Why can’t everyone just make better decisions?

The One-Hour Man has prescriptions for these people. He has prescriptions for most people.

If everyone would simply work harder, complain less, use their brains, exercise more, spend less money, and generally conduct themselves according to the principles that have worked so extraordinarily well for him, we’d probably solve half the country’s problems by Thursday.

What’s wrong with people?

He once drove 120 miles per hour down Route 1, he tells me with delight. It was a nice summer night, and he wanted to feel the warm air on his face after lowering the roof of his BMW. He got pulled over, naturally, but according to him, there was some police-connected card or badge, some friend-of-a-friend credential that appeared at the appropriate moment.

The officer gave him a stern talking-to. And then let him go.

Doors open. People know people.

Someone can get you into the good section.

There’s a card you can show.

Things just tend to work out. They always have.

And then there’s sex.

The One-Hour Man considers himself very good at it. The available evidence is less conclusive. He tells me about his prime.

Ah, his prime.

Back then, he could go two, three, four times in an hour. Five, perhaps. The numbers become increasingly impressive as the story progresses.

Those were the days.

Present-day equipment can occasionally be less cooperative, but that’s hardly relevant to the historical record.

He would also never send a woman an unsolicited dick pic. He wants me to know this. He’s simply not one of those guys. He’s a gentleman. I believe that he believes this. I also suspect there is a photograph somewhere on his phone patiently awaiting an invitation.

Then something unexpected happens.

He tells me about his mother. She died several years ago from cancer. His eyes fill, but he wipes the tears away quickly.

“I don’t know why I’m crying. I never cry.”

A moment later:

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I never talk like this.”

I listen.

By the end of the hour, he is mesmerized.

I am beautiful.

Sexy.

Smart.

My body is unbelievable.

Parts of it seem designed specifically for him.

“I’ll definitely be seeing you again.”

Of course.

“Thank God you don’t live in my town. I’d go broke!” It’s a compliment with a tiny barb tucked inside. Every time? Yes, Chad, every time. The jig is up; I charge for my time. So does your wife, incidentally. She just has a different billing department.

“This is gonna be a regular thing.”

Naturally.

Eventually, he glances at the clock.

“Oh, look at the time. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.” Of course not. Also, his boys are waiting for him at the bar.

He gets dressed.

Polo.

Golf pants.

Ballcap restored to its rightful position.

He reminds me once more that I’ll definitely be seeing him again.

Then he reaches the door.

Turns around.

Fist pump.

“ROLL TIDE!”

And disappears.

Later that evening, after he’s back at the bar with the boys, my phone lights up. Another compliment about my tits. Then:

I have ideas for next time.

There is no next time.

Months pass.

Then a year.

Sometimes another provider contacts me.

“Hi! A gentleman listed you as a reference. Could you tell me if you’ve seen him before? Is he safe to see? Would you recommend him?”

I look at the name.

Nothing.

I search the number.

Still nothing.

Then I begin digging.

Golf.

Maybe.

Sales.

Probably.

Married.

Obviously.

Dog photo.

We’re getting warmer.

A text about my tits.

Doesn’t narrow it down nearly as much as you’d think.

Then something clicks.

Ohhhhh.

That guy.

To him, our hour together was memorable enough that years later he still gives women my name as someone who can vouch for him.

To me, he has become an archaeological site. He’s not necessarily a bad man. He’s charming. Sometimes funny. He loves his children. He adores that ridiculous dog. He misses his mother.

Eighteen months later, my phone lights up.

Hey stranger!

I stare at the number.

He’s right, of course.

We are strangers.

A lot of men tell me they want an independent woman.

They don’t want someone needy.

They don’t want someone who needs to be financially supported.

They don’t want someone sitting around waiting to be rescued.

They want a woman who has her own life.

At least that’s what they say.

But I’ve also noticed that sometimes people love the idea of independence more than the reality of it.

My ex-boyfriend taught me this lesson.

When he first found out I was an escort, he was devastated.

At first, I felt ashamed. Then, when his tantrum went from bad to worse, I sat up and said, “You know what? I have two kids heading toward college. I’m doing what I need to do. If you don’t like it, you’re free to leave.”

His response surprised me.

“No,” he said. “The one thing we’re not doing is breaking up.”

So we stayed together.

Or at least we tried.

For four and a half years, he insisted he accepted my work. But every so often, the truth would leak out. Usually, after a few drinks.

On those nights, I’d hear what he really thought.

I’d be called names.

I’d be told what a terrible person I was.

I’d be reminded how much he hated what I did.

Yet he never left.

In fact, he desperately wanted to stay.

At some point, he also came to a realization neither of us could ignore: I made more money than he did, despite the fact that he was an attorney.

One night, I finally asked him a question.

“Why are you even with me? Because honestly, it doesn’t seem like you even like me sometimes.”

His answer has stayed with me ever since.

“Because you’re your own woman. You do your own thing. You don’t need me.”

At the time, I took it as a compliment.

Now I hear it differently.

Because what he loved was the idea of an independent woman.

What he struggled with was the reality of one.

He loved that I didn’t need him.

But he hated that I didn’t need him.

He wanted me home waiting for him while he worked.

He would have been perfectly happy if I had given up my career, sat in his townhouse all day, and organized my life around his schedule.

But that version of life would have made me miserable.

He wanted the confidence, self-sufficiency, and strength that came from my independence.

He just didn’t want the independence itself.

One time after we got back from a trip to Greece, he accused me of using him.

The accusation was so ridiculous that my friend, who happened to be there at the time, immediately jumped in.

“She can afford to take herself to Greece,” she said. “She doesn’t need you for that.”

And she was right.

In fact, I paid for one of the more expensive excursions during the trip.

But honestly, that’s not even the point.

What fascinated me was the contradiction.

For years, I heard about how independent I was.

How capable I was.

How much he admired that I didn’t need him.

Yet whenever the relationship hit turbulence, there was an underlying suspicion that I must somehow be using him.

It’s difficult to simultaneously believe a woman is fiercely independent and secretly dependent on you for everything.

Those two ideas don’t fit together.

And yet I think some people bounce back and forth between them depending on which story feels better in the moment.

I’ve seen similar contradictions in dating.

I have a very successful client who was genuinely frustrated with dating apps. He had everything most people say they want: intelligence, ambition, financial success, and a full life.

Eventually, he met a woman he was genuinely excited about.

The problem?

He kept canceling.

Not because he wasn’t interested. He was simply busy. Work came up. Life happened.

The first time, she was understanding.

The second time, she was understanding.

The third time he tried to reschedule, she was gone.

He never heard from her again.

When he told me the story, I laughed and said, “That’s because women like that get scooped up.”

A woman who has her life together, confidence, options, and opportunities usually isn’t sitting around indefinitely waiting for someone to decide when they can fit her into their calendar.

What struck me wasn’t that he was busy.

Most successful adults are busy.

The issue was the message that repeated cancellations can send.

After a while, it stops feeling like bad luck and starts feeling like a hierarchy.

Your work matters.

Your children matter.

Your commitments matter.

And mine can be moved around whenever it’s convenient.

I don’t think that’s what he intended to communicate.

But intentions and impact aren’t always the same thing.

An independent woman isn’t just evaluating whether you’re interested.

She’s evaluating whether you’re making room for her.

And those are two very different things.

At some point, she may decide she doesn’t want to be tenth on someone’s priority list, no matter how interested they claim to be.

I’ve noticed another contradiction, too.

Some men make their success a central part of their identity.

They talk about the business.

The investments.

The accomplishments.

The houses.

The cars.

The deals.

Success isn’t just something they have.

It’s something they’re proud of.

And they should be.

But then they’ll turn around and become suspicious of any woman who is attracted to that success.

At some point, I have to ask: Why?

If you’ve spent thirty years building a remarkable life, why would you expect people not to notice?

Success is attractive.

Just like confidence is attractive.

Just like intelligence is attractive.

Just like beauty is attractive.

Most people are attracted to a collection of qualities, not a single one.

The problem isn’t that a woman notices your success.

The problem is when she notices nothing else.

Those are very different things.

A woman who appreciates what you’ve built is not necessarily a gold digger.

She may simply be responding to one of the qualities that make you who you are.

After all, if you’re proud of it, why shouldn’t she be allowed to admire it too?

I’ve also noticed a curious double standard.

Most people understand why a man might be attracted to beauty.

A beautiful face.

A fit body.

A certain style.

A certain energy.

We generally accept that physical attraction is part of attraction.

Yet when a woman says she’s attracted to competence, ambition, success, stability, or financial security, the conversation can suddenly become moral.

Now she’s shallow.

Now she’s materialistic.

Now she’s a gold digger.

I’ve always found that interesting.

Because both men and women are often responding to qualities that took years to develop.

The man didn’t become successful overnight.

The woman didn’t wake up one morning and accidentally become attractive.

Both may have invested enormous amounts of time, effort, discipline, sacrifice, and resources into becoming who they are.

Why is one form of attraction considered natural while the other is sometimes treated as suspect?

The real issue isn’t whether someone notices beauty or success.

The real issue is whether that’s all they notice.

One client once said something to me that I’ve never forgotten.

“The problem is, providers spoil you.”

He was right.

Professional companions are often accommodating, gracious, flexible, pleasant, and easy to be around.

We’re literally paid to help create a positive experience.

Real relationships don’t work that way.

Real women have opinions.

They have schedules.

They have needs

They have competing priorities.

Sometimes they disagree.

Sometimes they tell you no.

Sometimes they expect compromise.

And if you’ve spent years in situations where one person is compensated to make things easier, it can be surprisingly difficult to adjust to a dynamic where both people’s needs carry equal weight.

Ironically, one of the healthiest marriages I’ve ever witnessed involved two highly successful people.

Both had careers.

Both had money.

Both had children from previous marriages.

Neither needed the other financially.

When I asked the husband what attracted him to his wife, his answer immediately caught my attention.

“She didn’t need me.”

And unlike so many people who say that, I believed him.

Because he didn’t seem threatened by it.

He wasn’t trying to make her smaller.

He wasn’t trying to become the center of her universe.

He wasn’t asking her to give up pieces of herself so he could feel more important.

He simply enjoyed who she was.

That’s the difference.

Some people say they want someone who doesn’t need them.

Others genuinely admire someone who doesn’t need them.

Those are not the same thing.

Because independent women don’t stay in the passenger seat forever.

Eventually, they reach for the steering wheel too.

Dear X, formerly known as Twitter,

Goodbye.

It was fun while it lasted—well, not really. Or perhaps I should say, not within the past several years. And definitely not during the past two.

We became toxic, you and I.

Once the initial high of being wooed and pursued wore off, I started noticing the red flags.

You know the ones. You would put me down whenever you didn’t get your way, or I dared to disagree with you. You repeatedly threatened to end things if I didn’t shape up. And even when things appeared to be going smoothly, suddenly—bam!—my entire feed would become Ozempic detectives analyzing celebrity jawlines, cat memes, and porn clips that would make Ron Jeremy blush.

All. The. Time.

Then there was the fighting.

My God, X, the fighting.

I could post that the sky was blue and, within minutes, a pile-on would form beneath it. One person would insist it was purple. Another would demand that I acknowledge the possibility of green. Someone else would inform me that I had no right to discuss the sky at all. And inevitably, a complete stranger would arrive to tell me to shut the fuck up—or perhaps kill myself—over a meteorological observation I had made while drinking my morning coffee.

These were women working in the same heavily stigmatized industry, people who theoretically understood how difficult it was simply to exist publicly. Yet instead of extending one another grace, we frequently formed a circular firing squad, waiting for someone to use the wrong word, express the wrong preference, charge the wrong amount, or describe her own experience in a way that failed to validate everyone else’s.

Every opinion became a referendum. Every disagreement became a moral failing. Every Tuesday had the potential to become the Battle of Gettysburg—but with lingerie photos and booking links.

And don’t get me started on the antics you pulled whenever you wanted to make me jealous.

You know—the yacht trips with other women. The shopping sprees you took them on at Cartier or Van Cleef & Arpels. The lavish dinner dates where you strategically photographed the meal with her Hermès Birkin positioned conspicuously in plain sight.

Honestly, did you think I cared? Did you believe it would diminish my self-worth or slowly chip away at my confidence?

Okay, it might have worked a little. Goddamn, that Birkin was stunning!

And that private jet—who the hell owns one with not just one, but two king-size beds?

Well, that was your intention, wasn’t it?

Okay, okay. You got me, X. I did it too.

Yes, I posted when I was feeling especially pleased with myself and wanted to show off a windfall. I posted the omakase dinners and the business-class trips to Hawaii and Europe.

Guilty.

But you know what, X? What did you really do for me—other than make me question my own life choices?

Did you bring me more money? Did you generate meaningful business?

Sure, you served a purpose when we first started dating. I enjoyed having you on my arm. You helped me show off a little and let other men know what a catch I was. At first, being seen with you gave me credibility.

But as time went on, did you actually help me succeed?

Or did you simply convince me that I needed you?

When you finally ended things—abruptly, dramatically, and with the word permanent—I expected to be devastated. We had been together for eight years. I had accumulated 56,000 followers. Surely losing you was supposed to feel like losing everything.

Instead, I felt relief.

I no longer had to perform for you. I didn’t have to worry about who was watching, what might offend you, or whether one wrong sentence would send you into another rage. I didn’t have to scroll past fights, provocations, pornography, and people manufacturing fabulous lives for the benefit of strangers.

Somewhere along the way, I had begun confusing constant exposure to other people’s anger with community.

The truth is, you had stopped making me feel good a long time ago. I had simply remained because we had history—and because I was afraid to discover who I might be without you.

But you did not create my career. You did not give me my experience, my reputation, my body of work, or the people who had already spent years discovering me elsewhere. You gave me a stage for a while. That is not the same thing as giving me a voice.

So keep the 56,000 followers.

I’m taking the voice with me.

And before you ask: no, I will not be creating another account so we can “try again.” We both know where that leads.

Goodbye, X.

It turns out you didn’t ruin my life.

You set me free.

Formerly yours,

@LoveDaniLane

Currently answering to @ScornedDaniLane

P.S. If you reinstate my account, please disregard everything above. I think we’ve both grown.

P.P.S. Things will be different this time. Probably.

Gentlemen, I need you to do me a favor.

Go to your closet and take a look at the clothes you wear most often. Not the tuxedo you haven’t touched since your niece’s wedding or the ski jacket buried somewhere in the back. I’m talking about the clothes you regularly put on your body and wear out into the world.

Now ask yourself a very simple question:

What year did I buy these?

If the answer begins with a 1 and a 9, we may have an emergency.

I don’t care how much you paid for it. I don’t care that “it’s still perfectly good.” I don’t care that the pants technically still button or that you’ve had those shoes resoled three times.

If Bill Clinton was president when you bought something that remains in heavy rotation, it is time for a wardrobe assessment. And I mean stat.

Because somewhere along the way, a lot of men stopped buying clothes and simply continued owning them.

“But They’re Perfectly Good Clothes!”

This may be the sentence I hear most often when attempting to pry an outdated garment from a man’s gripping, stubborn hands.

Perfectly good according to whom?

No holes? No stains? Zipper operational? Still fits around the waist?

Gentlemen, those are the standards for determining whether clothing remains physically functional. They are not the standards for determining whether it still looks good.

I had this argument repeatedly with an ex-boyfriend about an enormous suit he had apparently decided would accompany him through the remainder of his natural life.

“But I paid $2,000 for this suit!”

Yes.

Back in 1997, when $2,000 was a lot of money for a suit.

You got your money’s worth.

Rachel Green might have fallen in love with you in that suit.

ER was still airing new episodes. Seinfeld was keeping people in stitches every Thursday night. People were buying CDs at the mall.

The suit had a wonderful career.

It’s time to put it to rest.

Price is not a legal defense against the passage of time.

Neither is brand.

“But they’re Allen Edmonds.”

Wonderful. Allen Edmonds will sell you another pair.

“But this is a really expensive leather briefcase.”

I’m sure it was.

If the corners are now bald and the thing looks as though it personally participated in the Iran-Contra hearings, we have moved beyond “beautiful patina.”

“But these are Ralph Lauren.”

Ralph Lauren has also manufactured clothing since you purchased those pants.

None of these statements constitutes an alibi.

The 1996 Regional Bank Manager

Now we need to discuss suits.

Specifically, the enormous ones.

You know exactly what I’m talking about: huge shoulders, acres of fabric through the torso, sleeves swallowing the arms, trousers ballooning around the calves before collapsing into a small accordion on top of the shoes.

No.

Just no.

And whenever I bring this up, inevitably someone tells me:

“But I’m broad-shouldered.”

“But my arms are really long.”

“But I’m tall.”

“But I need extra room through my legs.”

Okay.

And yet broad-shouldered, long-armed, tall men continue to be born every year. The menswear industry has accounted for this development.

Your body type isn’t dated. Your suit is.

This is where I think some older men get confused. They remember the ultra-slim suits and tiny trousers of the 2010s and apparently conclude that they have two options:

1996 Regional Bank Manager or Harry Styles.

Gentlemen, there is an enormous sartorial continent between the two.

Nobody is asking you to squeeze yourself into ankle pants and a sequined blouse.

We are simply asking you to stop wearing a jacket large enough to accommodate a bank clerk as well!

And please look down at your feet.

If your suit pants bag around your calves and then puddle over your shoes, your suit is trying to tell you something.

Listen to it.

While We’re Down There, Let’s Discuss the Shoes

Wingtips are not inherently bad.

New Balance sneakers are not inherently bad.

Classic brands are not inherently bad.

But there is an enormous difference between a contemporary version of a classic shoe and the actual shoe you’ve been wearing since Y2K.

If your wingtips are enormous, round-toed, aggressively perforated, and have been faithfully accompanying that oversized pinstripe suit since Rachel worked at Bloomingdale’s, perhaps it’s time.

And New Balance has actually become fashionable again.

Certain New Balance.

You know which ones I’m talking about.

And you also know which ones I’m not talking about.

If they’re paired with pleated khakis, a belt visibly molded to the shape of your body and a collegiate sweatshirt that looks like it came from the wardrobe department of Coach (the show, not the brand), we have entered an entirely different situation.

Which brings me to a man I know who is actually a hockey coach.

Every time I see him, I want to grab him by those generously cut shoulders and say:

Craig T. Nelson, what are you DOING?

Pleated khakis. Dated V-neck windbreaker. Ancient belt. New Balance.

The man isn’t unattractive. Quite the opposite.

That’s what makes it so frustrating.

I could fix this in one afternoon.

And I can just hear him now, “But I’m a coach. This is what we wear.” Great, go to a local Lululemon, let them know, and a salesperson will direct you to perfectly good options from this century!

Classic Does Not Mean Immortal

This seems to be the fundamental misunderstanding.

Men buy something expensive or well-made and decide it has achieved permanent stylistic immunity.

It hasn’t.

There are three entirely different concepts:

Worn out. Outdated. Timeless.

Men routinely confuse the third with the first two.

Yes, a beautiful leather bag can last for decades.

Yes, a beautifully made suit can last a very long time.

Yes, certain shoes are classics.

But proportions change. Cuts change. Toe shapes change. Trouser rises change. Jacket lengths change. Even genuinely classic menswear gets subtly updated.

“Still in good condition” and “still looks current” are two completely different standards.

And here’s perhaps the easiest test of all:

Would you walk into a store today and buy this exact item again?

Wait! Don’t answer that. Allow me:

Buy new clothes!

You Don’t Have to Dress Young. You Have to Dress Now.

Before anyone accuses me of telling men in their 60s to dress like they’re 28, let me introduce you to Mike.

Mike is a local client I see regularly. He’s probably in his mid-60s and has a full head of completely white hair.

He isn’t in the bathroom frantically dousing himself in Just For Men.

He knows exactly how old he is.

He owns it.

And the man always looks fantastic.

Sometimes it’s nothing more complicated than a great button-down and shorts. Johnnie-O. Peter Millar. Faherty. Brands that have been around for years.

The difference?

His clothes haven’t.

Everything fits. Everything looks current. Everything looks intentional without looking like he spent three hours putting an outfit together.

He always seems to have something current in rotation.

And the funniest part is that he doesn’t even seem to realize how good he looks. I’ll compliment something he’s wearing, and he’ll look down at himself like:

“This?”

Yes, Mike.

That.

That’s swag.

And let me tell you something that might motivate you more than anything else I’ve written here:

It makes him sexy.

Not because he looks younger.

He doesn’t.

He looks like a handsome man in his 60s who happens to live in this millennium.

There is a world of difference between trying to look young and refusing to look dated.

Vintage Belongs in the Garage

I know another man in Chicago who proves the same point in a completely different way.

He’s blue-collar. He restores vintage cars for a living and proudly considers himself something of a grease monkey.

And the man has impeccable taste.

He loves Bloomingdale’s on the Gold Coast. He’ll sometimes sit at the café there and hang out, and he pays attention. He walks around. He looks at what’s being sold. He sees what the mannequins are wearing. He notices what’s changing. He shops.

He doesn’t need to be a fashion expert because he remains engaged with the present.

Apparently, restoring vintage cars has taught him an important lesson:

Vintage belongs in the garage. It doesn’t necessarily belong on your body.

So if you’re thinking, “Well, I don’t naturally have Mike’s sense of style,” fine.

Be Chicago guy.

Go somewhere that sells contemporary menswear and look around.

You don’t even have to buy anything the first time.

Notice the pants.

Notice the jackets.

Notice the shoes.

Notice how things fit.

Ask someone for help.

Try something on that you wouldn’t normally choose.

Your eye will recalibrate.

The Millennium Test

So no, gentlemen, I’m not telling you to throw your entire wardrobe into a dumpster this afternoon.

I’m asking you to look at it.

Really look at it.

And perhaps conduct a few simple tests.

The Millennium Test: If an item in regular rotation was purchased when years started with 19, reassess immediately.

The Puddle Test: If your suit trousers gather around your calves and collapse onto your shoes, it’s time for a fitting—or a new suit. Frankly, at this point, I vote new suit.

The Price Defense: “But I paid $2,000 for it” does not make it current.

The Brand Defense: A prestigious label does not stop the clock.

The Body-Type Defense: Being tall, broad, muscular, heavy, thin, or long-armed does not require clothing from 1997. Modern clothes and good tailors exist for every body type.

The Patina Test: Beautifully aged leather looks better with time. Decrepit leather looks decrepit. Know the difference.

The Craig T. Nelson Test: If you look like you’re about to deliver an inspirational halftime speech on network television circa 1994, proceed directly to Nordstrom.

And finally:

The Mike Test.

You don’t need to look younger.

You don’t need designer labels.

You don’t need to become obsessed with fashion.

You don’t need to become Harry Styles.

You simply need to look like you’ve occasionally glanced around since Friends went off the air.

Age isn’t what dates you.

Refusing to update yourself does.

So go upstairs. Open the closet. Pull out the things you actually wear.

And if you find yourself clutching a 30-year-old suit to your chest and whispering, “But it’s perfectly good”—

Thank it for its service.

You’ve gotten your money’s worth.

Rachel Green would agree…

It’s time to let it go.

Years ago, when I was much more active on Twitter, I used to get into the occasional back-and-forth with men who had very strong opinions about sex workers.

You can imagine the type.

Every so often, one of them would eventually pull out what he apparently considered the ultimate insult:

“You hookers only do this because you can’t do anything else.”

At the time, I probably would have argued with him.

Actually, I have a master’s degree. I’ve had plenty of jobs. I’ve been a teacher and a matchmaker. I’ve worked in real estate. I’ve been told more than once that I’m a jack-of-all-trades. I’m perfectly capable of doing other things.

But lately I’ve been thinking about that insult again, and after eight years in this business, I have a different response.

You know what?

You’re right.

There is absolutely nothing else I could realistically do that would allow me to make the money I make now while having the autonomy, flexibility, and freedom I have now.

Nothing.

I could go back into real estate. I could find some other conventional job. I could dust off my résumé and reinvent myself yet again.

But could I earn what I earn now?

Not even close.

Could I decide I don’t feel like working on Tuesday and simply not work?

Probably not.

Could I turn down someone because I know spending six hours with him will leave me exhausted for two days?

Nope.

Could I travel when I want, take time off when I want, structure my schedule around my life instead of my life around my schedule, and increasingly decide that I simply don’t want to make every dollar available to me?

Highly unlikely.

So if the accusation is that I continue doing this because I haven’t found another profession that can compete with what this one gives me, I plead guilty.

And?

We don’t use this logic with other professions.

Imagine telling a neurosurgeon:

“You only perform brain surgery because you couldn’t make this kind of money doing anything else.”

Well…probably.

A successful trial attorney may not have another skill that would immediately command the same income. Neither might a psychiatrist, a high-end realtor, a financial advisor, or any number of people who have spent years becoming exceptionally good at something specific.

We don’t consider that evidence of their inadequacy.

We call it specialization.

We call it expertise.

Sometimes we even call it a calling.

My daughter has said something similar about medicine. She has spent so much of her adult life preparing to become a doctor that she has wondered what she would possibly do if medicine didn’t work out. It’s what she knows. It’s what she has trained for. It’s the world in which she has developed her expertise.

Nobody hears something like that from a physician and thinks, Poor thing. Apparently she isn’t capable of doing anything else.

But say the same thing about a sex worker, and suddenly it’s an indictment.

And I think I know why.

The real message behind “You only do this because you can’t do anything else” isn’t actually about occupational versatility.

It’s this:

Surely no intelligent woman with other options would choose to do this.

That’s the part I’ve finally stopped feeling obligated to disprove.

For years, though, I did.

When people asked how I got into this business, I often explained that I had been working in real estate and wasn’t making enough money.

And that was true.

I wasn’t destitute. I was doing okay. But “okay” wasn’t enough for what I needed to accomplish at that point in my life. I had two children to help put through college. I had bills. I needed to make more money.

Then I found something that allowed me to do exactly that.

For a long time, I think I used that story partly as an explanation and partly as a defense.

I had a reason.

I needed the money.

As if becoming a sex worker required an acceptable origin story.

There is another part of that real-estate chapter that I remember even more vividly.

Some of the women in my office were incredibly unkind to me. They would snicker behind my back. I had previously been a matchmaker, I dated, I posted things online, and for whatever reason, they apparently decided I was a slut and a whore.

I wasn’t a sex worker yet.

Eventually, there was something almost liberating about thinking:

Fine. You think I’m a slut and a whore anyway? I might as well become one.

And then I did.

And it turned out I was pretty damn good at it.

I remember leaving real estate with a certain amount of satisfaction and thinking:

Well, bitches. I’m paying my bills now. How about you?

At the time, that felt powerful.

Looking back, though, I realize there was still some defensiveness buried inside it.

I was still making a case.

You may think what I do is beneath you, but look how much money I’m making.

Over the years, there have been plenty of opportunities to continue making that case.

I once dated an attorney for four and a half years who, for probably the first two years of our relationship, kept trying to convince me—and perhaps himself—that he made more money than I did.

We both knew he didn’t.

Eventually, as he watched what I earned and saw the house I was able to buy, there was really no point pretending anymore.

Finally, he acknowledged it.

Yep. His girlfriend made more money than he did.

Would he have preferred that I made that money doing something he considered more respectable?

Without question.

But I didn’t.

I made it doing this.

And for a long time I think part of me wanted the income itself to vindicate me.

Look at what I’ve accomplished.

Look at what I can afford.

Look at the life I’ve built.

Surely now you’ll admit that I made the right choice.

But I’ve realized I don’t need to do that anymore either.

My income doesn’t make sex work respectable.

My education doesn’t make sex work respectable.

My previous careers don’t make it respectable.

And my ability to do something else isn’t what makes my decision legitimate.

Ironically, though, the fact that I can do other things is one of the reasons I’m good at this.

There is a strange assumption that sex work requires no particular skill beyond being willing to have sex.

Maybe that works for five minutes.

Try building a successful business around it for years.

You need to market yourself. Brand yourself. Price your time. Screen people. Assess risk. Manage a schedule. Handle travel. Maintain boundaries. Deal with cancellations. Read people. Recognize problems before they become problems. Know when to say yes and, perhaps even more importantly, when to say no.

And then there’s the actual time spent with another human being.

If someone books several hours with me, I can’t simply sit there and be attractive.

We have to talk.

I’ve met people from wildly different backgrounds and professions, and I need to be able to hold a conversation with them. My education matters. My previous careers matter. My travel matters. My curiosity matters. My ability to talk about different subjects matters. Emotional intelligence matters. Humor matters. Reading the room matters.

All those supposedly unrelated things I’ve done in my life come into the room with me.

They are part of what I’m selling.

So there’s an irony in telling me I do this because I don’t have any other skills.

My other skills are part of what made me successful at this one.

But even that argument has started to bother me.

Because why do I need to prove I’m the educated, accomplished kind of sex worker?

What about the woman who isn’t?

Maybe she didn’t have the opportunities I had.

Maybe she didn’t go to college.

Maybe she grew up poor.

Maybe her employment history is a mess.

Maybe she genuinely doesn’t have another marketable skill that would allow her to earn anything close to what she can make doing sex work.

Maybe she really does do this because she can’t figure out anything else that works for her.

So what?

Most people can get a job.

That doesn’t mean every available job pays enough to live.

If a woman can earn considerably more doing sex work than she could working a conventional job, and that money allows her to pay her rent, feed her children, get herself out of debt or simply create a better life, why exactly is choosing the better-paying option evidence that she’s stupid?

Maybe she isn’t incapable of getting a regular job.

Maybe she can do math.

I’ve had plenty of men tell me some version of, “Hell, if somebody would pay me that much to have sex, I’d do it too.”

Exactly.

Thank you for making my point.

I remember another encounter years ago in Las Vegas.

I had attended a meet-and-greet event with other providers and potential clients. Afterward, I shared a limo back with two women who happened to be heading in the same general direction.

They weren’t part of the event. They were just two women out having a good time in Vegas, and they were pretty drunk.

One of them kept looking at me.

Finally she asked, “Why are you here?”

I knew exactly where this was going.

She told me that she used to be a stripper and then started trying to coax me into telling her what I did.

I didn’t take the bait.

“Uh-huh.”

She tried again.

I gave her nothing.

She kept badgering me, and I remember sitting there thinking:

Why is this any of your business?

There was something about the conversation that felt as though I were supposed to confess something. She used to be a stripper. Whatever I was doing now was apparently information she felt entitled to have.

I wasn’t interested in participating.

Maybe she was simply drunk and curious. Maybe I was reading more into it than she intended. I have no idea.

But I remember very clearly what I felt:

I don’t owe you this information, and I certainly don’t owe you an explanation for it.

It took me much longer to realize that applies to everyone else too.

The people who matter to me know what I do.

My children know.

My family knows.

I know.

And I’m okay with it.

So why have I spent so much time over the years mentally defending myself to people whose opinions have absolutely no bearing on my life?

Why did I need the women from the real-estate office to know I became successful?

Why did it matter whether my boyfriend admitted I earned more than he did?

Why did I ever feel compelled to explain that I was educated, that I’d had other careers, that I was capable of doing something else?

Why did some random man on Twitter deserve my résumé simply because he called me a hooker and told me I couldn’t do anything else?

He didn’t.

And he still doesn’t.

Maybe I really couldn’t do anything else that would give me what this career has given me.

Actually, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t.

I can’t think of another job that would give me this income and this much control over my time.

I can’t think of another profession where I could protect my energy the way I do now.

I can’t think of another job where I could decide that a particular amount of money simply isn’t worth what earning it would require of me—and turn it down.

I can’t think of anything else I could do that would give me this particular combination of financial security, autonomy, flexibility, freedom, and agency.

Agency over my time certainly.

But more importantly, agency over my body.

The right to decide who gets near it, who gets on top of it, who gets around it, and who gets involved with it.

And the absolute right to say no when I don’t want them to.

So perhaps that guy on Twitter was right all along.

I only do this because I can’t do anything else.

Anything else that gives me this.

And after eight years of trying, in one way or another, to prove that I’m capable of more, I’ve finally realized something.

I don’t need him to be wrong.

And?

Today I saw one of those reels online. You know the ones.

A disgruntled, vaguely condescending voice narrates about how back in the ’70s, we kids weren’t made to wear seat belts. In the summertime, we’d leave the house at 8 a.m., unhelmeted on our banana-seat bikes, and weren’t expected home until just before dark. Our neighbors were allowed to punish us, only for us to come home and face another tongue-lashing because apparently double jeopardy wasn’t yet a thing.

The fact that any of us survived is something of a statistical anomaly.

And yes, I remember it all.

I remember watching television shows like Green Acres and The Dick Van Dyke Show in black and white. We even still had a black-and-white television in our house. I remember making popcorn in one of those enormous hot-air popping machines. I remember rotary telephones and busy signals and a world where, if someone called when you weren’t home, too bad. They’d have to try again.

There was no voicemail. No text message. No little red notification waiting to inform you that someone had attempted to reach you.

You simply weren’t available.

And somehow civilization continued.

If we weren’t sure what time it was, we’d call Popcorn. An actual telephone number whose entire purpose was to tell you the time.

And if a boy wanted to talk to you, he didn’t call you.

He called your house.

In fifth grade, my little boyfriend, Derek Ziegler, would call my house and inevitably have to speak to my stepfather before the phone ever reached me.

Clad in a cutoff AC/DC T-shirt or a green-and-white striped knit polo, Derek would sometimes wait for me halfway to school on his BMX bike, until I’d eventually come pedaling along on my 10-speed in my glittery purple leg warmers and puffy pink headband twisted in gold—the kind you wore across your forehead, not on your actual head.

It was quite the romance. In fact, I’m pretty sure we were the envy of all the fifth- and sixth-graders at Valley View Elementary School.

There was no "I’m here" texting. No Find My Friends. Derek just waited there on his BMX bike, trusting that eventually the girl in the obnoxious purple leg warmers would show up.

And somehow she did.

But talking on the telephone was another matter.

I would sit there absolutely mortified, wondering what the hell my asshole stepfather was saying to him. Was he interrogating him? Threatening him? Asking a fifth-grade boy what his intentions were with his stepdaughter?

I had no idea.

There was no direct line to me.

You had to go through management.

Which is rather ironic, considering I now make my living, in large part, by being connected to the entire world through a tiny computer I carry in my pocket. The girl who grew up with a rotary telephone now makes her mortgage payment thanks to the World Wide Web.

And doing something I never could have imagined myself doing.

I’m a hired companion.

More than that, I write publicly about the work. I advocate for it. I defend the women who do it and challenge many of the assumptions people make about us.

If you had shown 12-year-old me a glimpse of my life today, I’m not sure which part would have been more difficult for me to comprehend: what I would eventually do for a living or the technology that would make it possible.

Although, come to think of it, maybe there were signs.

Sometime around the age of 12 or 13, my friends and I discovered phone-sex numbers, which was super exciting. We would get together and call them as a joke, all of us crowded around the telephone while one girl did the talking. The rest of us would cover the mouthpiece with our hands and dissolve into hysterical giggles before taking turns talking to the person on the other end.

We thought we were absolutely hilarious.

Of course, the joke was on us.

The person on the other end of the phone didn’t give a shit whether we were horny men, curious women, or a gaggle of adolescent girls trying desperately not to laugh into the receiver. The meter was running and every additional minute we stayed on that phone giggling was another minute they were getting paid.

We thought we were prank callers, but in actuality, we were customers!

In retrospect, I have to respect the business model. But I remember something else about those calls—the people we talked to were nice. Really nice.

And I remember thinking, even then: Why is this illegal?

I didn’t understand what the big deal was. Nobody seemed to be getting hurt. The people on the phone weren’t frightening or sleazy or any of the things I suppose I had been conditioned to imagine someone selling sex would be.

They were just people.

The only shame I remember feeling about the entire episode came later, when my mother got the phone bill. And she was furious.

Fortunately, she didn’t know what the number actually was, and I certainly wasn’t about to tell her. So I told her we’d been calling an astrology line.

Apparently my mother found it entirely plausible that her adolescent daughter and her friends had simply spent a small fortune seeking astrological guidance and finding out whether Mercury was in retrograde over the telephone.

And she bought it.

Thank God.

Because had she known what we’d actually been calling, she would have lost her mind. And then I probably would have learned that this was something I was supposed to feel ashamed about.

But at the time, I wasn’t ashamed because it was phone sex. I was ashamed because I’d run up my mother’s phone bill.

That’s the difference.

I certainly didn’t walk away from those calls thinking, Someday I’m going to do something vaguely adjacent to this for a living.

I was an innocent kid who was actually a little afraid of “the future.” Technology seemed strange and intimidating. Computers were these mysterious machines that were supposedly going to change everything.

As it turns out, they did.

Turns out I was absolutely right to think computers would change my life.

I was just wildly wrong about how.

When I was growing up, the image of a sex worker was essentially a call girl or a woman working a city street corner. Advertising meant classified ads and alternative newspapers. Phone sex itself felt startlingly modern.

There was no OnlyFans.

There was no Tryst.

There were no personal websites where an independent provider could introduce herself to the world, explain who she is, show her personality, establish her boundaries and decide exactly how she wanted to present herself.

There certainly wasn’t social media, where one woman sitting in her house could cast a net that reaches thousands of people she would otherwise never encounter.

Today, someone can find me from hundreds or even thousands of miles away.

He doesn’t have to call my workplace.

He doesn’t have to talk to my manager.

He doesn’t even have to know my phone number.

Derek Ziegler would be astonished.

Before someone ever contacts me, he can see my photographs. He can read my writing. He can learn something about my personality. He can understand how I work, what I expect, and whether I might be someone he wants to meet.

I didn’t merely become a sex worker.

Technology allowed me to become my own brand.

And somehow, the kid who grew up in a world where missing a telephone call meant you simply missed the telephone call eventually became a woman who occasionally finds herself thinking:

Sir. This appointment does not require 25 emails.

Now that is irony.

But perhaps the greatest irony isn’t technological at all.

It’s personal.

I wish I could say that my surprisingly enlightened attitude toward the people working those phone-sex lines meant I was some kind of junior-high feminist visionary.

I was not.

Just ask Nora Sherman.

One night, four or five of my girlfriends and I were having a sleepover at my friend Becky’s house. We decided it would be a terrific idea to stay up late, sneak outside, and toilet-paper houses around the neighborhood.

Again, apparently surviving childhood was miraculous.

At some point, we came upon the house of a girl named Nora.

She was one year older than we were. She was already in high school while we were still in junior high.

And Nora had a boyfriend.

This was apparently all the evidence junior-high me required to reach the obvious conclusion:

Nora was a slut.

Why?

I have absolutely no idea.

She was older than us. She had a boyfriend. Apparently I put two and two together and came up with “loose”.

And because I was the big show-off of the group, I had a brilliant idea.

Let’s write SLUT across her lawn in toilet paper.

This turned out to be one of the poorer strategic decisions of my adolescence.

Because Nora and her friends eventually figured out who had toilet-papered her house and conducted what I remember as something resembling a criminal investigation.

And my dear friend Becky caved immediately.

Apparently there was no honor among toilet-papering junior-high girls.

When questioned about whose brilliant idea it had been to write SLUT across Nora’s lawn, Becky folded like a cheap aluminum chair and threw me directly under the bus.

It was me.

Which became particularly unfortunate when I entered high school the following year and Nora and her scary friends were already there.

Waiting for me.

That one brilliant evening followed me for exactly the next three years. No breaks. No reprieves. No hiatuses.

Year after year, I was Public Enemy Numero Uno to Nora’s gaggle of friends, where I was taunted, called names, gossiped about, and even had my car deeply keyed all along the driver’s side by one of them!

And here’s another bit of irony I’d completely forgotten.

Nora and some of those same girls had known exactly who I was before the toilet-paper incident.

Back when Derek and I were in fifth grade, my best friend Kara was dating Derek’s best friend, Scott. The four of us would sometimes walk to Scott’s house after school, where Derek and I were busy undertaking the very serious fifth-grade business of learning how to make out.

Apparently this was compelling enough entertainment that Nora and some of her friends actually followed us there one afternoon and watched us through the windows.

So let’s review.

I was ten or eleven years old, sneaking off after school to practice making out with my AC/DC-shirt-wearing boyfriend while the older girls conducted surveillance from outside.

And somehow, a year or two later, I decided Nora was the slut.

The prosecution rests.

And looking back now, I can appreciate the spectacular irony of the entire thing. At roughly the same age, I could talk to someone selling phone sex and think:

He seems nice.

What’s the big deal?

Why shouldn’t he be allowed to do this?

And then apparently walk down the street, encounter the home of a girl one year older than me who happened to have a boyfriend, and think:

Slut.

I was simultaneously questioning sexual stigma and enthusiastically participating in it. Because that’s how complicated these messages can be.

I had absorbed the idea that there was something shameful about a girl being sexual before I was even old enough to understand what being sexual actually meant.

Nora had a boyfriend. That was apparently enough.

And now?

Well.

Who’s the slut now, Nora?

Because that innocent little girl couldn’t have imagined this technology. She couldn’t have imagined this profession. And she absolutely couldn’t have imagined that someday she would be writing publicly about it—not apologizing for it, not hiding from it, but advocating for the people who do it.

Maybe that’s the greatest irony of all — that now I make my living as a hired companion, largely through technology that didn’t exist when any of those things happened.

More importantly, I use that same technology to write about this work, challenge the stigma around it, and question the very judgments I once absorbed myself.

Forty-some years later, I’m still asking essentially the same question that occurred to me while my little girlfriends and I giggled into that telephone:

What’s the big deal?

Why shouldn’t they be allowed to do this?

Only now, thanks to all that terrifying technology I never could have imagined, I have a much bigger platform from which to ask it.

And somewhere out there, Nora is presumably entitled to one enormous:

I told you so.

And for the record, Nora went on to marry one of my grade school classmates, have children and, from everything I know, live a perfectly conventional married life.

Meanwhile, I’m over here writing essays about my career as a hired companion.

Well played, Nora. Well played.

When I first started doing this work, I was full of vim and vigor. Everything felt exciting. A new city? Let’s go. Another appointment? Absolutely. A packed week? Even better.

I remember thinking, Wow. This is great. Let’s see how much I can make in a week.

And I did.

I traveled constantly. I worked at a much higher volume than I do now. I said yes far more often. There was something exhilarating about watching the numbers climb and discovering what I was capable of earning.

I don’t regret that period at all. I needed it, and I enjoyed it.

But it doesn’t excite me anymore. What excites me now is something I didn’t appreciate nearly as much when I started:

The freedom to say no.

No, that appointment isn’t a fit for me. No, I don’t want to rearrange my entire day for that request. No, I don’t want to spend several hours with this particular person just because he’s willing to pay me. No, I don’t need to turn every inquiry into money.

That last one has probably been the biggest evolution of all.

I’ve been doing a lot of work on myself over the past year, and somewhere along the way I realized that I don’t want to maximize every possible dollar anymore.

I want to evolve—as a woman, as a businessperson, and as a human being.

And what I value now isn’t quite the same as what I valued when I started.

I value my energy and sleeping in my own bed. I value yoga and walking on the beach. I value sitting on the couch with my son watching one of our favorite shows or going to a local farm together. I value having stretches of my calendar where nobody needs anything from me.

And increasingly, I value being discerning about whom I allow into my orbit.

That includes clients.

This business tends to evaluate every decision by the money attached to it. If someone offers you $1,000 and you turn it down, you’ve “lost” $1,000. How could you? You ingrate!

But have you really lost it?

What if you didn’t particularly want to see him? What if something about the inquiry told you that you probably weren’t a good fit? What if you knew you’d spend more energy managing the person than the money was worth to you? What if it cost your soul more than it paid your bank account?

Or what if you’d simply rather go to yoga?

There was a time when I would have looked at that same $1,000 and thought, Of course I’m taking it. Now I can look at it and think, No. I’d rather have my time.

I often have to remind myself that it isn’t laziness. And that it isn’t a lack of ambition.

Saying no comes from finally understanding that my energy is an asset, too.

The Fantasy Math

Something strange happens when people hear what women in this business charge by the hour.

They start doing imaginary math.

When I first started, my rate was $500 an hour. The second time I saw one particular client, he pointed this out to me.

“You make what an attorney makes,” he said. In fact, he told me I made more per hour than some attorneys he knew.

Technically? Sure.

But his calculation had one rather significant flaw.

I wasn’t making $500 an hour for eight hours a day.

I might see one person that day. Maybe two. And there were plenty of days when I saw nobody at all.

An attorney billing $500 an hour has a profession structured around generating billable hours week after week, month after month, year after year. My $500 was the price of one particular hour that someone happened to book.

Those are not remotely the same thing.

I still see versions of this faulty math today.

Someone hears about a woman making five figures for an overnight and thinks, My God. She’s making more in one night than some people make in months.

She might be.

But she isn’t necessarily doing that tonight. And tomorrow night. And the night after that.

If I make five figures on a particular night, I don’t wake up the next morning knowing another five-figure engagement is waiting for me that evening.

I might not make another dollar that week.

That’s the nature of irregular income.

People love taking an hourly rate and multiplying it by eight hours a day, five days a week, 52 weeks a year.

On paper, apparently we’re all multimillionaires.

I assure you, reality is considerably less tidy.

And frankly, I wouldn’t want to be booked eight hours a day, five days a week. This work requires concentration, emotional and social energy, stamina, presence, and, unlike many other highly compensated professions, it can also have a significant physical component.

That doesn’t mean my work is harder than being an attorney, a Broadway performer, a physician, or anyone else.

I don’t need it to be.

Compensation isn’t a contest over whose job is hardest.

But if we’re going to compare hourly rates, we should at least compare them honestly.

My rate isn’t my salary. My best night isn’t my average night. And my highest-paying engagement isn’t something I can simply replicate whenever I’d like another one.

That’s also why I’ve stopped feeling as though I need to apologize for the occasional extraordinary payday.

I’ve caught myself looking at a particularly lucrative engagement and wondering whether I should feel guilty about earning that much in one night. Surely there are incredibly talented and accomplished people who don’t make that much for an evening’s work.

And then I realized something.

So what?

Even if I were making $4.4 million a year, why would that automatically mean I didn’t deserve it?

There’s something almost absurd about women reaching a certain level of financial success and then feeling compelled to immediately qualify it.

Don’t worry. I don’t actually make THAT much.

Why?

I’m perfectly comfortable acknowledging that my annual income isn’t remotely what someone might calculate by multiplying my highest rate across every hour of every day.

But I don’t need that reality to make my earnings morally acceptable.

I can say both things:

No, I don’t make nearly as much as you think I do.

And:

Yes, I deserve every dollar I actually make.

Those statements aren’t contradictory.

My Rates Don’t Require Your Approval

Of course, people have opinions about my rates.

Lots of them.

I’ve had longtime clients tell me not to change a thing. One client even compared me to another woman he’d seen who charged very high rates and told me, essentially, She wasn’t worth what she charged. But you? You’re worth every dime.

Those comments feel good.

I’ve also received considerably less flattering assessments.

Are you kidding me? Who do you think you are? Nobody charges that in New Jersey. The most women here charge is $600 an hour.

And another man once told me, For what you charge for one hour, I could get two 20-year-olds who will stay with me all night.

Well.

Then perhaps you should go do that.

Those comments don’t feel quite as good.

But I’ve eventually realized something important:

I have to let both of them roll off me like water off a duck.

The man telling me I’m worth every penny doesn’t get to establish my value any more than the man indignantly telling me I’m overpriced gets to diminish it.

They’re simply two different consumers looking at the same offering and reaching two different conclusions.

One says, Absolutely.

The other says, Not for me.

Perfect.

That’s how a market works.

The man who tells me he can get something entirely different for less money is inadvertently making my point for me.

Of course he can.

He can find someone younger. Someone cheaper. Someone willing to stay longer. Someone whose business model looks nothing like mine.

But if that’s what he wants, then I’m not losing a client.

I’ve identified someone who was never my client in the first place.

My mistake would be believing I need to convince him otherwise.

I don’t.

If I don’t believe in my own rates, that uncertainty eventually shows up in my business. I start explaining. Justifying. Discounting. Trying to persuade people that I’m worth what I’ve already decided to charge.

And that’s exhausting.

There’s tremendous freedom in simply saying:

These are my rates. This is what it costs to spend this time with me.

No dissertation required.

The right client doesn’t necessarily think my rates are inexpensive. There’s an important difference between expensive and too expensive for me.

He may look at the number and recognize that it’s substantial.

But he also knows whether he wants the experience badly enough—and whether he can comfortably afford it.

My rates don’t have to make sense for your budget. They have to make sense for my business.

If the market stopped supporting them entirely, that would be useful information, and I’d have a business decision to make.

But one man telling me I’m too expensive isn’t the market speaking.

It’s one man telling me he’s not my market.

And that’s okay.

In fact, I’d rather someone decide that my rate is outside his comfort zone than stretch financially to see me and arrive carrying resentment, anxiety, or an expectation that because he spent more than he normally would, I somehow owe him something extraordinary in return.

That’s not a dynamic I want.

The longer I do this, the less interested I am in convincing everyone that I’m worth my rates.

I’m interested in finding the people who already think I am.

Because She Can

I’ve had this conversation with clients about other women too.

A client will mention a provider with particularly high rates and say something like, Can you believe what she charges?

Sometimes he’s genuinely baffled.

And my response is usually a question.

Do you know why she charges that?

Why?

Because she can.

That’s it.

Presumably, she has arrived at a price that works for her and found enough people willing to pay it that she sees no compelling reason to change it.

Maybe she books constantly.

Maybe she books twice a month.

Maybe twice a month is exactly what she wants.

That’s the part people miss.

They assume the goal must always be to attract the largest possible number of customers.

But what if it isn’t?

What if she would rather see two people at her rate than ten people at somebody else’s?

What if she has deliberately priced herself at a level that limits demand because she doesn’t want unlimited demand?

You don’t have to understand why she charges what she charges.

You don’t even have to think she’s worth it.

You just don’t have to book her.

And if enough other people continue to do so at the price she’s chosen, the argument over what she “should” charge becomes rather pointless.

And clients aren’t the only ones who do this.

I’ve had provider friends send me another woman’s website with some version of, “Oh my God, look what she charges.” And if I’m being fair, I’ve probably been guilty of doing the same thing myself.

But the longer I do this, the more I realize: so what?

I’ve even had another provider publicly criticize my own rates and apparently discuss them with mutual clients, as though my pricing structure were somehow hers to weigh in on.

I ignored it.

Because really, what I charge is no more her business than what another woman charges is mine.

If someone wants to charge twice what I charge and she can build the business she wants around that number, good for her.

Because if she can, why shouldn’t she?

Experience Taught Me What My Yes Costs

The truth is, nobody else can tell me what my rates should be.

Only I know the number at which something becomes worthwhile for me.

And I didn’t arrive at those numbers arbitrarily.

I arrived at them through experience.

Lots of experience.

I’ve had overnights in my past that I look back on now and think, I cannot believe I did all of that for that amount of money.

I’ve accepted what was supposed to be a two-hour appointment only to have it effectively become four hours of my time while I was still being compensated for two.

I’ve underestimated travel.

I’ve underestimated exhaustion.

I’ve underestimated how much an unusual schedule would disrupt the rest of my day—or the following one.

I’ve underestimated the cost of being socially and emotionally “on” for hours longer than I anticipated.

And every one of those experiences taught me something.

Eventually, you stop pricing an engagement based on how easy it sounds when someone proposes it and start pricing it based on what experience has taught you it will actually cost you.

That’s how my rates have evolved.

They’re not designed to extract every possible dollar from another person.

They’re designed to answer a much simpler question:

What would I need to be paid for me to genuinely want to do this?

Sometimes that number is relatively straightforward.

Sometimes it’s very high.

And sometimes there isn’t a number because I simply don’t want to do it. (As I wrote about in Apparently Nobody Wants to Go on a Cruise for Free.)

Money can compensate me for inconvenience. It can compensate me for travel. It can compensate me for giving up sleep, rearranging my schedule, devoting an unusually large amount of time to someone, or accepting an engagement that I know will require substantial energy.

But the amount has to reflect the actual cost to me.

Not just financially.

Physically.

Mentally.

Emotionally.

Energetically.

Because if I consistently agree to things for less than the amount that makes them worthwhile to me, eventually something predictable happens.

I become resentful.

And resentment is expensive.

It makes me enjoy my work less. It makes me dread seeing someone I might otherwise enjoy. It makes me feel as though I’m giving something away rather than willingly providing it.

Eventually, it can make me decide I don’t want to see that person at all.

So charging enough isn’t only about protecting me.

In a strange way, it also protects the client relationship.

I’d much rather quote a number that makes me genuinely happy to say yes and lets him decide whether it’s worth it, than quote a lower number, get the booking, and privately resent everything the booking requires of me.

That’s not generosity.

That’s bad business.

When I was newer, I sometimes thought the accomplishment was getting the booking.

Now I understand that the accomplishment is structuring the booking so that when it arrives, I’m still glad I said yes.

That’s the number I’m looking for.

Not the maximum amount someone will pay.

The amount at which I’m willing to do it without wishing I hadn’t.

Premium Rates Have a Price Too

Another reality about premium rates is worth acknowledging.

Generally speaking, the higher your rates become, the smaller your potential client pool becomes.

It’s economics.

There are simply more people who can comfortably afford a lower rate than a premium one. And in a softer economy (like our current one), women working at lower rates and higher volume may sometimes find themselves considerably busier than women positioned at the luxury end of the market.

Neither approach is inherently better.

One woman may decide she’d rather charge less and see more people.

Another may decide she’d rather charge substantially more, accept that she’ll probably book less frequently, and protect more of her time and energy.

I’ve increasingly chosen the latter.

And there’s a financial trade-off attached to that choice.

A rate tells you what someone charges when she’s booked.

It tells you absolutely nothing about how often she’s booked.

The woman charging the highest rate in a particular market may not be the woman generating the highest annual income. A lower-priced woman working at significantly higher volume could very easily earn more.

I know firsthand just how misleading appearances can be.

I’ve been the woman doing extraordinarily well.

I’ve been the woman having a terrible month.

I’ve intentionally worked only a few days because that’s all I wanted to work.

And I’ve desperately wished the phone would ring more.

I’ve been every one of those women.

I’ve reached a point where I would rather have fewer engagements at rates that make those engagements genuinely worthwhile to me than lower my rates simply to keep myself busier.

That means I sometimes leave money on the table.

It means I sometimes have a quiet week.

It means I occasionally watch someone else seemingly running circles around me while I’m sitting at home wondering whether I should be doing more.

And then I remember:

I don’t want her schedule.

I want mine.

A premium rate doesn’t tell you what a woman’s bank account looks like.

What it can tell you is how much she's decided is worth giving up for that particular piece of her time.

Fear Loves an Empty Calendar

And I want to be careful about the word backward.

Changing my rates would not inherently mean I had failed or regressed.

There may come a time when I decide I genuinely want to work at a higher volume again. Maybe I’ll miss being busier. Maybe my priorities will change. Maybe I’ll deliberately restructure my business to broaden my client base and fill my calendar more.

If I make that decision thoughtfully, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it.

But I won’t make it out of fear.

And if I’m being completely transparent, there can be a lot of fear in this business. At least there has been for me.

Fear that business will dry up. Fear that the phone will stop ringing. Fear that a quiet week will become a quiet month. Fear that someday I won’t be as desirable as I am today. Fear that something I’ve spent years building could simply disappear.

I suspect more women in this business carry those fears than we openly admit.

There’s pressure to project success. To be booked and busy. To look perpetually desirable and perpetually in demand.

But nobody is perpetually in demand.

Some weeks are good; others are terrible. Extraordinary months and frightening ones. Some periods you can barely keep up with the inquiries; others, you start wondering whether your website is broken.

And fear loves an empty calendar.

It starts whispering.

Maybe you’ve gotten this all wrong.

Maybe you’re being too selective.

Maybe nobody wants you anymore.

Maybe you need to take whatever comes along.

That’s when I have to be particularly careful.

Because there’s a difference between saying, I’ve reconsidered my business model, and this is what I want now, and allowing a frighteningly quiet week to make that decision for me.

Fear makes you chase.

Fear makes you second-guess things you decided when you were thinking clearly.

Fear makes you abandon boundaries because suddenly any money feels better than no money.

And fear can convince you to rebuild a version of your life that you deliberately worked your way out of.

My business model may change someday. My rates may change someday.

I may change.

In fact, I hope I do.

But those will be deliberate decisions about the direction of my business—not negotiations born from a quiet week or someone’s discomfort with what I charge.

If I change direction, I want to do it because I’m moving toward something I want—not because I’m running away from something I’m afraid of.

Because perhaps the biggest thing I’m learning at this stage of my life isn’t how to eliminate fear.

It’s how to stop letting fear make my decisions for me.

What Am I Actually Trying to Maximize?

The market has undeniably been softer this year. I’ve felt it, and I’ve talked to many other women who have, too.

But I’ve also had to acknowledge something else:

The market has softened from my side as well.

I’m not saying yes as often.

I’m not chasing every opportunity.

I’m not traveling everywhere simply because somebody might book me.

I’m not trying to fill every available hole in my calendar.

I’m more selective about the people I see, the circumstances under which I see them, and the amount of disruption I’m willing to absorb.

Does that sting financially sometimes?

Of course it does.

Some months, I look at the numbers and know perfectly well I could probably have made more.

But I also know something else.

My life feels better.

My mental health is better.

My days belong to me in a way they didn’t when I was constantly calculating how to turn the next available block of time into income.

I’m happier. I’m more peaceful. I’m more discerning. I have more control over my time.

And yes, sometimes the price of that peace is money I could have earned.

I’m increasingly okay with that.

Because perhaps the biggest financial lesson I’ve learned from this work is that more isn’t automatically better.

More clients isn’t necessarily better. More appointments aren’t necessarily better. More travel isn’t necessarily better. And even more money isn’t necessarily better if earning it requires me to give up too much of the life I’ve finally learned to value.

I’m also realistic.

I won’t do this forever.

There is a finite window in which this particular business will be part of my life, and I don’t find that depressing.

It actually makes me more intentional.

Yes, I want to earn well while I can.

Yes, I want to make smart financial decisions and take advantage of an unusual earning opportunity while it’s available to me.

In fact, a perfectly nice client recently patted me on the knee as we were getting up and said, “I really hope you’re saving, Dani. Because, you know, neither of us is going to live forever. We don’t really have much time left.”

I know he meant well. But comments like that always make me pause. Would you finish a meeting with your accountant, pat her on the knee and say, “You know, Susan, I really hope you’re saving your money because you can’t do this forever”?

Of course I think about my financial future. The fact that my career has an expiration date doesn’t mean my financial planning began five minutes ago.

But I don’t want to arrive at the end of this chapter having extracted every possible dollar while exhausting myself in the process.

I want both.

I want to maximize the opportunities that are genuinely worth maximizing.

And I want to preserve enough energy for yoga classes, beach walks, afternoons with my son, and evenings when nobody is paying me for anything because nobody gets to have me.

Maybe that’s the evolution.

When I started, I thought freedom was discovering how much money I could make.

Now I think freedom is knowing that I don’t have to make every dollar available to me.

I’ve finally figured out what I’m actually trying to maximize.

It’s not every possible dollar.

It’s the quality of the life I’m building with the dollars I choose to earn.

And sometimes the most valuable appointment on my calendar is the one I decide not to take.

A client of mine loves cruises.

For quite some time, he’d been trying to find a provider who would go on one with him. He’d brought it up with me more than once, even coming right out and saying, “We should go on a cruise together. That would be so amazing.”

I never said yes. I never really engaged with the idea at all, so it never went anywhere.

He’d take me on the cruise.

He’d pay for the cruise.

But he wasn’t planning to compensate me for my time.

The cruise was the compensation.

I never took the bait.

He used to tell me how hot it would be for the two of us to be together on a cruise. How we’d never leave the bedroom. How much fun we’d have.

And, more importantly, how much I should want to do it.

That last part always fascinated me.

Because he wasn’t just fantasizing about taking me on a cruise. He had apparently written my part of the fantasy too.

In his version, I was supposed to be equally excited by the prospect. I was supposed to think spending days together on a ship, barely leaving the room, sounded so irresistible that of course I wouldn’t expect to be compensated for my time.

Eventually, while lamenting his inability to find a provider willing to go with him, he rolled his eyes and said:

“Because apparently nobody wants to go on a cruise for free.”

Internally, I had an immediate response:

It ain’t for free, sweetheart.

And therein lies the problem.

From his perspective, he was offering someone a free cruise. Who wouldn’t want that? A beautiful ship. Nice meals. Exotic ports. Entertainment. A cabin. Everything paid for.

From my perspective, he was asking a woman to give him several consecutive days of her professional time in exchange for being allowed to accompany him on a vacation he wanted to take.

Those are two very different propositions.

Because here’s the thing:

If I have to spend several days accompanying you in order to receive the cruise, the cruise isn’t free.

I’m paying for it with my time.

And my time happens to be the very thing I sell.

If I Wanted to Go, I Would Have Gone

This was the part he never really seemed to understand.

If I really wanted to go on that cruise with him, I would have done it.

I understood exactly what he was suggesting.

Every time he brought up the cruise, it wasn’t because I somehow hadn’t understood what he was proposing.

I wasn’t waiting for him to sell it to me a little harder.

I wasn’t secretly dying to go but somehow failing to communicate my enthusiasm.

I simply wasn’t interested in spending several days of my time fulfilling his fantasy for free.

The same thing happens when clients repeatedly suggest that we should date.

Trust me. I heard you.

I heard you the first time you said we’d make a great couple. I heard you the second time you told me you wished we’d met under different circumstances. I heard you the third time you suggested I should just date you instead.

My lack of response isn’t evidence that your message hasn’t gotten through.

It is the response.

Pick up the clue phone. It’s ringing.

Not to sound rude or dismissive, but if I wanted to date you, I would date you.

Saying it again next month—or packaging it differently, or joking about it, or telling me how good we’d be together—doesn’t make me more likely to suddenly discover an interest I somehow overlooked the first five times.

I’m well aware that you’d like to date me. But your desire to have a different relationship with me doesn’t create that relationship.

And this is really the same problem as the cruise.

You want to go on the cruise with me.

You think we’d have an amazing time.

You think it would be hot.

You would like me to accompany you without being compensated for my time.

None of those statements tells us anything about whether I want to go.

Sometimes there isn’t a communication problem. Sometimes the other person understood you perfectly.

They just didn’t say yes.

And maybe that’s the bigger lesson here.

When someone keeps describing how much you would enjoy doing something they desperately want you to do, there’s a good chance they’re confusing their fantasy with yours.

You don’t get to decide that for another person.

The Fantasy of the “Free Vacation”

A vacation is only a vacation when I choose where I’m going, who I’m going with, what I’m doing, and how I’m spending my time.

Otherwise, it may simply be work in a beautiful location.

And in this particular case, let’s just say the cruise wouldn’t exactly be a week at the spa for me.

This client is intense.

He’s loud. He’s high-energy. He talks a lot. He requires a lot of engagement. In smaller doses, I can enjoy his company. But after spending time together, I’m usually ready for some quiet.

Now multiply that by seven days.

On a ship.

In the middle of the ocean.

With nowhere to go.

And every time he described it, I couldn’t help noticing that his fantasy contained absolutely no downtime for me.

What sounded exhilarating to him sounded exhausting to me.

A week of being socially “on.” A week of conversation. A week of meals together. A week of waking up together and going to bed together. A week of someone expecting my attention because, after all, we came on this trip together.

Even the phrase we’d never leave the bedroom landed differently depending on which side of the fantasy you were standing on.

He heard:

Seven uninterrupted days with a woman I’m wildly attracted to.

I heard:

Wait. When exactly do I get to be alone?

And that’s something people sometimes overlook when imagining these extended arrangements.

Companionship is work.

Being engaging is work.

Being attentive is work.

Maintaining energy, conversation, affection and enthusiasm for hours — let alone days — requires something from another human being.

That doesn’t mean it’s fake. I genuinely enjoy many of the people I spend time with.

But enjoying someone for 90 minutes doesn’t automatically mean I want to spend 168 consecutive hours with them.

Those are very different levels of intimacy and energy.

Think about what traveling with a client actually entails.

I have to pack. Travel. Completely rearrange several days of my schedule. Turn down other appointments. Spend extended periods socially engaged. Sleep away from my own bed. Wake up with someone (if I even get much sleep!). Eat meals together. Attend activities together. Navigate airports, restaurants, excursions, and whatever itinerary has been planned.

And depending on the arrangement, I may have very little genuinely private time.

So when someone says he’s offering me a “free vacation,” he’s calculating what the trip would cost him financially.

He’s not calculating what the trip would cost me energetically.

Those are both costs.

And frankly, with certain personalities, the second one may be considerably more expensive.

My time has value whether we’re sitting in a hotel room in Pittsburgh or standing on the balcony of a cruise ship in the Caribbean.

The scenery doesn’t change that.

And neither does the fact that there’s a buffet.

Who Decided This Was My Dream Vacation?

That’s the assumption underneath so many of these propositions.

A client comes up with something he considers amazing and automatically assigns it the same value on my behalf.

A cruise.

A weekend in Vegas.

A birthday trip.

A resort.

A sporting event.

An elaborate dinner.

But who decided I wanted any of those things?

Maybe I don’t like cruises.

Maybe I don’t want to spend a week on a ship.

Maybe I don’t want to eat dinner with the same person seven nights in a row.

Maybe I don’t want to wake up next to a client every morning.

Maybe I’d rather be home.

And maybe — brace yourself — I can afford to take myself on a cruise.

Luxury is subjective.

Time isn’t.

But Look at Everything You’re Getting!

I once had another client make the same basic proposition to me during our very first — and ultimately only — booking.

We were sitting in the lounge of his five-star hotel, having drinks and appetizers. The hotel had a Michelin-rated restaurant, and he started telling me about a woman he’d had in his life a few years earlier who was more of a sugar baby.

Then he explained that he’d like something similar with me.

He’d take me to beautiful restaurants.

I’d accompany him on business trips.

We’d stay in luxury hotels and have all these wonderful experiences together.

Then he got to the part that mattered.

“And I don’t want to have to pay you for your time every time.”

Every time?

What did that mean, exactly?

Every third time he might throw me a bone?

The irony was almost comical.

We were sitting in the lounge of his five-star hotel during a booking he was currently paying me for, while he explained that he’d like to transition me into an arrangement where he’d continue receiving the very thing he valued — my time and companionship — except he wouldn’t have to compensate me for it anymore.

Apparently, the luxury surroundings were supposed to make up the difference.

But again, those were things he wanted to do.

He wanted to eat at beautiful restaurants.

He wanted to stay in five-star hotels.

He wanted company on his business trips.

I wasn’t being offered a salary plus fabulous benefits.

And when you think about it in any other professional context, the proposition becomes almost comical.

Imagine going into work one morning and telling your employer, “You know what? I really enjoy it here. The office is beautiful, you take me to nice dinners, and sometimes I get to travel to interesting places. You can stop paying me now.”

Nobody does that.

And your employer certainly wouldn’t assume that because the business trip involves a nice hotel and a great restaurant, you should be thrilled to do your job for free.

I was essentially being told:

“We can’t pay you anymore, but don’t worry. The office is gorgeous.”

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with wanting a woman who will travel with you, join you at nice restaurants and spend vacations by your side without being compensated for her time.

But then, go find a girlfriend.

Or find a sugar baby who is specifically looking for that arrangement.

Because that’s not what this is.

If I wanted a sugar daddy, I could go looking for a sugar daddy. If I wanted a boyfriend, I could date. If I wanted some kind of ongoing arrangement involving dinners, vacations, and travel in exchange for something other than my established rate, there are entire websites devoted to exactly that.

But I didn’t.

I chose this.

And yes, relationships sometimes evolve. People have affairs with coworkers. People fall in love with colleagues. Professionals and clients occasionally develop genuine relationships outside the circumstances that originally brought them together.

But the fact that something can evolve doesn’t mean one person gets to unilaterally decide that it has.

You don’t get to hire me under one set of terms and then, because you enjoy my company, decide that we’re transitioning into a different kind of relationship—particularly one in which the primary change is that you no longer have to compensate me for my time.

If we both genuinely wanted something different, that would be a different conversation.

But that’s the key:

We would both have to want it.

And that’s where these propositions always seem to lose me.

If my company is valuable enough that you want me beside you at the restaurant, in the hotel, on the business trip, or on the cruise, then how did we arrive at the conclusion that the more of my time you want, the less you should have to pay for it?

What You’re Spending on the Trip Isn’t What You’re Spending on Me

I think there’s also some creative accounting that happens with elaborate trips.

Add up the flights, cruise or hotel, restaurants, excursions and entertainment, and suddenly a man is thinking:

I’m spending $10,000 on this woman!

No.

You’re spending $10,000 on the trip you wanted to take.

If you want a particular woman accompanying you, her time is a separate consideration.

Her plane ticket isn’t a gift when the purpose of the flight is to bring her to you.

The cabin isn’t compensation when you’re sharing it with her.

Dinner isn’t compensation when her presence at dinner is part of the experience you want.

Those things are expenses associated with having another person accompany you.

If you book a hotel for a traditional appointment, you don’t subtract the cost of the room from my rate because, hey, I got to enjoy a really nice hotel for a couple of hours.

The hotel is an expense.

My time is another expense.

The same principle doesn’t magically disappear when the hotel starts floating.

Dinner Isn’t Compensation Either

I’ve had several clients ask me to hang out after our appointment and go to dinner with them without compensating me for the additional time.

They’ll buy dinner, of course.

How generous.

Again: I can buy my own dinner.

If you’d like another two hours of my company, you’re asking for another two hours of my time.

The fact that a steak is involved doesn’t magically make those hours any less valuable.

And then comes one of my personal favorites:

“Well, so-and-so goes to dinner with me afterward.”

Ah, yes.

The Other Provider.

This is a huge gripe among providers, and I’ve seen women discussing it online countless times. Clients love to name-drop other providers who supposedly do all these extra things.

So-and-so stays longer.

So-and-so goes to dinner afterward.

So-and-so doesn’t charge me for that.

So-and-so lets me do this.

So-and-so is fine with that.

The implication isn’t particularly subtle:

She does it. Why don’t you?

As though we’re franchises operating under the same corporate policy.

We’re not.

Another provider’s boundaries have absolutely nothing to do with mine.

Maybe she genuinely loves having dinner with you.

Maybe she considers you a friend.

Maybe she charges differently.

Maybe she structures her appointments differently.

Maybe she really does give you additional time because she wants to.

Good for both of you.

Or maybe she’s newer and hasn’t yet figured out that those “little extras” have a funny way of becoming expectations.

I don’t know.

And neither possibility changes my answer.

That’s what makes the name-dropping particularly irritating. It’s presented as though another woman’s willingness to do something should somehow be a knock against the woman who doesn’t want to do it.

It isn’t.

If another provider wants to spend three unpaid hours playing miniature golf with you after your appointment, I sincerely hope you both have a fantastic time.

That doesn’t obligate me to pick up a putter.

And there’s another reason the “so-and-so does it” argument doesn’t impress me.

I’ve watched what sometimes happens when so-and-so eventually stops doing it.

“You Used to Be Different”

I recently saw another provider talking online about a client who used to enjoy taking her to dinner after their appointments.

When she was newer, she would go.

No additional compensation. They’d finish their appointment, he’d suggest dinner, and she’d continue spending time with him.

Eventually, with more experience under her belt, she stopped doing that.

If he wanted to have dinner with her after their appointment, that was fine — but the additional time would be compensated. She told him what that time would cost.

Suddenly, he wasn’t so enamored with the arrangement.

He told her that he’d liked it better before, when she used to join him for dinner without compensation. That was one of the things that had “set her apart” from other providers.

Her observation online was essentially:

Suddenly he doesn’t like me anymore because I’m smarter now and I’m not giving away my time for free.

Bingo.

I responded that I think almost all of us in this business did some version of this when we were starting out and didn’t know any better.

I certainly did.

And clients absolutely took advantage of our greenness.

Not necessarily through some elaborate, calculated scheme. Sometimes all it takes is discovering that a newer provider doesn’t yet recognize where the appointment ends and her personal time begins.

“Want to grab dinner?”

“Want to have another drink?”

“Why don’t you stay a little longer?”

“Come hang out with me afterward.”

It can all sound perfectly innocent. And when you’re new, you may even interpret those requests as compliments.

He really likes me.

We have such great chemistry.

I’m different from the others.

And perhaps he does genuinely like you.

But there’s a very easy way to discover how much of that “special connection” depends upon free access to your time:

Start charging for it.

Nothing about that provider’s personality changed.

Nothing about their chemistry changed.

She didn’t suddenly become less enjoyable to have dinner with.

The only thing that changed was that she had enough experience to understand the value of her own time.

And suddenly the very thing that had supposedly “set her apart” wasn’t nearly as appealing anymore.

Sometimes when a client tells you that you’re “different from the other girls,” what he really means is that you’re currently giving him something the more experienced women have already learned not to give away.

And sometimes when he tells you, “But so-and-so does it,” what he’s really hoping is that you’ll feel competitive enough with another woman to give it away too.

I’m not.

Sooner or later, most of us learn the difference between choosing to give someone our time and having someone quietly learn to expect it.

And here’s the thing: you might get some time off the clock. Maybe even a significant amount of it.

But if you keep pushing for it, eventually, there will be a price to pay.

You know the old adage that nothing comes for free?

It applies here too.

She may begin to resent you. She may stop trusting you. She may start enjoying your company a whole lot less. She might start dreading spending time with you. Or eventually, she may decide she doesn’t want to see you at all anymore.

So perhaps the better question isn’t how much free time you can get.

It’s what that free time may ultimately cost you.

Is the discount worth it in the end?

Only you can answer that.

But Sometimes I Will Do Something For Free

And here’s where this gets more nuanced.

There have absolutely been times when I’ve chosen to spend additional time with a client without charging for it.

A former client I’ll call Jimmy eventually became something of a concert buddy.

Years ago, I really wanted to see Depeche Mode in Milan, and I was the one who suggested we go.

Jimmy paid for the travel, and we flew first class, but he didn’t pay me for my time.

And I was perfectly fine with that.

Why?

Because I wanted to go to Milan and see Depeche Mode.

Nobody had to convince me that this was an experience I should want.

I was the one who suggested it.

I chose the experience.

In fact, we had such a good time that later, when Pearl Jam was playing in London, I suggested we do it again.

Anyone who knows me knows that Pearl Jam is my church.

This time, though, the arrangement was different. We were essentially going as concert buddies. I was prepared to pay my own way — my own airfare, my own hotel room, my own expenses.

And I wanted to fly first class.

Jimmy didn’t.

He wanted to fly coach and told me first class was too rich for his blood.

Fine. No problem.

I wasn’t asking him to buy my ticket.

I was going to buy it myself.

I figured he could fly coach, I could fly first class, and we’d meet in London.

Except apparently that wasn’t acceptable either.

If we weren’t going to sit together on the plane, he didn’t want to go.

And that confused me.

Because part of the supposed arrangement was that we were two people going to a concert together, each paying our own way. Why should it matter where I sat for seven hours on an airplane?

Unless, of course, the flight itself was part of what he was getting out of the experience.

Traveling with me. Sitting beside me. Walking through the airport together. Being seen with me.

My company wasn’t incidental to the trip. My company was part of the allure.

Which made the whole thing even more interesting considering that when we went to Milan — when he was paying — he had bought us first-class tickets.

Apparently first class wasn’t objectionable when it was part of the experience he wanted to create.

But when I was paying for myself and choosing the experience I wanted, suddenly my preference became a problem.

Ultimately, we didn’t go.

And I think that story illustrates this issue better than almost anything else.

Because I had already demonstrated that I was perfectly willing to travel internationally with Jimmy without charging him for my time.

I had done exactly that.

What I wasn’t willing to do was surrender control over my own choices simply because I had decided not to charge for my company.

Free time isn’t the same thing as free rein.

And nobody had to tell me how much I should want to see Pearl Jam in London.

Nobody had to repeatedly explain what an incredible opportunity I was being offered.

Nobody had to convince me.

I wanted to go.

That’s what genuine enthusiasm looks like.

And that’s the distinction that seems to get lost.

Giving someone my time because I genuinely want to is not the same thing as someone deciding they’re entitled to it because they’ve offered me an experience.

The person whose time it is gets to decide when it’s free.

Let the provider decide what she considers fun.

If I decide an experience sounds so appealing that I genuinely want to spend my personal time doing it, that’s my decision to make.

Maybe I’ll waive some of my time.

Maybe I’ll discount it.

Maybe I’ll pay my own way because I want to go that badly.

Maybe I’ll say, “Are you kidding? I’ve always wanted to do that. Let’s go.”

But you don’t get to make that calculation for me.

An Invitation Isn’t Automatically a Gift

Don’t decide that because you planned an elaborate birthday weekend, she should consider herself lucky to attend it.

Don’t decide that because you’ve booked a balcony cabin, she’s receiving a vacation.

Don’t decide that because dinner costs $400, you’ve compensated her for three additional hours.

And definitely don’t become offended when she doesn’t react as though you’ve handed her a winning lottery ticket.

Maybe the experience you’re offering really is something she’d love.

Wonderful.

Let her tell you that.

But when you find yourself repeatedly explaining to a woman how much she should want to do something with you, you might want to consider the possibility that you’re no longer describing her fantasy.

You’re describing yours.

The part that stuck with me about “apparently nobody wants to go on a cruise for free” wasn’t really the cruise.

It was the eye roll.

The disbelief.

The implication that women were turning down this extraordinary act of generosity because they somehow failed to understand its value.

They understood.

And so did I.

A genuine gift doesn’t create an obligation.

A genuine invitation allows someone to say no.

And a genuine luxury is something the recipient actually wants.

So if a provider says, “Oh my God, I’ve always wanted to take that cruise. I’d love to go with you,” fantastic.

Have an amazing time.

But if she tells you what several days of her time will cost, she’s not being greedy. She’s not ungrateful. And she hasn’t somehow failed to comprehend the magnificence of your offer.

She simply understands something you may have overlooked:

If she’s paying for the cruise with her time, it was never free in the first place.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I’m messy.”

Without missing a beat, he replied:

“You don’t realize I know that you’re messy, Dani.”

At first, I wasn’t sure whether to be offended or amused.

Messy?

My house is very clean. My bed is always made. I run a successful business. I pay my bills. I keep a pretty tidy life.

Then I realized he wasn’t talking about my house.

He was talking about me.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized he might have been right.

The funny thing is that everyone is messy somewhere.

My daughter is one of the brightest people I know. She’s near the top of her medical school class in a program so rigorous that, after winter break, faculty had to sit students down and ask what was going on because the attrition rate from students dropping out was so high. Yet if you walked into her apartment, you might wonder if a tornado had recently touched down. There is so much clutter that you could probably hide a body in there, and nobody would find it for weeks.

A friend of mine was the exact opposite. When our children were in preschool together, she showed up every morning looking flawless. Hair perfect. Makeup perfect. Clothes perfectly pressed. Her house was immaculate. Not a water spot in the sink. Beds made before sunrise. Everything in its place.

Meanwhile, I would show up in gym clothes, my hair in a messy ponytail, after teaching a fitness class. My house wasn’t dirty, but it certainly wasn’t magazine-cover ready. One morning, she commented that my bed wasn’t made yet.

She wasn’t wrong.

But while she was maintaining a perfect home, I was running a household largely by myself, teaching Spin classes, raising children, running an online business, and staying active. She struggled with her health while I was obsessed with fitness. Her husband was rarely around, and I often wondered if there were problems in her marriage that nobody else could see.

The older I get, the more I realize that we tend to judge people by the mess we can see while remaining completely blind to the mess we can’t.

A spotless kitchen doesn’t guarantee a happy marriage.

A perfectly planned vacation doesn’t guarantee joy.

An immaculate home doesn’t mean a peaceful mind.

And an occasionally unpaid bill doesn’t mean a chaotic life.

I’ve forgotten things in hotel rooms that would make you cringe. Expensive things. Designer things. Things I definitely should have remembered.

I once dropped (and lost!) $2,000 in cash on my way to the bank.

Another time, I noticed damage to my car after a valet parked it, but not until I got home. By then, it was too late to prove where it happened, and I ended up paying for the repair myself.

I once got a hand slap from an insurance company because I genuinely didn’t understand how a windshield claim worked when switching providers.

I have accidentally made life harder for myself more times than I care to admit. And yet I somehow remember details from decades ago.

I can remember spelling words from second grade.

I can remember conversations that happened years earlier.

I can remember tiny details about people, relationships, and experiences that others have long forgotten. In fact, people often marvel at my excellent memory.

I am organized in some places and absent-minded in others.

Disciplined in some areas and impulsive in others.

Responsible and reckless.

Structured and spontaneous.

A walking contradiction.

For years, I thought this was a flaw.

Now I think it’s just being human.

Some people find comfort in structure.

They love schedules, itineraries, plans, and predictability.

My sister is one of those people. Every trip is organized down to the minute. Every day has a plan. Every contingency is anticipated.

That kind of structure gives her comfort.

It gives me anxiety.

I prefer a broad outline and plenty of room for life to happen.

I like open afternoons.

I like changing my mind.

I like discovering something unexpected.

I like leaving room for serendipity.

The difference, I’ve realized, is that some people find safety in certainty.

I find safety in flexibility.

Some people trust the plan.

I trust myself if the plan falls apart.

Maybe that’s because life has shown me over and over again that plans do fall apart.

Relationships end.

Flights get delayed.

People disappoint us.

Opportunities appear out of nowhere.

Mistakes happen.

The older I get, the less interested I am in controlling every variable and the more interested I am in trusting my ability to adapt.

That’s probably why I’ve always struggled with feeling boxed in.

Not just by schedules, but by relationships.

I never wanted someone who controlled my movements or dictated how I should live. The minute I felt trapped, I felt suffocated.

I wanted commitment, but I also wanted freedom.

I wanted love, but I also wanted room to breathe.

I wanted someone to choose me without trying to contain me.

Maybe that’s messy too.

But if it is, I’ve made peace with it.

Because after 56 years, I’ve learned something important:

Everyone’s a mess somewhere.

The people who appear to have it all together simply have their mess hidden in places you can’t immediately see.

So yes, I’m messy.

I forget things.

I lose things.

I make mistakes.

I color outside the lines.

I leave room for uncertainty.

But I’ve also learned how to recover.

And perhaps that’s the real difference.

Some people feel safe because nothing goes wrong.

I feel safe because when something does, I know I’ll figure it out.

They’re the ones who genuinely enjoy each other.

Recently, I met one of my favorite couples I’ve ever seen. They also happened to be one of my oldest. They were well into their seventies, with children and grandchildren, and they approached the evening with an ease that only comes from decades of trust.

There was no haggling, no endless list of questions, and no awkwardness when I arrived. The envelope was waiting on the table. They welcomed me warmly, and when I asked if there were any rules, they simply smiled and asked, “What are your rules?”

That one question told me everything I needed to know.

They weren’t trying to control the experience. They wanted everyone involved to feel comfortable.

At one point, I complimented them on how connected and playful they seemed together. She smiled and said that as they’ve gotten older, they’ve learned they have to keep investing in that part of their marriage or they’ll lose it.

I thought there was a lot of wisdom in that.

Whether that means trying something new, planning intentional time together, or simply refusing to let intimacy become an afterthought, they had made a conscious decision to keep nurturing their relationship instead of assuming it would take care of itself.

That evening reminded me of something I’ve learned after eight years of seeing couples.

Whenever people hear that I occasionally see couples, they usually have one of two reactions.

They’re either endlessly curious...

Or they make a lot of assumptions.

The truth is, after eight years, the biggest challenge has never been the intimacy.

It’s the people.

Every couple is different. Every relationship has its own chemistry, boundaries, insecurities, communication style, and expectations. My job isn’t simply to walk into a hotel room. It’s to step into an existing relationship, understand the dynamic between two people, and help create an experience where everyone feels comfortable, respected, and genuinely enjoys themselves.

Ironically, I’m usually the one slowing things down.

People often imagine my role is to encourage everyone to push boundaries. In reality, I’m usually the one making sure everyone understands them first.

One question I refuse to compromise on is consent.

Over the years, people have occasionally asked whether I’d surprise a spouse as a birthday gift.

My answer is always no.

Everyone needs to know I’m coming.

Everyone needs to choose to be there.

Everyone deserves the opportunity to say yes before I ever walk through the door.

Every appointment also begins with a conversation.

There is no “normal” couple’s appointment.

Some couples want me to focus primarily on the wife while the husband enjoys watching. Others have completely different boundaries. Every relationship is unique, and taking the time to discuss expectations beforehand helps everyone relax once the evening begins.

One evening, a couple and I met downstairs for drinks and appetizers before heading upstairs. We spent plenty of time discussing everyone’s comfort level and exactly what the evening would look like.

Then we got to the room.

Suddenly, the wife wanted something entirely different from what we had all discussed.

What struck me most wasn’t that the plan had changed.

It was that her husband and I looked at each other with the exact same expression.

Neither of us knew whether the other was actually comfortable moving in this new direction.

The atmosphere became awkward almost immediately.

That experience reinforced something I’ve come to believe.

Boundaries don’t ruin spontaneity.

They make spontaneity possible.

Consent also isn’t a conversation you have once and then forget.

It’s something I pay attention to throughout the appointment.

One couple I had seen before arrived for our second appointment, and the moment I opened the hotel room door, I could tell the wife was extremely intoxicated.

As the evening went on, it became increasingly clear to me that she wasn’t fully present.

Her husband encouraged us to continue, but I wasn’t comfortable.

Regardless of what anyone else wanted in that moment, I no longer felt confident that she was meaningfully participating.

So I stopped.

That decision wasn’t about judging anyone.

It wasn’t about being prudish.

It was simply the right thing to do.

I’ve also learned to trust my instincts when someone tries to over-direct the experience.

Years ago, a couple began sending increasingly detailed instructions before we ever met. One message became another, then another, until I eventually realized I wasn’t being invited to collaborate on an experience.

I was being handed a script.

I politely declined the appointment.

The couples who have the best experiences are almost never the ones trying to choreograph every moment.

They communicate clearly, establish their boundaries, and then allow the evening to unfold naturally.

One of my earliest couples appointments taught me another lesson I’ve never forgotten.

It was actually a man and his girlfriend.

She had arranged the appointment, and everything seemed perfectly fine when I arrived.

But not long after we began spending time together, something shifted.

The atmosphere changed almost instantly, and before long, the appointment was over.

Looking back, I don’t think the lesson was really about jealousy.

It was about expectations.

Agreeing to a fantasy and actually living it are two very different things.

Sometimes people simply don’t know how they’re going to feel until they’re standing in the middle of the experience.

That’s human.

It’s also what made the couple in their seventies so remarkable.

They weren’t chasing novelty.

They had already built the trust that allowed them to enjoy it.

One question I’m asked surprisingly often is whether my fee changes if the husband plans to simply watch rather than participate.

It doesn’t.

I’m still there for three people.

Whether someone is actively participating or quietly observing, they’re still part of the experience. My attention is on everyone in the room, making sure each person feels comfortable, respected, included, and free to communicate if something changes.

Ironically, those plans often change anyway.

More often than not, the husband initially tells me he only wants to watch. Then, once everyone relaxes and the chemistry develops naturally, he decides he’d like to participate after all.

That’s one of the reasons I never price a couple’s appointment based on what someone imagines will happen beforehand.

Every relationship evolves differently.

My responsibility is to the experience as a whole—not simply to whichever person happens to be the most physically involved at any given moment.

People sometimes assume couples’ appointments must be stressful simply because there are three people involved.

Honestly, they’re often some of my favorites.

When everyone communicates well, respects one another, and trusts the process, they can be playful, creative, intimate, and genuinely fun.

The boundaries aren’t what make those experiences less exciting.

They’re what make them possible.

When I think back over the hundreds of couples I’ve met, I rarely remember the wildest evenings.

I remember the healthiest marriages.

I remember the couples who laughed together.

The ones who trusted each other.

The ones who never stopped choosing one another, even after decades together.

That couple in their seventies reminded me that intimacy isn’t something you accidentally keep.

Like every meaningful part of a marriage, it requires intention.

They understood that.

And when I left that evening, I found myself thinking less about what we had shared together than about the remarkable marriage they had spent a lifetime building.

Moments like that are why I often say on my website that I’m honored whenever a married couple invites me to be part of one of their adventures.

When it’s approached with honesty, mutual respect, and genuine enthusiasm from both partners, it feels less like being brought into someone’s fantasy and more like being entrusted with a small chapter in a much larger love story.

That’s a privilege I never take for granted.

I was sitting across from a man recently while he talked about his ex-wife. The way he described it, she was simply spending his money.

I’ve heard versions of this conversation before.

A man works.

A woman stays home.

Years later, resentment creeps in, and suddenly the story becomes very simple.

He’s the provider.

She’s the dependent.

He’s working.

She’s not.

But every time I hear this narrative, I find myself wondering: Who decided that the only labor that counts is the labor that comes with a paycheck?

Because I’ve been on both sides.

I’ve earned six figures.

I’ve supported myself.

I’ve built a business from scratch.

But I’ve also been a mother.

And anyone who thinks motherhood is “not working” has either never done it or has benefited tremendously from someone who did.

I know this because I’ve lived both lives.

I’ve experienced the satisfaction that comes from building a business and watching something I created succeed.

But I’ve also stayed home with two very young children.

And if I’m being completely honest, it was the hardest work I’ve ever done.

I went to bed exhausted.

I woke up exhausted.

My body ached from being on my feet all day. There were no lunch breaks, no clocking out, and no quiet commute home to decompress. Every day was physically demanding, emotionally consuming, and completely relentless.

So when someone casually suggests that a stay-at-home parent “doesn’t work,” it doesn’t just strike me as inaccurate.

It feels profoundly disconnected from reality.

Perhaps this conversation stayed with me because it touched an old wound.

When my children were little, I often felt this same tension in my own marriage.

There was an unspoken sense that my husband was the one working while I was simply at home spending money.

Whether that was his intention or simply my perception at the time almost doesn’t matter now.

What mattered was how it made me feel.

I carried a quiet need to justify my existence.

To prove that I was contributing.

To earn my keep.

So even while I was home raising two small children, I started an online business selling children’s clothing. I wasn’t doing it because we couldn’t survive without the income.

I was doing it because somewhere deep inside, I needed tangible proof that I was producing something the world recognized as valuable.

Looking back, I wish someone had told the younger version of me that she was already contributing.

That raising two human beings was work.

That caring for a family was work.

That love expressed through daily responsibility is work.

And that not all valuable work arrives with a paycheck.

We sometimes reduce parenting to its most visible tasks—changing diapers, packing lunches, driving to soccer practice.

But that’s not really the work.

The work is raising a human being.

Helping a child become a capable adult.

Teaching empathy.

Building confidence.

Helping them navigate disappointment.

Celebrating their successes.

Being the person they call when life feels overwhelming.

That work doesn’t end when the diapers do.

My daughter is twenty-six years old and in medical school. Looking back, simply getting her there felt like a full-time job. There were years of studying for the MCAT, researching schools, completing applications, traveling for interviews, visiting campuses, weighing decisions, and countless conversations along the way. Even now, I’m still one of the people she calls when life feels overwhelming.

My son is twenty-four and autistic. His needs are different, but they are no less real. Over the past year alone, I navigated the court system to obtain legal guardianship so I could continue helping him make important decisions. It was months of paperwork, filings, deadlines, and learning an entirely new process because hiring an attorney simply wasn’t realistic.

None of those hours was billable.

None of them generated a paycheck.

But they mattered.

Because parenting isn’t simply about keeping children alive.

It’s about continuing to show up for another human being in whatever way they need, for as long as they need you.

Caregiving doesn’t end with children, either.

As our parents age, many of us quietly step back into that role.

I’ve flown across the country to sit beside my father as Alzheimer’s slowly took pieces of him away. I’ve made countless trips to help my mother through difficult seasons and to support her husband as he recovered from major surgeries.

None of those flights generated income.

No one issued me a paycheck for the hours spent in hospitals, doctors’ offices, or waiting rooms.

No one paid me to organize medications, solve problems, provide reassurance, or simply be present.

But that, too, is labor.

Perhaps the most meaningful labor any of us will ever do.

It is the work of caring for another human being simply because they are ours to love.

Another part of our conversation stayed with me.

He told me he had once been talking with a female friend about his ex-wife. At one point, she looked at him and asked, “What does Carol even do? Does she do anything?”

He looked back at her and replied, “That’s what I’d like to know.”

That exchange fascinated me.

Not because I agreed with it.

Because it came from another woman.

We often assume these attitudes exist primarily between men and women, but sometimes women undervalue other women’s unpaid labor just as quickly.

What struck me was how easily an entire life of invisible work could be distilled into one dismissive question:

“Does she even do anything?”

Sometimes the work that’s easiest to overlook is the work that’s been done so consistently that everyone has stopped noticing it.

What makes these conversations especially frustrating is that unpaid labor is not some new social invention. Human beings have relied on it for thousands of years.

Across much of human history, survival depended on a division of labor. While the specific roles varied between cultures, communities relied on people contributing in different ways. Some acquired food. Others cared for children, prepared meals, maintained shelter, tended to the sick, preserved food, carried water, mended clothing, and kept the daily rhythms of life moving forward.

No one role existed in isolation.

The person gathering food depended on someone caring for the children.

The person caring for the children depended on someone bringing home food.

Survival depended on both.

Somewhere along the way, we began assigning greater value to the labor that comes with a paycheck and less value to the labor that quietly keeps an entire household functioning.

Yet the reality hasn’t changed nearly as much as we pretend it has.

If one person is able to devote themselves almost entirely to building a career, growing a business, traveling for work, networking after hours, or working late nights, it’s often because someone else is handling the countless responsibilities happening behind the scenes.

Meals appear.

Appointments get scheduled.

Children’s needs get met.

Laundry gets done.

School forms get signed.

Parents get cared for.

The household continues to function.

That work may not generate a paycheck, but it creates the conditions that make the paycheck possible.

We tend to measure value by what appears on a W-2.

Anthropologically, that makes very little sense.

Human beings have always depended on labor that cannot be easily quantified.

Caregiving.

Child-rearing.

Emotional support.

Household management.

Community building.

These have always been forms of work. They simply don’t arrive with a salary attached.

The irony is that many of the people who dismiss unpaid labor would immediately notice its absence if it stopped tomorrow.

And yet, when relationships end, people often talk as though the only contribution that matters is the one attached to a paycheck.

I understand why.

Money is easy to measure.

Presence isn’t.

Patience isn’t.

Sacrifice isn’t.

Showing up every single day for years isn’t.

When it came to the client discussing his ex-wife, what stayed with me wasn’t the financial arrangement itself. Different couples make different choices, and that’s their business.

What bothered me was the hierarchy.

The implication that the person earning the paycheck is somehow the producer, while the person managing the home is merely consuming.

As though raising children, caring for aging parents, supporting a child with special needs, running a household, providing emotional support, managing schedules, solving problems, and carrying the mental load of an entire family somehow don’t count because no invoice was generated.

That’s not an economic observation.

It’s a value judgment.

And I suspect many people who hold that view dramatically underestimate how much of their own success has been subsidized by someone else’s unpaid labor.

Perhaps we’ve been measuring the wrong thing all along.

A paycheck tells us what the market values.

It doesn’t necessarily tell us what matters most.

I said those words to myself after another sleepless night.

It wasn’t one single thing that ended it.

It wasn’t the insensitive comments.

Or the painful sex.

Or the overstaying.

It was the accumulation of dozens of tiny moments that, on their own, seemed easy enough to explain away. Together, however, they painted a picture I could no longer ignore.

We’ll call him “Mark.”

When I first met him, everything seemed perfectly normal. He arrived on time. He walked in with a warm smile. He was well-groomed, pleasant enough, and quietly placed the envelope on the desk.

I remember thinking, This should be an easy appointment.

The conversation eventually drifted toward topics that made me uncomfortable. He proudly told me about his large gun collection, including owning an AK-47, “because I can.” At one point, he jokingly referred to me as “the hawk-tuah girl.”

I smiled politely, but another voice quietly whispered inside my head:

I don’t feel very comfortable anymore.

The appointment ended, and like so many times before, I talked myself out of my own instincts.

“This is work,” I reminded myself. “You’re not going to agree with every client’s opinions.”

That’s true.

In every profession, we encounter people whose worldviews differ dramatically from our own. Part of being an adult is learning how to work respectfully with people we don’t always agree with.

So I saw him again.

And then again.

But over the next several appointments, something changed.

He stopped easing into our time together.

By the last couple of appointments, he barely seemed to pause after he walked through the door. Before he set down his keys or allowed me to catch my breath, he was already pulling me into a kiss, shoving his tongue into my mouth, grabbing me, and rushing straight into the physical part of the appointment as though there were no space between arriving and touching.

I’ve written before about how much I dislike this approach.

I need a moment.

A conversation.

A chance for us to settle into the room together.

I don’t want to feel like I’m being consumed the second the door opens.

Some men instinctively understand that.

Others don’t.

Every time it happened, I found myself pulling away internally before the appointment had even really begun.

The conversations followed a similar pattern.

One appointment, he described driving back into the United States from Mexico and joked that the border agents shouldn’t have questioned whether he was an American citizen because, as he put it, “Just look at my skin color.”

I didn’t engage.

Yesterday, during what ultimately became our final appointment, I mentioned feeling sad for longtime residents of places like Big Sky, Montana, who have watched their towns become increasingly unaffordable as wealthy newcomers have moved in.

“Why?” he immediately asked.

I explained my perspective.

“No,” he interrupted. “It wasn’t that. It was COVID.”

Maybe there was truth to what he said.

Maybe there was truth to what I said, too.

But there was never any curiosity.

Only correction.

Later, he proudly showed me pictures of his new Ford F-350. It was a beautiful truck. Then came the oversized spiked rims. The custom bumpers. Finally, he played a video demonstrating the enormous horn he planned to install.

It was loud.

Aggressive.

Impossible to ignore.

I laughed nervously.

“People are going to see and hear you coming from a mile away,” I said. “They’re going to be terrified.”

He smiled.

“That’s the point.”

Something about that sentence stayed with me.

Not because of the truck.

Because it perfectly captured how I’d been feeling for months.

This article isn’t about trucks.

Or guns.

Or politics.

I’ve had wonderful clients whose opinions differ greatly from my own. I’ve met people I disagreed with on almost everything who still made me feel respected, curious, and emotionally safe.

This was different.

It finally dawned on me that I wasn’t uncomfortable because we disagreed.

I was uncomfortable because I never felt emotionally safe.

Every appointment required me to stay alert.

To carefully choose my words.

To sidestep comments that seemed designed to provoke.

To ignore the subtle tightening in my chest that kept telling me something wasn’t quite right.

Then something occurred to me.

Less than twenty-four hours earlier, I’d spent an afternoon with another client who couldn’t have been more different.

He asked how my drive was.

He made space for conversation before anything else.

He listened more than he lectured.

We talked about books, work, and life with an ease that never once felt forced.

The entire afternoon unfolded naturally.

I walked away feeling more energized than when I’d arrived.

Then came Mark.

By comparison, the contrast was impossible to ignore.

It wasn’t simply that one appointment was enjoyable and the other wasn’t.

It was that one reminded me what emotional safety feels like...

...and the other reminded me what it feels like when it isn’t there.

Sometimes we don’t realize how much we’ve been tolerating until someone quietly shows us another way.

When I look back now, I realize my body had been telling me the truth during that very first appointment.

I just didn’t listen.

For most of my life, I’ve had a habit of overriding my own instincts.

I’d convince myself I was being too sensitive.

Too rigid.

Too judgmental.

I’d explain away discomfort because I wanted to be professional.

But professionalism doesn’t require me to ignore myself.

It doesn’t require me to spend hours pretending my nervous system isn’t trying to tell me something important.

Sometimes growth isn’t learning to tolerate more.

Sometimes growth is finally trusting yourself enough to tolerate less.

Yesterday, I crossed Mark’s name off my list.

Not because he was a bad person.

Not because we voted differently.

Not because we saw the world through different lenses.

But because every single time I left him, I felt a little less like myself.

I’ve spent enough years ignoring that feeling.

I’m finally learning to listen to it.

Yesterday I had an outcall appointment a few hours from home.

By the time I pulled into the hotel parking lot, I realized I wasn’t physically tired. I was emotionally tired.

For weeks, I’d been fielding messages from entitled men who wanted to “just stop by.” Time wasters who expected my time without respecting it. Former clients who hadn’t gotten the memo that I run my business differently now. Men who seemed more interested in negotiating my boundaries than actually meeting me.

I walked into the hotel feeling a little jaded.

When he opened the door, the very first thing he said had nothing to do with my looks.

“How was your trip in?”

Such a simple question.

But it immediately told me something.

He cared that I had traveled. He cared that I’d arrived safely. Before the appointment had really even begun, he’d acknowledged that I was a human being who had a day before I walked into the room.

A few days earlier, he’d asked if there was anything he could pick up for our date.

“No, thank you,” I’d replied. “I’m good.”

After we greeted each other, I glanced over at the table and smiled.

There sat four bottles of water—two still and two sparkling, just in case I preferred one over the other—and a container of fresh fruit.

I’d specifically told him I didn’t need anything.

He hadn’t responded with ten follow-up emails asking exactly what I liked. He hadn’t turned a thoughtful gesture into a logistical exercise. He had simply thought, She’s driving a few hours. She’ll probably appreciate having something to drink and maybe a snack.

It was so wonderfully uncomplicated.

The envelope had been sitting on the desk since the moment I arrived.

A big underlined letter D across the front in bold black ink.

He never pointed to it.

Never mentioned it.

Never hinted that he’d left me something.

It simply sat there quietly while we enjoyed the afternoon.

Our conversation wandered easily. We talked about work, travel, current events, books, and movies. At one point, he was describing a project he was working on. His job was impressive, but what struck me wasn’t what he did. It was how he spoke to me.

He spoke as though I were his equal.

There was never a hint of condescension or the need to impress me. He explained things naturally until he realized he’d wandered into territory that had become a little too technical.

“Anyway...” he said with a smile, effortlessly steering us back into territory we could both enjoy.

It was such a small moment.

But I noticed.

I’ve always been attracted to intelligent people.

Not necessarily people with the most impressive résumés or the most prestigious titles. Those things don’t do much for me on their own.

What captivates me is understated intelligence.

The kind of person who casually drops an interesting fact into a conversation because it naturally belongs there—not because they’re trying to impress anyone.

Someone who knows a tremendous amount, yet never seems particularly interested in making sure everyone else knows how much they know.

There’s a confidence in that.

The smartest people I’ve met rarely feel the need to prove their intelligence.

They simply live it.

Throughout the afternoon, he’d occasionally mention a book, a movie, or some interesting piece of trivia. Never for long. Never as a lecture. Just enough to pique my curiosity before the conversation naturally drifted somewhere else.

I found myself thinking, That’s interesting. Tell me more.

Not because he was trying to impress me.

Because he wasn’t.

To me, that’s not just intellectual intelligence.

It’s emotional intelligence.

It’s knowing how to contribute to a conversation without dominating it. It’s understanding that a dialogue should feel like a game of catch, not a keynote speech.

Maybe that’s why the entire afternoon felt so effortless.

I wasn’t sitting across from someone trying to prove how interesting he was.

I was simply spending time with someone who was.

There was no awkward testing of boundaries.

No performance.

No constant need to fill every silence.

Sometimes we talked.

Sometimes we didn’t.

The quiet never felt uncomfortable.

At one point, we were lying together, and he gently brushed his hand across my face.

He smiled.

“Wow,” he said softly. “You look really great.”

Then he kissed me.

That was it.

It was the only comment he made about my appearance all afternoon.

He didn’t analyze my body.

He didn’t spend ten minutes narrating my hair, my makeup, my face, or every inch of me.

He simply acknowledged that he found me attractive...

...and then we moved on.

Oddly enough, I think that made me feel even more beautiful.

As we were getting dressed, I mentioned that I’d listened to an audiobook during the drive.

“Oh? What are you listening to?”

I told him.

“What’s it about?”

Then he shared what he was reading, and somehow our conversation continued just as naturally as it had all afternoon.

When I glanced at the clock, we actually finished about ten minutes before our scheduled time.

Neither of us tried to stretch the appointment simply because there was still time on it.

There was no subtle pressure to linger.

No discussion about getting every last minute.

He walked me to the door, we hugged, and I headed home.

Once I was back in my car, I opened the envelope.

Inside was a simple card.

“Truly a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Just that.

Signed with his first initial.

No grand declaration.

No overthinking.

No expectation of anything in return.

This morning I woke up to a short email.

His phone had stopped working, which he mentioned during the appointment when he tried to play music. He let me know it was working again, thanked me for a lovely evening, and then sent me the names of a few books and a movie we’d talked about so I wouldn’t forget them.

Two sentences.

Done.

As I reflected on the appointment today, I realized something that genuinely surprised me.

This was the first time in a very long time that I’d walked away from an appointment with more energy than I’d walked in with.

Usually, I’m exhausted afterward.

Hungry.

A little grumpy.

Instead, I felt lighter.

I actually found myself being more patient throughout the rest of my day. I communicated better. I was a better provider. Later that evening, I realized I was a better partner in my personal life because I wasn’t emotionally drained from managing someone else’s insecurities.

One respectful interaction had changed the trajectory of my entire day.

For years, I thought the appointments I’d remember most would be the extravagant ones.

The expensive gifts.

The lavish compliments.

The over-the-top gestures.

They aren’t.

What I’ll remember is a man asking how my drive was.

Four bottles of water because he wasn’t sure which I’d prefer.

A container of fresh fruit.

A quiet, “Wow...you look really great.”

A conversation that flowed so easily, neither of us seemed to notice the time.

A card waiting silently on the desk that simply read, “Truly a pleasure to finally meet you.”

None of it was flashy.

None of it demanded to be remembered.

And yet I suspect I’ll remember it for a very long time.

People often think the greatest gift they can give another person is admiration.

I’m no longer sure that’s true.

I think the greatest gift we can give one another is to leave someone feeling more like themselves than when they arrived.

Yesterday, I walked into that hotel feeling jaded.

I walked out feeling more like myself.

Recently, my yoga instructor guided us through a meditation that caught me off guard.

She asked us to observe the next time we felt bored. Not to distract ourselves. Not to pick up our phones. Not to make plans or fill the silence. Instead, she encouraged us to simply sit with the feeling. To ask ourselves what boredom actually felt like. To stop fighting it long enough to become curious about it.

At first, I thought she was talking about boredom.

She wasn’t.

She was talking about every uncomfortable feeling we spend our lives trying to outrun.

For much of my life, discomfort was my cue to do something.

Reach out.

Say yes.

Smooth things over.

Explain myself.

Give a little more.

Try a little harder.

Fix the relationship.

Keep the peace.

If someone I loved wanted more from me, I found a way to give it. If a friendship felt one-sided, I convinced myself that maybe this was simply the price of having close friends. If a family relationship left me exhausted, I told myself that this was what being a good sister or daughter looked like.

I became very good at telling myself stories that kept me in relationships long after they stopped feeling healthy.

I didn’t realize I was doing it.

I simply believed that love required sacrifice, friendship required flexibility, and family required endless understanding.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped asking what being good to myself looked like.

Lately, my life has become much quieter.

There are fewer obligations. Fewer people demanding my attention. Fewer relationships that require me to twist myself into someone I’m not.

If I’m honest, sometimes that quiet feels empty.

Just yesterday, a friend invited me on a trip later this year. I declined because I truly don’t know what my schedule, finances, or recovery from an upcoming surgery will look like.

Today, I caught myself wanting to text her.

“Maybe just keep it open for me. I’ll know more in October.”

Then another thought appeared.

“Maybe this is just the price of friendship. Maybe I’m being too rigid. Maybe I just have to accept the parts that frustrate me if I want people in my life.”

Years ago, I would have sent that text without thinking.

This time, I didn’t.

Not because I was angry or because I wanted to punish anyone.

Because I stopped and asked myself a different question.

Do I have enough evidence?

I do.

I have enough evidence to know how I feel after spending time in relationships where one person’s needs consistently outweigh my own.

I have enough evidence to recognize the difference between compromise and self-abandonment.

I have enough evidence to know that healthy friendships don’t leave me consistently feeling resentful.

That question has started showing up everywhere in my life.

When I think about family.

When I think about old relationships.

When I think about business.

When I hear that familiar voice trying to negotiate against my own instincts.

I used to think I needed to give one more chance.

One more conversation.

One more holiday.

One more vacation together.

One more explanation.

One more opportunity for things to finally feel different.

The truth is, most of the time I wasn’t looking for more evidence.

I was avoiding accepting the evidence I already had.

For years, I confused overgiving with love.

I thought being a good sister meant giving until I was empty.

Being a good friend meant always being flexible.

Being a good partner meant understanding almost everything.

Being a good person meant making sure everyone else was comfortable, even when I wasn’t.

The irony is that the more I ignored my own needs, the more resentment quietly grew.

Not because I was selfish.

Because I had stopped extending the same compassion to myself that I so freely gave to everyone else.

That’s what sitting quietly has taught me.

When I stop rushing to fix every uncomfortable feeling, I begin to hear the stories I’ve been telling myself.

The story that saying no makes me selfish.

The story that boundaries make me difficult.

The story that love has to be earned.

The story that peace is lonely.

One by one, I’ve started questioning those stories instead of automatically believing them.

And every time I ask myself whether I have enough evidence, the answer becomes clearer.

I have enough evidence that resentment isn’t the price of love.

I have enough evidence that peace can feel unfamiliar before it feels like home.

I have enough evidence that I don’t have to keep proving my worth in order to deserve healthy relationships.

Most importantly…

I have enough evidence that I am enough.

The difference wasn’t chemistry.

It wasn’t generosity.

It wasn’t personality.

It was respect.

Client A reached out wanting to spend three to four hours together. Then he said something that immediately caught my attention.

“Let’s just do four hours so we can relax and enjoy ourselves.”

I let out a breath and smiled. He wasn’t trying to negotiate downward. He was trying to remove pressure.

Then he asked another question.

“I don’t want to make any assumptions. What’s the total amount?”

Because I was traveling to meet him, he figured there might be an additional travel fee.

Notice what he didn’t do. He didn’t just make the call that there wasn’t one. He didn’t guess. He simply asked.

That single sentence told me a lot. He wasn’t looking for the lowest possible number. He was looking for the correct one. And there’s a huge difference between someone trying to get away with paying less and someone making sure they pay what’s appropriate.

That’s professionalism. And professionalism is incredibly attractive.

Then something else happened that made me stop in my tracks and exhale. By the time I had left to go and meet him, the entire payment had already been deposited into my account.

There was nothing left to discuss.

No awkwardness.

No waiting.

No wondering if we’d have to sort it out later.

Everything had already been handled.

He was ready when I arrived. We spent exactly four relaxed hours together. When I left, I was mentally tired because, like anyone, he had his own quirks and a conversational style that I found difficult at times. But that’s personality. That’s part of my job.

The booking itself?

Flawless.

Then there was Client B.

Ironically, he wasn’t even someone new. I’d actually seen him once, years ago, when I was first starting my business. After that appointment, booking issues kept us from ever getting together again.

Then, last night on my drive to Client A’s house, he resurfaced wanting to book another appointment. I let him know I was busy but would get back to him shortly. We confirmed all the requisite details once I returned to my hotel after my date with Mr. A.

First thing this morning, I awoke with a niggling feeling, so I reached out to confirm.

Silence.

Hours later, I finally heard back.

“Actually, no. Can we change the location?” I agree, and request the deposit again, only to wait another hour for a text confirmation.

Then came payment issues.

Then only part of the requested deposit.

Then, a suggestion that maybe we should shorten the appointment.

Then more explanations.

Then more messages after I’d already left.

Could every explanation have been genuine? Absolutely. People get busy. Technology can be frustrating. Plans change. I’m happy to give people the benefit of the doubt.

Once.

Maybe twice.

But after eight years in this business, I’ve learned something important. The reason matters less than the pattern.

People often wonder if they’re a good client. They talk about their generosity, the chemistry, the conversation, and how nice they are.

Those things absolutely matter.

But I’ve realized something else that matters just as much.

Reliability and respect.

The booking process tells me a great deal about what the appointment is likely to feel like.

Client A asked instead of assuming. He clarified instead of guessing. He paid before I even arrived.

He removed uncertainty.

Client B added it.

Years ago, I would’ve chased. I’d send another message. I’d probably wait another hour. Maybe I’d try another location. I might have given more direction on how Venmo works.

Reassure him.

Help him decide.

Convince him we could still make it work.

Not anymore.

I’ve realized there are actually two jobs. The appointment. And managing someone into the appointment.

The first is what I’m hired to do. The second is unpaid emotional and administrative labor. Some people seem to want me to carry both. They want me to reassure them and work to keep the momentum going.

Solve every logistical problem.

Make the decision for them.

Carry their uncertainty until they finally decide.

That’s simply not how I work anymore.

I’ve found that the clients I enjoy most already know they want to see me. They don’t need to be persuaded. And they certainly don’t need to be dragged across the finish line.

They’re decisive.

And honestly?

Booking an appointment with a provider, at least with me, isn’t all that complicated.

We’re not curing cancer.

If we’re still working our way through the step alphabet—A, B, C, D—and somehow we’ve reached S before we’ve figured out the basics, I’ve learned that the booking itself is telling me something.

It doesn’t mean the appointment will definitely be bad. But it does mean we’ve already spent more energy getting there than we should have.

The older I get, the more I value peace. And not just during the appointment.

Before it.

Because the best clients don’t simply pay well. They allow me to arrive relaxed.

Present.

Looking forward to spending time together.

I’ve come to believe that the appointment begins long before we ever meet.

And so does respect.

What is something that men do that instantly makes me not trust them?

One of the quickest ways I lose trust in someone is when every conversation revolves around how unhappy they are with their partner.

Now, before anyone gets defensive, let me be clear: relationships are complicated. I’ve vented about boyfriends. I’ve vented about my ex-husband. Most of us have. Sometimes you need a sounding board, a fresh perspective, or simply someone willing to listen.

That’s not what I’m talking about.

I’m talking about the person who complains every single time.

The person who spends an entire hour telling you how difficult, controlling, selfish, demanding, or unreasonable their wife, husband, boyfriend, or girlfriend is.

Then they come back a month later and tell the exact same stories.

Nothing has changed.

No conversation has been had.

No boundaries have been set.

No decision has been made.

The only thing that has happened is another round of complaining.

I have known people like this for years. In fact, there is one man I’ve seen for a long time who spends nearly every appointment talking about his girlfriend. Every issue somehow circles back to her. Every frustration involves her. Every overnight eventually becomes a discussion about her.

At some point, I stopped focusing on what he was saying about her and started paying attention to what his behavior was saying about him.

Because if someone is truly miserable, they generally do one of two things: they work on the relationship, or they leave it.

What they don’t usually do is remain in exactly the same situation year after year while telling everyone who will listen how terrible it is.

I understand that leaving isn’t always easy. Divorce is expensive. Untangling lives is painful. Children complicate things. Shared finances complicate things. Fear complicates things.

But eventually I start wondering: if this person is truly as awful as you say they are, why are you still there?

The first conversation, I listen with compassion.

The second conversation, I offer support.

By the third, fourth, and fifth conversation, I find myself asking a different question:

What are you going to do about it?

Because at some point, the problem is no longer just the relationship. The problem is the unwillingness to make a decision.

And to be fair, I understand it because I’ve done it too.

I’ve stayed too long before.

I’ve made excuses. I’ve hoped things would change. I’ve convinced myself that if I just waited a little longer, communicated a little better, loved a little harder, or sacrificed a little more, somehow things would improve.

So I’m certainly not writing this from a place of perfection.

What I’ve learned, however, is that there comes a point where we have to stop asking, “Why is this happening to me?” and start asking, “What am I going to do about it?”

Leaving can be difficult, but staying has a cost, too.

Every month.

Every year.

Every ounce of resentment that builds while we continue choosing the very situation we’re complaining about.

Perhaps I’m especially sensitive to this because I grew up around it. I watched people stay long after they were unhappy. I watched years of complaints, years of resentment, years of portraying themselves as trapped while repeatedly choosing not to leave.

As an adult, I’ve become less interested in hearing why someone is miserable and more interested in hearing what they’re willing to do to change it.

One of my favorite questions to ask people is, “What’s your part in it?”

Sometimes the answer is uncomfortable.

Sometimes it’s painful.

Sometimes the answer is, “I stayed too long.”

Or, “I avoided difficult conversations.”

Or, “I ignored red flags.”

Or, “I wasn’t exactly easy to live with either.”

That’s the answer of someone who is willing to examine themselves.

What concerns me is when the answer is, “Nothing.”

I’ve met people who blame their ex-spouse, their children, their parents, their friends, their coworkers, and their current partner.

Everyone has wronged them.

Everyone has disappointed them.

Everyone has failed them.

And somehow they contributed absolutely nothing to any of it.

I don’t buy it.

Human relationships are messy. Rarely is one person entirely innocent and the other entirely guilty. Even when someone truly has been treated unfairly, there is usually something to learn from the experience.

The people I trust most are not the people who claim perfection.

They’re the people who can say, “Here’s where I was wrong.”

Those people feel safe because they’re honest.

The perpetual complainers don’t feel safe to me.

In fact, they make me nervous.

Because if they’re willing to spend hours criticizing someone they claim to love, what’s being said about me when I leave the room?

And if every relationship in their life eventually becomes a list of grievances, what makes them think the next relationship will be different?

One thing I’ve learned is that changing partners doesn’t automatically change patterns.

A person can leave a wife and find a girlfriend.

Leave a girlfriend and find another girlfriend.

Leave one relationship and jump straight into the next.

But if they never examine themselves, they often end up carrying the same problems with them.

Different face.

Different name.

Same story.

Which is why, these days, I pay far less attention to how someone talks about the people who hurt them and far more attention to whether they’re willing to ask themselves a simple question:

What was my part in this?

And perhaps an even more important one:

What am I going to do about it?

Secrets from My Closet

I discussed this topic recently while filming Secrets from My Closet — Secret #15 in my walk-in closet.

I shared a few details in the video version that I didn’t include here…

If you’re curious, you can find it over on my OnlyFans.

Expect more behind-the-scenes stories here after each secret reveal.

Some things I only say behind closed doors…😋🚪





(you know where to find me)

OnlyFans😈

People often see the highlights of this work: the travel, the flexibility, the nice hotels, the income. What they don’t often see are the sacrifices that make those things possible.

Like many women in this industry, I’ve missed holidays, birthdays, family gatherings, and important moments with the people I love. I’ve boarded planes while others were settling in at home. I’ve rearranged my life around clients, tours, and schedules that rarely align with the rest of the world.

And unlike many traditional careers, time away isn’t paid time off. When I don’t work, I don’t earn. There are no employer-sponsored retirement plans, health benefits, or paid vacations waiting in the wings. Freedom comes with responsibility, and independence has its price.

One of the comments I’ve heard over the years—sometimes even from clients—is, “Well, it’s easy money, right?”

Nothing could be further from the truth.

If it were easy money, the burnout rate wouldn’t be so high. Women wouldn’t leave the industry every day. It wouldn’t require emotional stamina, social intelligence, business savvy, resilience, and strong boundaries to do well and remain intact in the process.

And to be clear, I wasn’t born with those skills. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve struggled. I’ve learned some lessons the hard way. Like many people, I entered adulthood carrying old wounds, insecurities, and blind spots. This work did not magically make me stronger. In many ways, it exposed all the places where I wasn’t.

The truth is that this can be challenging money. It can be lonely money. It can be emotionally expensive money.

Then there is the social stigma.

I am fortunate. My children know what I do and still love and accept me. Not every woman is afforded that grace. Many women live with the constant fear of being discovered. Some fiercely guard their identities, never showing their faces and carefully separating their work from every other part of their lives. The secrecy itself can become its own kind of burden.

And despite what outsiders may assume, not every woman in this industry is making extraordinary money. Some do quite well. Many do not. Some struggle to make ends meet at all.

Like most professions, outcomes vary widely. But unlike most professions, this one often requires carrying both the labor and the stigma simultaneously.

To speak honestly about this work, I have to speak honestly about both sides of the ledger.

Yes, there have been sacrifices.

But I would be dishonest if I only spoke of loss.

This work gave me financial independence. It allowed me to support my children and create stability during times when life felt uncertain. It gave me choices. It allowed me to leave unhealthy relationships and situations. It gave me flexibility that many traditional careers never could.

Every path asks something of us.

The physician misses holidays. The entrepreneur loses sleep. The stay-at-home mother may sacrifice income and professional identity. The corporate executive misses dinners and soccer games. There is no life without trade-offs.

The question is not whether we sacrifice.

The question is whether what we gain is worth what we give.

For me, the answer has changed over time. Some sacrifices I would make again. Others I would not.

Age has taught me that success is not measured solely in dollars. Health matters. Relationships matter. Time matters. Peace matters.

People see the money.

Far fewer see the cost.

What is the one thing women notice that men do?

People often ask what women notice.

They assume it’s looks. Height. Hair. Muscles. Watches. Cars.

Sometimes it’s those things.

But if you really want to know one thing women notice, it’s this:

Men who have money don’t talk about money.

Now, before the angry emails come in, let me clarify. I’m not talking about billionaires. I’m not even talking about wealth. I’m talking about abundance. There is a certain ease that comes from people who don’t view every dollar as a negotiation.

Years ago, I noticed something curious.

The men who quietly had the most often made the least fuss.

At dinner, they don’t announce prices. They don’t sigh at the wine list. They don’t make a production over ordering appetizers or dessert.

They simply ask:

“What are you getting?”

You glance at the menu.

“Well, I was thinking about the lobster...”

“Perfect. I’m getting the steak.”

And that’s the end of the conversation.

No raised eyebrows.

No discussion.

No subtle guilt.

No scorekeeping.

Just ease.

Women notice that.

Likewise, I’ve had men hand me a small gift with the same energy one might hand someone a cup of coffee.

“Hey, I saw this and thought of you.”

Or:

“The nuts are great over here. Here, have one.”

No ceremony.

No expectation.

No emotional invoice attached.

Women notice that too.

But here’s the part nobody likes to talk about:

We also notice the opposite.

We notice when a modest gift arrives with an extensive explanation. When a gift certificate is discussed repeatedly. When someone circles back to ask what we bought with it. Whether we used it. Whether we liked it.

A gift ceases to feel like generosity the moment it becomes an accounting exercise.

There was a time in my life when I was married, and nearly every dinner out ended the same way.

The check would come.

My ex-husband would glance down at it and say, almost like clockwork:

“Wow. It only would have been $45 if you hadn’t gotten the wine.”

Every single time.

Now, to be fair, perhaps he thought he was simply making an observation. Perhaps he didn’t realize the cumulative effect of those comments.

But over time, they landed like tiny paper cuts.

What I heard wasn’t:

“The wine was expensive.”

What I heard was:

“You are expensive.”

“You are costing me money.”

“If you weren’t here, I’d have more.”

Those little remarks have a way of settling into a woman’s bones.

You begin to order differently.

Apologize more.

Take up less space.

Ask for less.

And perhaps that’s one reason I’ve become so fiercely independent.

Because once you’ve been made to feel like a financial burden long enough, there is a part of you that quietly vows never to owe anyone anything ever again.

It’s funny how often people think independence is born from strength.

Sometimes it’s born from shame.

Ironically, some of the wealthiest men I’ve met barely mention money at all.

And some of the men who speak about it the most possess very little of it.

Women notice that too.

We notice ease.

We notice abundance.

And perhaps most of all, we notice when generosity is offered freely rather than performed loudly.

Because generosity, like confidence, rarely needs an audience.

Secrets from My Closet

I discussed this topic recently

while filming Secrets from My Closet — Secret #14 in my walk-in closet.

I shared a few details in the video version that I didn’t include here…

If you’re curious, you can find it over on my OnlyFans.

Expect more behind-the-scenes stories here after each secret reveal.

Some things I only say behind closed doors…😋🚪



(you know where to find me)

OnlyFans😈

One of the most common conversations in this industry revolves around rates.

Clients think providers charge too much.

Providers think other providers charge too much.

Some providers think other providers charge too little.

Everyone seems to have an opinion about what someone else’s time should cost.

After eight years in this business, I’ve reached a much simpler conclusion:

If a provider’s rates are working for her business, helping her meet her goals, and allowing her to build a life she enjoys, then it’s really nobody else’s business.

A provider charging half my rate isn’t wrong.

A provider charging double my rate isn’t wrong.

We’re not all trying to build the same business.

My rates were never designed to impress other providers or justify themselves to clients.

They were designed to support the kind of business—and the kind of life—I wanted to build.

For the record, many providers charge significantly more than I do. There are women whose rates dwarf mine. I’m not writing this because I believe I sit at the very top of the market. I don’t.

But for a woman in her mid-fifties, I am certainly on the higher end of the market, and people occasionally ask how I arrived there.

The answer is surprisingly simple.

And that’s where I think many people misunderstand my rates.

My rates were never designed to make me the busiest provider in the room.

They were designed to make me selective.

One unexpected benefit of higher rates is that they allow me to walk away from income that no longer aligns with the business I want to run.

Earlier in my career, I often felt pressure to say yes. A booking was a booking. Income was income.

Today, I look at things differently.

I’ve learned that not all revenue is created equal.

Some clients leave you depleted.

Some make your work more enjoyable.

Some make you question why you accepted the appointment in the first place.

One of the greatest gifts my rates have given me is the freedom to decline opportunities that come at too high a personal cost.

Years ago, I would have focused on the money.

Today, I focus on the experience.

Because what I’ve learned is that money is replaceable.

Peace is not.

I remember having a conversation years ago with another provider about a client who wanted to spend a substantial amount of time with me.

In reality, the situation was far less glamorous than it sounded.

The client was willing to spend an extraordinary amount of money. He had even discussed cashing out part of his retirement savings to make it happen.

The other provider encouraged me to focus on the financial opportunity.

“Think about the money! Imagine the home renovations you could do with that.”

But what I remember most isn’t the dollar amount.

I remember how strongly I wanted to say no.

How every interaction left me feeling drained. Every appointment felt heavier than it should have.

At the time, I questioned whether I was making a mistake by walking away from that kind of money.

Was I being ungrateful?

Was I being difficult?

Was I turning down an opportunity that any reasonable business person would accept?

Today, I see it differently.

I look back and realize my instincts were trying to protect me.

The money was attractive. The experience was not.

What I understand now is that there are opportunities that make money and opportunities that cost you something.

Sometimes the cost is your energy.

Sometimes it’s your peace.

Sometimes it’s your enthusiasm for the work itself.

The older I get, the more I’ve learned to trust the feeling that tells me something isn’t worth the price—even when the price looks attractive on paper.

Had I accepted that arrangement years ago, I might have earned more money.

But I suspect I would have paid for it in ways that don’t show up on a bank statement.

Years ago, my rates were roughly half of what they are today. Looking back, the most significant difference wasn’t the income.

It was the clientele.

The men who contacted me then often approached me differently than the men who contact me today.

There was more haggling.

More inappropriate comments.

More entitlement.

More friction.

Not always, of course. Some wonderful men found me during those years.

But as my rates increased, so did the overall quality of my interactions.

If I lowered my rates tomorrow, I have little doubt I would receive more inquiries.

But that’s not my goal.

I’ve already experienced that version of my business, and I don’t wish to return to it.

Because rates don’t just filter for financial means.

They filter for intent.

The men I enjoy seeing most tend to respect my screening process.

They book in advance.

They communicate clearly.

They respect boundaries.

They value my time.

Many of them read my writing, listen to my podcast, and understand that what I offer extends far beyond an hour on a clock.

One thing I’ve learned is that people often assume they’re paying for beauty.

They’re not.

Or at least, that’s only a small piece of it.

A younger version of me assumed clients were paying for appearance.

An older version of me understands they’re paying for something much harder to cultivate.

They’re paying for presence.

Warmth.

Conversation.

Humor.

Connection.

The ability to make another person feel seen.

Recently, one of my clients and I were discussing age.

I laughed and told him that whenever a man starts explaining why he likes seeing women my age, I usually stop him halfway through and say, “Trust me, I know.”

I’m very aware that many of the men who see me aren’t looking for someone in her twenties.

He smiled and said something that stayed with me.

“That’s what I like about you. We have things in common. I can relax with you.”

Not, “You’re the youngest.”

Not, “You’re the hottest.”

Not, “You’re perfect.”

“I can relax with you.”

That simple statement reminded me of something I’ve heard repeatedly throughout my career.

Many men are not looking for perfection.

They’re looking for comfort.

They’re looking for ease.

They’re looking for a place where they can put the armor down for a few hours.

And that kind of experience requires something that is often overlooked.

Energy.

Real energy.

Real attention.

Real presence.

You cannot fake those things indefinitely.

Which is why I eventually stopped offering half-hour appointments.

It wasn’t because I wanted to make more money.

It was because thirty minutes wasn’t enough time for me to do what I do best.

The conversations I enjoy.

The connection clients often tell me they value.

The sense of ease and comfort we create together.

None of that happens in a rushed thirty-minute window.

In many ways, eliminating half hours was the first step toward understanding my rates.

I wasn’t trying to sell more time.

I was trying to protect the quality of the time I was selling.

A while back, after I recorded a podcast episode about aging in this business, a listener sent me a thoughtful analysis explaining why I should lower my rates by roughly thirty percent.

His argument was simple:

Some money is better than no money.

I understood his logic.

But it also highlighted a fundamental misunderstanding of how I view my business.

I am not trying to book every inquiry.

I am not trying to maximize volume.

I am not trying to become the busiest provider in the room.

I am trying to preserve the qualities that made clients seek me out in the first place.

What he saw as empty spots on a calendar, I saw as margin.

Margin to write.

Margin to travel.

Margin to maintain my health.

Margin to protect my energy.

Margin to enjoy my life.

Margin to remain genuinely curious about the person sitting across from me.

Some money is not always better than no money if earning that money requires sacrificing the very qualities your clients are paying for.

And that brings me to something I’ve become increasingly aware of as I’ve gotten older.

Careers have seasons.

Athletes know it.

Models know it.

Actors know it.

Companions know it.

I am healthy.

I have energy.

I enjoy my work.

Clients respond to what I offer.

I don’t assume that season lasts forever.

So while I am in this season of my life, I intend to honor it.

Not out of fear.

Not out of greed.

Out of gratitude.

People often assume my rates are about money.

They’re not.

Money is simply the mechanism.

What I’m really protecting is my peace.

The ability to wake up and enjoy my day.

The ability to remain curious instead of resentful.

The ability to be present instead of depleted.

The ability to continue offering the very thing my clients thank me for afterward.

My inbox is filled with messages from men expressing gratitude.

Not because they expected perfection.

Not because they were impressed by a number on a rate sheet.

But because they felt heard.

Seen.

Comfortable.

Relaxed.

Connected.

Looking back, I realize this philosophy didn’t stay confined to my business.

As my rates increased and my professional standards evolved, something shifted in my personal life as well.

I became less willing to tolerate what drained me.

Less willing to ignore my instincts.

Less willing to accept behavior that came at the expense of my peace.

Years ago, I was charging less, saying yes more often, and caught in a relationship that I would never tolerate today.

At the time, I thought those things were unrelated.

Now I’m not so sure.

In many ways, raising my rates wasn’t just about my business. It was about changing my relationship with myself.

I stopped viewing boundaries as obstacles.

I started viewing them as acts of self-respect.

And once you learn to value your time, your energy, and your peace professionally, it becomes much harder to give them away for free personally.

The higher my rates became, the more I realized I wasn’t charging for access to my body.

I was charging for access to my energy.

And energy is finite.

And the older I get, the less interested I am in selling that energy at a discount.

Because after eight years in this business, I’ve learned something that applies far beyond this industry:

You cannot put a price on your peace.

When is the moment you can tell the chemistry is real?

People often assume that chemistry is something you can predict.

He’s handsome.

He’s successful.

He’s kind.

He smells incredible.

Surely all of those things add up to attraction.

And yet, they don’t.

One of the things I’ve learned over the years is that chemistry is one of the most elusive things in the world. You can put two objectively attractive people in a room together and feel absolutely nothing. Then you can meet someone who doesn’t check every box on paper, and suddenly the air feels different.

As someone who spends a great deal of time with people, I’ve become fascinated by that phenomenon.

I love a man who smells good. A great cologne will always catch my attention. Good hygiene matters. Presentation matters.

But I’ve also learned that smelling good doesn’t necessarily create chemistry.

I’ve met men who looked fantastic, dressed impeccably, smelled amazing, and yet there was no spark whatsoever.

And then there are those rare occasions when something happens that is almost impossible to explain.

You catch their scent.

They catch yours.

And suddenly something primitive wakes up.

It’s not about looks anymore.

It’s not about money.

It’s not about intelligence or social status.

It’s something much deeper.

The French call it je ne sais quoi — that indescribable quality that can’t quite be put into words.

You simply know it when it’s there.

And when it’s there, it’s fireworks.

What’s fascinating is that science may actually have an explanation for part of this mystery.

Researchers have spent decades studying attraction and pheromones — the chemical signals that animals use to communicate with one another. While the role of pheromones in human attraction is still debated, there is growing evidence that scent plays a much larger role in mate selection than most of us realize.

Some studies suggest that humans may be naturally drawn to people whose immune systems differ from their own. In simple terms, our biology may be nudging us toward partners whose DNA would create stronger, healthier offspring.

In other words, what feels like romance may sometimes be biology doing what biology has always done.

Long before dating apps, long before social media, long before we could create lists of desirable traits and relationship requirements, human beings were choosing partners through instinct.

Through scent.

Through chemistry.

Through something they couldn’t quite explain.

Perhaps that’s why chemistry remains nearly impossible to manufacture.

You can improve your appearance.

You can develop confidence.

You can become more successful.

But genuine chemistry is either there or it isn’t.

If I’m honest, I’ve tried.

I’ve dated men who looked fantastic on paper.

Successful.

Intelligent.

Kind.

Attractive.

The sort of men that friends would look at and say, “What’s the problem? He seems perfect.”

And that was exactly the problem.

There just wasn’t, it.

I wanted to feel what they felt.

I wanted the butterflies.

I wanted the excitement.

I wanted the effortless pull toward them that seems to happen in great love stories.

But no matter how much I admired them, respected them, or appreciated how wonderful they were, I couldn’t force myself to feel something that wasn’t there.

That’s one of the hardest truths about chemistry.

You can talk yourself into giving someone a chance.

You can talk yourself into a second date.

You can even talk yourself into a relationship.

But you can’t talk yourself into genuine attraction.

At least I never could.

And perhaps that’s because chemistry isn’t a decision we make.

It’s a signal we receive.

I’ve certainly tried to explain it over the years.

I’ve asked myself why one person leaves me completely indifferent while another can make my heart race simply by walking into a room.

The answer is that I don’t think attraction is entirely a conscious choice.

Part of it lives somewhere much deeper.

Somewhere ancient.

Somewhere primal.

And despite all of our modern sophistication, despite all of our technology and self-awareness, that primitive part of us still gets a vote.

That’s why chemistry can feel so powerful.

It’s not just happening in your head.

It’s happening in places far older than logic.

Secrets from My Closet

I discussed this topic recently

while filming Secrets from My Closet — Secret #13 in my walk-in closet.

I shared a few details in the video version that I didn’t include here…

If you’re curious, you can find it over on my OnlyFans.

Expect more behind-the-scenes stories here after each secret reveal.

Some things I only say behind closed doors…😋🚪

(you know where to find me)

OnlyFans😈