I used to think longing meant I wanted someone; what I was really feeling was alarm. As a younger me I learned love by way of gaps — attention arrived and left like a tide, so my nervous system learned to treat absence as urgent. Longing became a strategy, a litmus test for whether I mattered. I would chase texts, over-explain my feelings, and interpret delays as proof of failure. Through hindsight I recognize that it felt like survival. Unpredictability required me to be vigilant.

I’ve come to see my standards not as rigid rules but as invitations to honor my worth and preserve my energy.  Sharing them isn’t about bragging—it’s about modeling how each human deserves clear boundaries and wholehearted alignment.

I don’t remember ever being this excited for a companion experience. I’ve orchestrated extended encounters before—careful dinners, long afternoons, hot nights, slow mornings, even a triad date at a sexy club. I told myself I liked doing it all, that the choreography was part of the charm. I also remember waiting days for someone to say yes when the idea had been mine. This time it was different.

I’m insatiable. Again.

After learning the hard way that I’m exceptional at paid companionship but not so great at relationships, I knew what I was in for. We’d connected before—back when I was married and ethically non-monogamous—and there was something about you I couldn’t shake. So when you reached out, I knew I’d tell you about my sugar baby offerings. You can afford me. Financially, anyway.

When the words left his mouth—landing softly, tenderly on my ears—I felt tears well up.

We were seated outside at the Columbia Restaurant on St. Armands Circle, one of my favorites. Even on that warm June afternoon, a gentle breeze fluttered through the courtyard. Before our meal arrived, he wandered off in search of the restroom, only to get delightfully lost in the nearby gift shop—he loves to shop, and I couldn’t help smiling at the joy on his face as he returned from his triumphant discovery.

We often speak of potential as if it’s a distant summit—something to be reached, earned, or proven. But what if potential isn’t a destination at all? What if it’s a living, breathing invitation to become more deeply ourselves?

I was listening to a podcaster the other day—Exotic Vivian of The Sexy Escort Podcast. She was letting us listen in on a conversation with Chantelle Etwahl, another paid companion, with whom she occasionally travels with and shares time. One topic they explored struck a chord: how much more romantic men tend to be in paid dynamics than in traditional dating environments like online apps.

Since stepping into this world last October, I’ve refined not just my offerings—but the energetic boundaries that allow me to thrive.  I’ve been asked periodically how much I charge for a 30 minute session.  My response is always the same:  $600. 

I can’t get enough of people telling me I am their fantasy.  No, I’m not talking about the fantasy bookers who ring my phone hoping for free phone sex.  I’m talking especially about men who’ve had an experience with me, and are looking forward to their next opportunity to connect with me physically. 

I first heard these words spoken by Dr. Andrew Huberman on his Huberman Lab podcast. Although I don’t recall the exact topic, I know the episode was life changing. Until then, I had never encountered the concept of covert contracts.

In the world of open relationships and professional intimacy, “Condoms Required” has long been the standard. It’s a phrase that offers comfort, creates a sense of safety, and attempts to draw a clear line between responsible and reckless. I abided by it for years—both personally and professionally. I also lived by another unspoken rule: herpes-positive partners were typically vetoed before the conversation even began.

In my last blog post, I explore the journey of embracing sex work—not just as a necessity, but as a unique profession for talented and unique providers. Looking back, I’m deeply grateful for the lessons my last relationship gifted me—the kind that reshaped my understanding and softened my perception of connection, light work and purpose. Human connection is an undeniable force, sometimes presenting itself in ways that can only be understood through the lens of experience and knowledge.

For most of my life, I felt uneasy at the very thought of sex work as an intimate exchange. I couldn’t fathom that anyone would willingly trade money for such a personal experience—except, perhaps, out of sheer desperation. I still remember a trip to Vegas when friends suggested we visit one of the brothels. Both my then-husband and I were utterly mortified. Why would we ever pay for something that felt so intimate? We didn’t go, and the idea quickly fell by the wayside.

I can’t pinpoint when I first began to prefer the company of older men. It was sometime after we opened our marriage—when desire became expansive and discerning. My husband, close in age, had once been the entire landscape of my affection. But as my gaze began to wander, it wasn’t drawn by age so much as presence, and I found myself increasingly drawn to men who carried the weight of years with elegance.