Content Notes:
This page is about words, reflections that linger longer than images.
If you are here looking for services, click these links:
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Entry 1
RAGE 🔥
(Published on 22/07/2025)
(Update 11/11/2025): This entry became the catalyst for creating my blog. What began as frustration turned into a doorway, a reason to write.Over the past few months,writing has become the hobby I never made time for, the one that had been quietly sitting at the back of my mind for years. Now it’s here, taking shape at last, s space to give form to the thoughts and fragments i’ve been carrying all along
🕊️ ” Twitter Let Us Speak. X Silences Us” 🤐
For years, I showed up in all the expected places. I kept a presence, kept the updates flowing, stayed accessible. But lately, I’ve stepped back, Not from the work. From the noise.
The pandemic changed everything. Like many of you, I started asking harder questions:
What still fits?
What no longer deserves my time?
One thing became clear. If I am going to speak, it needs to be on my own terms.
Twitter, now “X”, was the last platform that let me do that.
It wasn’t perfect, but it gave sex workers room to move.
We could post, connect, and engage without being constantly shut down or scrubbed from view .
Even with the word count cap: 280 characters, unless you paid to stretch it, the limit forced us to be inventive.
We learned to compress desire, anger, politics into soundbites.
For me, as a sex worker, it was never about politics, it was about keeping clients updated, a photo here, a line there.
These are some samples of my tweets between 2012 – 2025:
My very last post on X 18/05/2025:
And then, I received an email from X:
☝️☝️☝️☝️☝️☝️☝️This is the same platform that still promotes hardcore porn, rage driven contents and algorithmically gamed engagement.
Porn stars and OnlyFans creators who don’t offer in-person services are still permitted to upload and market explicit content freely. I have no issue with that, I see them as my peers.
But I will name the hypocrisy: why is digital sex work allowed, while human connection is erased from the frame?
Are we really moving toward a world where simulated intimacy is acceptable, but honest, embodied service is treated like a threat?
Are we also encouraging people to sit alone and masturbate in front of a screen rather than experience real human touch?
Yet somehow, a real, consensual service offered by a real adult to another real adult crosses the line?
That’s not a glitch. That’s policy from the unhinged new owner, a man brilliant enough to land rockets but incapable of landing on a principle and staying there.
A self-styled free-speech absolutist presiding over a feed where porn, closed up, cum drips, creampie’d genitals, in full view across the timeline without friction, while my posts, tame enough to look like a nun’s diary – banned and silenced.
From this point forward,
Azurablue.com is my home. It’s where I’ll publish, connect, clarify, and stay close to those who value transparency over pretence.
I built this space to stand independently.
It doesn’t rely on engagement tricks, shadow bans, or third-party compliance rules. It answers to no one but me.
If you want to keep in touch, this is where you’ll find me.
Send me your feedback, what your thoughts are on this, either you agree; or disagree.
Welcome in 🙏
_________________
Entry 2
Pre-Holidays Chaos
(Pulished on 24/07/2025)
🧳”They Say Travel Expands The Mind, I Say It Exposes The Cracks” 🛫
I Love Travel
The idea of it.
The version that lives in a dopamine-soaked Instagram reel, all curated playlists and well-lit airport lounges. I love the version of me I pretend to be in the days leading up to a trip, calm, competent, cosmopolitan.
The woman who wears linen on planes and has pre-packed minis of everything.
But in reality?
I am none of those things.
In reality, I am a woman pacing barefoot across her apartment at 3am, a half-zipped suitcase on the floor and a chaotic to-do list in her head. I am three tabs deep into Google, trying to figure out why my WordPress banner won’t update, while simultaneously refreshing tracking info for a last-minute Sephora order that may or may not arrive before takeoff.
And somewhere in between syncing calendars and soaking lingerie in the sink, I wonder…not for the first time… why prepping for rest always feels like a war. Because this isn’t just about packing.
This is about disentangling myself from the thousand invisible threads that hold my everyday life together: the admin, the boundaries, the clients, the ghosted WhatsApp messages, the things I swore I’d deal with later that are now screaming “Later is now.”
There’s an art to leaving town. A ritual to releasing control.
But first, there’s chaos.
WhatsApp from clients who didn’t see the announcement that I’m away. Texts from men I’ve seen once, suddenly urgent, suddenly poetic, because they sense the window is closing. That one final booking might be the exception: “just a quick visit”.
Then there’s the packing audit.
The dry cleaning that wasn’t ready.
The dress I swore I’d take in, still too long. The “just in case” shoes that somehow weigh two kilos but feel morally impossible to leave behind.
And of course, the existential part:
The inner monologue that always shows up two days before departure, asking the big questions no one invited to this party:
Have I done enough?
Have I earned this break?
Will I be forgotten while I’m gone?
Am I allowed to disappear?
Because for people like me: people whose work is built on constant visibility, on emotional presence as a performance art, absence feels like risk.
Will clients find someone else?
Will my site glitch while I’m in the air?
Will I come back and feel irrelevant?
And somewhere in that neurotic spiral, I remember the woman I thought I’d be:
The woman with colour-coded packing cubes. The one who schedules blowouts and facials before flights.
The one who arrives at the airport with a hardcover novel and no sweat patches
.
I built her in my head. I wanted her to exist.But she’s a fantasy.
I’m tired of trying to become her.
Because the woman I actually am: the one who can only drink a double espresso, plus a soy latte and a few pieces of fruit in the airport lounge, is real.
And she’s earned this break, whether or not the to-do list is finished.
The irony is: half of my work is about teaching men how to be present. How to sit still in a moment.
How to feel.
But when it comes to my own rest?
I act like it’s something I have to deserve.
As if pleasure has to be purchased with burnout.
As if softness has to be postponed until after all the admin is done.
As if rest is something we buy, instead of something we claim.
So this time, I’m doing it differently.
I’m letting the chaos be part of the ritual.
The overstuffed suitcase. The messy inbox. The half-written blog post I meant to schedule. I’m letting it all come with me, not literally, but energetically. As proof that I am human. Not a brand. Not a curated feed. Just a person, who deserves to leave town without finishing every task on the list.
And no, I won’t take that last-minute booking.
Because this time, I am choosing me.
Me, with my cashmere layers, my too-heavy skincare pouch, and my commitment to getting on that flight as an elegant woman, not a depleted one.
I will wear my platinum like armour. I will listen to jazz while I board.
I will let the undone things stay undone.
Because if I’ve learned anything from this life, it.
From Bitter-Sydney-Winter to tropical heat Kuala Lumpur. I am ready!
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Entry 3
One Watch,Two Faces
(Published on 05/08/2025)
🌗 “I wear a Jaeger-LeCoultre Reverso Duetto. It’s quiet, elegant, thoughtfully made, and it flips between two faces. One side is bright, simple. The other, dark, edged in diamonds. Two moods, depending on what you are ready to see.” 🌓
I am traveling right now, and this is the watch that I brought with me, not a quartz, not an automatic. I chose the Duetto because it asks something of me. It doesn’t just tick. I have to wind it. I have to pay attention, and I like that, especially when I’m in motion. That’s why it came with me.
Like my work, it doesn’t run on autopilot. It waits, for the right hands, for the right movement. The kind of care. It doesn’t wind itself, left alone, it stops.
But when someone returns and turns the crown with intention, it comes to life again. Not every hour is the right hour, sometimes I’m away. Sometimes I’m already spoken for, but when the timing lines up, everything starts to tick with purpose.
Some encounters are fleeting. A one-time meeting. A trace that lingers. Others return, changed but familiar. And there are the ones who have stayed. Through seasons, through shifts, the ones who saw me when I was new to all of this and kept coming back anyway.
Desires change. Timing changes. Circumstances change. What someone wants the first time isn’t always what they need the next. I don’t work from a script, I follow what fits in the moment, not just what’s asked for, but what lands.
Sometimes we begin soft, slow, playful. Sometimes it’s sharper. Focused with a plan. Other times, we don’t need to say a word.
Like the Duetto, I shift. Not to reveal, but to respond. Thoughtfully. Deliberately. Until it fits just right.
Vanilla or Dark Chocolate. Gentle or intense. Familiar or new. The Duetto can show one, or both faces in one sitting, and often does. But even then, it turns with care. What happens depends on what you bring, what you ask for, and yes, what you’re willing to invest in.
Some are drawn to the smooth silver side. Others want more. The weight. The detail. The diamonds. The difference is subtle, but it shows. Especially in what you hand me at the end. A note. A transfer. A quiet thanks.
Yes, I sell time. But what you’re paying for is how it feels. Maybe you only want a short turn of the crown. Or maybe you want every tick. Every shift. Every second I’m willing to give.
That’s your call. And that choice shapes everything.
Whether this is your first visit or something we’ve done before, I want it to feel easy.
Like slipping into something that fits just right.
Maybe that’s why I still wear this watch.
Because sometimes, all it takes is one turn of the crown or a flip of the case, and everything shifts.
And it all begins again.
——————————
Entry 4
Book Three Moans and Get one Free 🤑
(Published on 8/08/25)
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, my hometown: Everywhere I turn: malls, apps, shopfronts… it’s screaming “8.8 SALE. Flash deals. Timed vouchers. Bank rebates. Things you didn’t need five minutes ago that suddenly feel urgent.
Even my phone’s doing it. The apps are throwing pop-ups at me like confetti at a divorce party.
HERE IS WHAT’S HAPPENING:
It’s funny. Being surrounded by all this discount noise reminded me of something.
Something I did once. And only once.
Because every now and then, when the moon is in retro-whatever and my phone’s gone quieter than a nun at a sex club, I get tempted. You know, that whisper in the back of your mind that says: Maybe a little “Black Friday Bonk” promo will stir the pot.
So once. Just once. I caved. Business had dipped. I was bored. My phone had the personality of a dead fish. So I got cheeky. I sent out a tweet that said:
”Book Three 1 hour Encounters And Get One Free! This Week Only!”
Simple. Elegant. Unapologetically stupid.
And it worked. My phone buzzed like a vibrator on a discount shelf. I got booked solid, and not by the usual suspects. These were the coupon kings. The mileage-maximisers. The men who book thirty minutes, spend five in the shower beforehand, five after, and still expect a full thirty minutes of action. As if rinsing their balls doesn’t count against the clock.
One even asked mid-thrust, “Is the special still on next month?”
Sir. Your cock is in my mouth right now. Ask your accountant.
Another came back with a sheepish grin: “Oh…but last time I paid $ X… can you do that again? As if I am a supermarket.
As if I’m running a loyalty card program. As if my boobs and genitals come with Flybuys.
Now let’s be clear. It’s not about the money. It’s about the tone.
Sales culture trains people to wait for a markdown. Not for desire, but for a discount. And I’m not a discount experience. I’m a luxury you book at full price because you want to. Not because it’s on clearance.
This isn’t a dig at massage parlours or beauticians who do “Winter Glow Ups” or “20% Off Packages”.
Respect to the girls keeping it moving.
But I’ve learned that the moment you reduce what you do to a bargain bin code, it stops being special.
It becomes expected. So no, I’m not doing 20% off your birthday month. No, you don’t get a free 30 minutes because you are a Gemini. And no, you can’t prepay ten for the price of six.
This is bespoke. Intimate. Tailored.
It’s not on sale, because it’s not for everyone.
But for old times’ sake, I’ll say this: The free and last moan? On me, obviously…they got theirs, and my jaw, fingers, pussy-cock, my back pussy, still roll their eyes when they hear those names.
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Entry 5
Post Card In The Sky
(Publish on 12/08/25)
✈️ “Somewhere above North India, although I am on my way, I am already there”✈️
The window is fixed, but the views keep changing. Clouds, coastlines, cities sliding past. The frame stays the same, cities sliding past, but the story shifts every mile.
Last year, I was arriving from Sicily to Istanbul, without knowing what I was stepping into. A place that has been a crossroads of ancient civilisations, carrying the fingerprints of countless histories. For someone like me, it was a leap.
By the time I left, I had found an unexpected affection for it, one that has been pulling me back ever since.
Now, as the cabin hums around me, with linen, a flatbed waiting and aisle lights low, I notice the service. Sharp and personable. Not just polished, but human. The crew have that instinct for appearing at exactly the right moment, often before I even think to ask. It reminds me of my own work; no matter how full the day, you show up with purpose, warmth, and professionalism. I enjoy chatting with them, but I also know they need moments to themselves.
So I sit back with a fruit plate and water, letting the hum of the engines carry me. Not just toward Istanbul, but back into a feeling I know I will find again when we touch down.
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Entry 6
The Cat and The Catch
Türkiye Trilogy #1
(Published on 14/08/25)
😸 He’s after fish. She’s after him. And I’m just watching to see who wins. 😸
It’s evening on the Galata Bridge. The air smells like salt and grilled mackerel. Ferries churn past, and every few seconds, a fishing line flicks overhead and disappears into the Bosphorus. The men lean on the railings like they’ve been doing this all their lives – patient, steady, eyes on the water.
At my feet, a tabby cat is holding her own vigil. Tail swung like a whip, the kind a dominatrix snaps to keep her slaves in line. Her gaze fixed on a polystyrene box where fresh fish still twitching, captives waiting for their sentence. She’s not begging. She’s not chasing. She’s commanding, silent, as if the whole Galata Bridge is already hers, part of the scene – and in this city, that makes her royalty.
People feed cats here without thinking. They fuss over them, build little wooden houses for them, photograph them like celebrities.
The fisherman came for fish, certain of his plan. But then she wandered in, calm, sharp-eyed, impossible to miss. The fish he was chasing… and the cat he’s suddenly feeding.
That’s the thing about travel. You come for one thing…: You end up with something else in your lap, purring.
Behind us, Hagia Sophia glows in gold, minarets carving into the night sky. The fisherman keeps casting. The cat keeps waiting. And me? I’m still watching – because sometimes, everyone gets exactly what they want… even if it’s not what they came for.
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Entry 7
Cat And The Cities
Türkiye Trilogy #2
(Published on 19/2025)
🐈 “If there is a next life, and it has to be spent as something else, I want to be a cat in Türkiye.” 🐈⬛
No creature is treated with more indulgence, more casual worship, more everyday affection. They stretch across mosques, curl into café sprawl on cobblestones, and even strut into bars like they own the liquor license. Nobody moves them. Everybody feeds them. They are adored, free, and utterly themselves. And perhaps that is why their presence feels magnetic. A reminder that pleasure comes from taking your space, and in claiming it, quietly inviting others closer.
Istanbul: The Calico That Stopped The Traffic
On a side street a calico had flung herself across the cobblestones like a diva sunbathing in couture. Belly tilted to the sky, tail twitching like a whip, chin angled for applause.
Pedestrians curved around her, shopkeepers placed bowls of water nearby, tourists lifted their phones trying to snap a beautiful image. But her? Still aloof. A hint of drawn-in audience presence would invite connection.
That’s what desire looks like when it’s sure of itself: a body stretched wide open, unapologetic, forcing the world to look between her legs, as if the street itself was her stage.
My Hotel’s Gatekeeper:
A tabby sat firmly on the doormat, deciding who was welcome and who was not. Guests wheeled their bags around her, bellboys held doors, but she never budged. Nobody questioned her judgment.
It felt familiar. Desire works that way too: some advances make the skin prickle, some make it soften. The real art isn’t in clawing or hissing; it’s in knowing when to open the door wider and when to shut it in someone’s face. Control is its own kind of seduction.
Ephesus, Heat on Ancient Stone:
Among the ruins of Ephesus, a black & white cat stretched across a marble slab older than most religions. Guides murmured about Empires and Gods, tourists snapped photos of collapsed columns, and still she lay there, rolling her spine against the warmth.
Civilisations die, Languages vanish. But a sun-warmed surface still demands skin.
And if these fallen columns and walls could talk, they wouldn’t only speak of kings and priests.
They’d moan about bodies. About the thousands of fucks that must have happened here over the centuries – slaves taken in the shadows, lovers sneaking between the stones, strangers grinding against hot marble just because the sun made them want it.
These ruins don’t just echo with prayers; they echo with panting, with skin on skin, with the kind of sex that outlives language.
Watching her, it was impossible not to think of sex. The way heat clings to her spine, the way pressure grinds into one spot until it leaves a mark.
These ruins don’t just hold history, they hold the memory of bodies pressed down, of hips meeting hips, of stone stealing the sweat and keeping it. They trap it the way skin holds the memory of touch long after the hands are gone.
Antalya Nights That Purr:
In an Antalya bar, music pounded and neon flickered. Then a black cat climbed onto the counter. Her tail brushed bottles of gin and mezcal, claws tapped the wood, eyes glowed like embers.
Men forgot their drinks. Women forgot their conversations. Every head turned. She wasn’t performing. She wasn’t asking. She simply existed in her own gravity.
Seduction works like that. It doesn’t beg. It doesn’t grind. It doesn’t look desperate. It arches its back, flicks its tail, lets the whole room imagine the feel of claws down their skin. It waits, knowing the thirst will gather, knowing someone will break first. And when they lean closer, it still won’t move, because real power is making them come to you.
Istanbul, Underground Royalty
Even the metro belonged to them. Another calico sprawled across the floor in rush hour, completely unbothered by the trains roaring past or the bodies dodging around her. Defiance is its own kind of erotic : claiming space even when it inconveniences others, yet still offering a private invitation.
That confidence to stretch out amid chaos, knowing someone might lean in, is the same that makes a lover pause, and then reach, guided by you.
Desire isn’t always about movement. Sometimes it’s about stillness – the refusal to yield, the certainty that the room will adjust around your body. That’s what makes it magnetic.
A Softer Pause At The Cafe
One afternoon in a café, a Ginger brushed against a cafe windowsill, settling beside a vase of wilting roses as if arranging the scene for herself. Sunlight poured through the window, catching the curl of her whiskers.
Nobody hurried her. She set the rhythm and the room adjusted.
That’s how slow desire works. Unhurried, almost careless, but rearranging the air all the same. The kind of pause where nothing happens on the surface, yet everyone feels it: like a hand resting on your thigh under the table, steady, patient, waiting for you to open a little more.
Leaving, Not Leaving
Soon it will be time to fly back to Sydney. The suitcase holds linen, cat hair, claw marks, and too many receipts. Their lessons. Their swagger. Their refusal to apologise for taking pleasure where they find it.
Isn’t that the essence of an encounter? A little defiance, a lot of indulgence, the thrill of collapsing into warmth without asking if it is okay.
Türkiye is unforgettable. When I return to Sydney, I’ll still be the cat, but if you listen closely, you might hear me purr… for yourself.
————-—————
Entry 8
The Whore’s God
Türkiye Trilogy #3
(Published on 10/09/2025)
🚬 “I say a little prayer before every booking.”
Not to saints, not to my Buddha, but to my own Whore’s God.” 🚬
I know, Turkey again. Last one, I promise.
Think of this as the closing scene: gods, stones, and one goddess of my own invention before we bring it all back home.
Fatima my guide, was half-historian, half-gossip columnist. She stitched ruins together with a grin. Even when we didn’t stand there in person: Troy, Pergamon, Aphrodisias, Didyma, she conjured their dramas so vividly I could hear sandals squeaking on marble. Who fought, who fucked, who got punished. They just had better architecture.
At Ephesus, everyone posed in front of the Library of Celsus like diligent scholars. Fatima leaned in with the quality tea: a tunnel once ran from the library straight to the brothel across the street.
“Darling, I’m off to study philosophy” basically meant “see you in two hours, lighter wallet, sticky toga.”
Knowledge above, blowjobs below. The ancients weren’t saints. They were efficient.
Fatima kept the myths rolling. From Aphrodisias (we didn’t go, but I kept the picture in my head): Aphrodite, goddess of love and lust, born from sea foam, technically from Uranus’s chopped-off bits, the only deity who can say she was literally made from balls. Patron saint of working girls. Respect!
Back at Ephesus again, Artemis got her Wonder of the World, virgin huntress, twin of Apollo, famous for turning peeping Actaeon into venison. The original block-and-delete, only bloodier.
Perge and Aspendos were theatres that still hum if you listen right. I thought of Apollo: sun-bright, music god, Greek hot boy; who flayed Marsyas for daring to beat him in a jam session. If Apollo lived now he’d be thirst-trapping on Instagram and blocking you for liking his ex’s selfie.
Pamukkale / Hierapolis came soft: travertine terraces like a wedding cake from heaven. People waded in like they were soaking in divinity. Leave it to humans to turn sacred water into a day spa.
And then Cappadocia. No Greek Gods carved in stone, just the land itself, rude and spectacular. Towers, cones, spires; blunt ridges and smooth hollows; valleys curved like pussies or butt cracks.
Everywhere I turned were cocks disguised as scenery. Nature outperformed every sculptor. If the ancients had walked here, they could’ve skipped the statues. Desire was already rising from the ground.
Finally. Istanbul. Down in the Basilica Cistern, I found Medusa: two stone heads half-submerged, watching from the water. Fatima wasn’t there, but I remembered what she told me: raped in Athena’s temple, punished not by the rapist but by the goddess, condemned to centuries of bad PR. I didn’t see a monster. I saw a woman too much for their egos. If my god had stood beside her, she’d have whispered: “Babe, you weren’t cursed. You were proof they couldn’t handle you.”
So where does that leave me? Surrounded by gods of beauty, war, wisdom, music, but none for my trade.
If I had a god, she wouldn’t live on Olympus. She’d squat in the tunnel between the library and the brothel. Smudged eyeliner. Cigarette in hand. Laughing at excuses. Blessing the room with better lighting.
Her incense: aftershave and nervous sweat.
Her offerings: crumpled cash, a ping on the banking app, envelopes.
And yes, I pray to her, not with hymns, with honesty:
“Let every horny booking align with my limited availability. Let him be on time, reliable, kind, and above all, I feel safe.”
When the night goes smoothly, I picture her sprawled on velvet, muttering: “You’re welcome, darling. Don’t blow it all at Sephora.”
I don’t use that word lightly. Whore was designed to wound ,which is exactly why I lean into it. The same way “Slut” became a rally cry, or “bitch” twisted into a compliment. Take the word they threw like a stone, polish it, and wear it like jewelry. Pairing whore with god isn’t polite. It isn’t safe. But it sticks.
And what about them?
While I’m praying to my god of working girls, who are they praying to? Nobody clutches a holy book on the way to slip their cock into a stranger or got their anus fingered. Maybe they need their own deity: A Client’s God.
Guardian of “I hope she looks like her photos and ”please let her actually be into me”. Protector of “she laughs at my jokes” and “she doesn’t check the clock”.
Patron of “let her be horny for me, like the porn clip I just watched”. If I have the Whore’s God, surely they need theirs, a deity of nervous anticipation, guilty smiles, and that secret afterglow only the two of us understand.
Because my god doesn’t demand worship. She demands good luck. She reminds me, in every ruin and every myth and every phallic rock formation, that pleasure is power, and power, like sex, is never free.
Back in Sydney now. Rested. Ready. And she still walks with me, eyeliner smudged, amused, whispering the same blessing every time I open the door:
“You’re welcome, darling. Now go earn it.”
_______________________
Entry 9
When I Play With Myself
(Published on 19/09/2025)
“When I play with myself, honey🫦, it isn’t always about a vibrator. Sometimes it’s me running a filthy little reel in my head of what men think when they take a chance on me.”
After more than a week back from holiday and finally seeing some of my clients again, I sigh at the reality of this business. I’ve lost count of how many times the same man has tried to book me on the same day, only for me not to be able to make it. Those who do get through… more on that later.
Like this: three in the afternoon, calendar dead quiet, not a single booking in sight. I’m primed, waiting for someone who just happens to have an hour to kill between real-life appointments. Maybe a meeting got cancelled, maybe they’ve wrapped early, and they think, why not? A quick bit of entertainment, and since I’m nearby, why not give me a try? And it always seems to happen after I’ve already spent hours at home, showered, dressed, ready, hoping to catch someone horngry, me included. But nothing. Just junk-mail notifications. And as the hours drag, the craving shifts. So I kick my heels, get rid of my lingerie, put on something casual and step out of my flat.
Horngry first, then hangry.
And of course that’s when it happens, ding ding ding. Messages I actually want to see, from clients I like, the ones I’d happily open the door for. All arriving just as I’m swallowing a garlicky lunch.
I think: maybe I can rush back, make it work. But I can already picture it, me fresh from a 2-minute shower, stockings mismatched because the pair they insisted I wear is hiding somewhere I can’t find. Condoms, lube, towels tossed onto the bed like an afterthought. The setup is there, but I am not at my best, rushed, half ready, not the version I want them to remember.
That’s timing. Cravings don’t plan themselves. They don’t politely slot next Thursday at 7.30. They flare up and want to eat now. I know this feeling because I’ve lived it in other ways. I’ve been horngry first, restless, ready to pounce on whoever shows. But when nothing comes, the craving shifts. Suddenly I’m stomping out of my apartment, no longer picky, not caring if it’s a proper meal or the nearest junk food joint. By then I’m hangry, shoving money at the first counter I see just to get fed.
That’s why I tell them: book me early, pay the deposit, secure the slot. Almost everyone I managed to see in the last week had done just that, booked me days ahead, locked me in, and got the best of me: rested, styled, polished. The proper meal.
Those who left it late still got fed, but it was slap-dash, messy, unplanned, like biting into an overstuffed sandwich from a hole in the wall, juices dripping down your hand. I did manage to see one of them, but I still wonder what sort of impression I left for him.
I understand why men book last minute too, their schedules are tight, and when a window cracks open, they think of me. And I’ll always appreciate that. The only real problem is timing, nothing else.
That’s the tug of war in me. Sometimes you want the dinner you mapped out. Sometimes you want drive-thru right now. Hunger and horniness colliding – HORNRY. And when I’m home with no booking on the calendar, I’m hoping the same thing: to catch someone horngry enough to want to eat me now.
So when I play with myself, it’s not only my body I’m stroking. It’s the thought, how timing changes everything. One side whispers: be the lady, the booking, the plan. The other blurts: fuck waiting, I want to eat now.
I push the empty plate away, chew a mint that doesn’t stand a chance, and step out into the street with garlic still warm in my mouth.
The phone keeps buzzing in my bag. Too late, too late to catch me at my best.
Or maybe, I’ll just rush back, let him eat me, garlic and all.
________________________________
Entry 10
Don’t Bite The Hands That Feed You
(Published on 04/10/2025)
🥓 They’ll chase quick fucks and stretch their dollars to the max. What they lose is the woman who knows their body better than they do, and bites only when they’ve earned it 🫦🍑”
Another week has gone by and Saturday is here again, my so-called day off, though in this world the line between on and off never stays neat. This week was good to me: a couple of familiar faces, and two brand-new ones. All of them easy, generous, the kind of men who remind me exactly why I love this work. They give without grabbing, they take without testing, and in return I give back happily. They keep the pace of my week steady. I don’t take it for granted.
But every smooth week makes me remember the others the ones I don’t see anymore. The men who poke, grab, and test just to see if I’d bend. They’ve slipped out of my calendar, and my life is quieter for it.
Their absence says enough: the ones who last are the ones who understand that the real currency isn’t money, it’s how you handle someone’s time, body, and boundaries.
Once, I had a line in all my ads:
“Eager To Please”
And I was, mouth open, knees bent, the whole deal. Too eager. Back then I thought eagerness was half the job. I see the same line now in the ads of newcomers, bright-eyed, filtered, hustling to pay bills, still learning that eagerness doesn’t bend, it snaps. I should know.
I bent until something in me finally snapped back. That girl smiled through irritation and swallowed it whole. She’s not gone, but she’s had her teeth sharpened.
Because there are types.
The Marathon Texters. The ones who have already seen me, but still send twenty messages for what takes one to confirm, ballooning a simple booking into a slow-motion ping-pong match. Darling, I’ve posted my rates, my menu, my words, my address, you have seen my face and naked body in the previous sessions, what else do you need? My Bazi chart?
The Clock Teaser : The ones that booked 4pm., sharp, then texted at 3:57pm saying:
“I am still in Chatswood, just finished my beer, see you in 10 minutes”
Ten kilometres away. I was standing by the intercom in heels and lingerie, perfume already settled, patience evaporating. They drifted in at 4:45, smug, while I had burned through half my scent and most of my goodwill. I used to wait with a knot in my chest, convincing myself patience was part of the job.
The Boundary Testers. The ones who think a booking means an open menu. The condom slips, the requests multiply, the lines blur. It starts as Vanilla, but halfway through they want Ropes and A Gag.
And when their finale flops, after edging like Olympians competing to finish last, somehow it’s my fault, as if I can manually override what they’ve already broken.
I used to accommodate all of these. Smiled through it. Made it work.
Now I cut it differently. Sometimes sharp and clean: “That’s not on the menu you ordered.” Other times softer, a smirk, a tease, a warning wrapped in a smile. If you’re lucky, I make the no sound like foreplay, breathy, teasing, the kind that makes you harder. If you’re not, the temperature drops 10 degrees and you suddenly remember who’s naked and who’s holding the leash.
Of course I lose clients this way. The ones who want dolls instead of humans, toys instead of touch, have already left the room.
And I know they’re still out there chasing newcomers who haven’t learned to say no yet. I can see those girls slamming the door after, still wearing a fake smile until it clicks shut, then letting loose every profanity they swallowed for the last hour.
Let it out, sisters. I’ve been there. The difference is, I grew teeth, and you will too. They were never mine to keep, and neither are yours, ladies. Some lessons only sink in after the first goodbye.
The ones who come back after hearing NO return lighter, sharper, ready to enjoy instead of test. And the heat burns hotter when both people know exactly where the lines are.
So I don’t bite without cause. The men who treat me well only ever taste the sweetness. But the ones who test learn that teeth can teach.
Every mark means something, a warning, a souvenir, or a reward. It depends how you ask for it, how deep you beg for it, and whether I think you can handle it.
Sometimes it’s neither.
Sometimes it’s just because you beg for it, because you want it enough to cum on it 😉💦.
_______________________________
Entry 11
Tight, Short & Revealing
The Dress Code Trilogy #1
(Published on 25 October 2025)
👙 “I wear the fantasy. The real fun starts when it comes off.” 💅🏼
This week I have had more outfit requests than usual. Not vague ones but precise. The purple dress from my gallery. The see-through lace corset dress,The thigh-high boots that could end negotiations before they start. It is funny, my clients never say: “Wear something that makes you feel sexy and comfortable.” They say, “That one.”
The truth is, when I feel comfortable, that is when I feel the most sexy. Comfort doesn’t photograph as well as fantasy, but it is the only kind that lasts. Maybe that is why their version of sexy always feels slightly borrowed. And when I open the door wearing what they asked for, their eyes light up like someone unboxing a luxury watch they ordered three weeks ago: half disbelief, half relief that it really looks like the pictures. I have seen that look a hundred times: relief, recognition, gratitude. As if the dress kept its promise.
My website’ Gallery is the instant example, scantily clad or nothing at all. Scroll through any escort advertising platform and the pattern repeats. Page after page of tight, short, and revealing. Nobody poses in loose linen or ankle-length cotton. Even the most polished profiles follow the same script. Lingerie, body-con, glossy skin. Whether it is a selfie or a studio shoot, the uniform never changes. It is the dress code of the job, and every single one of us speaks it fluently.
The uniform is not accidental. Every woman knows the rules, I mean; those who has a “real job”, whether she admits it or not. The style gurus have been repeating them since women’s magazines were printed in black and white. If it is see-through, it must be long. A floor-length sheer gown is “elegant.”A short one is “slut.” If it is tight, it must cover more. A fitted gown is “chic.” A tight mini is “trying too hard.” And if it is short, there should be no cleavage. Legs or chest, never both. Mix all three and the verdict is universal: slut, whore, trashy, bad taste.. too desperate. And that judgment does not just come from men. Women say it too, usually while adjusting their own neckline in the mirror.
These are the invisible commandments of classy. Choose one element of temptation, not three. Suggest, do not announce. Flirt with the idea, but never look like you are enjoying it too much. Every “how to dress appropriately” column from Women’s Weekly to Vogue preaches the same gospel of balance and restraint. And everyone pretends not to follow it while silently enforcing it.
Fashion has been running this same loop for centuries. Long before nylon started clinging for dear life, there was silk. Then came the corset, the original shape-wear. Women fainted beautifully, men wrote sonnets about ribs they never saw, and everyone applauded the illusion. The corset died, but the silhouette did not. Luxury stopped being about fabric and started being about form. Silk glides, polyester grips, and spandex does whatever you tell it. The materials changed, the message stayed the same.
Silk bruises under a hot iron and remembers every fold. Linen creases before you even leave home. Polyester forgets by morning. It does not breathe, but it behaves. It is the obedient understudy that never creases, never complains, and cost less. That amnesia is its selling point, but memory always costs more.
Reality TV knows this too. LOVE ISLAND contestants wear tight, short and revealing all at once because producers know exactly what sells. Call it empowerment and its entertainment. Call it selling sex and it’s scandal. Same uniform, different revenue steam.
In sex work, the equation simply flips. Tight, short, and revealing are not choices; they are expectations.
Here, all three together are the uniform. The packaging is the invitation. If I wore loose linen and sensible flats, clients would assume I had changed careers or joined a wellness retreat. Possibly selling activated almonds and crystals. The outfit is the trailer, not the film.
Even when I try to tone it down, or when a client asks for the “girl next door,” the simplicity never stays simple. I have had requests for selfies in a plain white T-shirt, jeans, nothing fancy. But nobody books the girl next door if she is actually wearing what girls next door wear. An oversized beige bra and granny knickers do not sell fantasy. There has to be a tell. Nipples through the fabric. A G-string line. Something. The body will not play modest. Even dressed down, it knows what it is there to do.
And then there are the heels. The high, glossy, beautifully stupid heels. Yes, they elongate the legs. Yes, they complete the look. But any woman who claims she can wear them for more than half an hour without negotiating with her ankles is lying for sport. Maybe she has told the story so often she believes it. The rest of us know: sexiness limps home barefoot at the end of the night, pretending it is still glamorous.
Every year, designers swear they are rewriting the rules. Body positivity one season, bondage chic the next, but the script never changes. The fabrics get cheaper, the prices tags climb higher, and the message stays identical. The same tease, inferior textiles.
Sex sells, but it’s the packaging that closes the deal. The story keeps going, polished and familiar, still managing to make the room lean in.
I just try not to trip over it.
_____________________
Entry 12
Costume Dramas
The Dress Code Trilogy #2
(Published on 02/11/ 2025)
👩🏻⚕️The best costumes are designed to come off👩🏻🏫
Role Play lives under my Dark Chocolate menu, tucked between the straightforward and the slightly unhinged. The requests usually arrive by text, often phrased like classified ads: Can we do Nurse scenario? or Teacher / student – interested? I always ask questions, because “nurse fantasy” could mean anything from Florence Nightingale to a woman in latex who definitely didn’t pass her medical boards. Bingo! Most followed up with three-page scripts.
Others with 2 words:
“Surprise me.”
I still ask them: How deep do you want to go? Do we start the moment you walk in, or do we hug or shake hands first like civilised adults before I tell you to bend over? The fantasy only works when both of us know exactly where it starts and ends.
Todays’s booking arrived with detail. He wanted “Librarian”: tension, control, a slow-building scenario where power tilted like a seesaw. We refined it over days, line by line, workshopping the beats like two playwrights with questionable morals. By the time he knocked, we both knew our marks.I prefer skipping the polite greetings. It ruins the spell when I open the door in character and he says, “How was your weekend?”
Sir, I am currently a strict librarian holding overdue fines over your head. We don’t have weekends, so I step straight into fiction. One look and the game changes. I improvise, a sharp stare, a stern voice, the perfect amount of wide-eyed annoy. Every detail deliberate. For the brief moment, even I believe it. The scene builds, holds, and releases exactly as we planned. Only after, when his pulse settles and the room comes back into focus – do we drop the act. Laughter breaks through like applause at a one-act play nobody else will ever see.
If realism ever earned awards, I’d need a bigger shelf.
Here’s what role play actually does: it makes fiction feel just real enough that your body forgets to fact-check. Push too far and it shatters. Hold back too much and it never catches fire. The craft lives in the balance, danger and safety breathing the same air, both of us pretending we are not pretending.
Last week the city turned into a costume party. Sexy vampiress, naughty teachers, women and old teenagers in lace corsets and latex they’d never wear on a Tuesday. Halloween makes fantasy socially acceptable for exactly one week. I do it year-round, and nobody calls it festive.
The costumes were identical to mine: same fishnets, same too-short hemlines, same wink at propriety. The difference? On Halloween it’s creative expression. On Wednesday at 2 p.m. it’s work. Same polyester, different moral panic.
Halloween gives everyone permission to play dress-up, to try on another identity, test an edge, explore a fantasy without consequence. Their costumes go back in plastic bags by Monday. Mine stays hanging, waiting for the next booking.The only difference is I’m honest about what I’m selling.
And speaking of nurses: When someone texts Nurse scenario, they do not mean the exhausted shift worker in orthopaedic shoes. They mean the fantasy nurse: latex gloves that squeak, a white mini-dress with a red cross too tight to zip all the way up, white thigh-high stockings with a seam up the back, and heels no hospital would insure. The costume does eighty percent of the work. I just have to remember not to trip while taking someone’s “temperature.”
A real nurse would laugh you out of ICU. But that isn’t the point. They’re after recognition, not realism, an image burned into their brain from a lifetime of soft-core DVD covers or late-night Pornhub spirals.
The same goes for teacher fantasies. A real teacher wears coffee stains and the faint scent of dry-erase markers. The fantasy one wears a pencil skirt, glasses that slide down just enough, and a voice that drops low when she says “detention!”.
Both hold authority. Only one is designed to make you hard.
The costumes matter, but not because they’re convincing. They signal that the game has begun. The moment I zip up that nurse dress or adjust those glasses, we’re both agreeing to the fiction. He’s no longer a marketing manager from the CBD. I’m no longer texting deposit instructions. We’re in the story now.
I own 2 nurse outfits, 2 school-girl uniforms (one disturbingly accurate, one openly ridiculous) and a blazer reserved for “boss who needs disciplining” scenarios. None are realistic. All work.
And here’s the trick: they have to come off at exactly the right moment. Too early and you kill the fantasy. Too late and you’re fumbling with a zipper while he’s already finished. By the time we’re both sticky and satisfied, that latex nurse dress is a crumpled pile in the corner, looking exactly as ridiculous as it deserves to.
My space is not a hospital or a classroom or a stage set. It doesn’t need to be. A softly delivered phrase carries more weight than a closet full of riding crops and rulers.
Realism is irrelevant. Believability is everything.
I’ve had men arrive with scenarios typed out, bullet-pointed, sometimes laminated. One handed me dialogue with stage directions: (She crosses to the desk. Pause. She turns sharply.)
Sir, this is a blow-job, not a one-act play. But I appreciate the effort.
Another requested “angry ex-girlfriend who is also a cop.” I asked, “Do you want me to arrest you or yell at you?” He said, “Both.” So I improvised, badge, handcuffs, and twenty minutes of very convincing fury about how he never texted back. It was Oscar-worthy and utterly absurd. When we finished, he grinned and said, “That felt real.” I poured him water and thought: That is the entire point. These roles: the nurse, the teacher, the neighbour, the stranger, are not clichés. They’re doorways. They let people test edges without falling off cliffs, explore control and vulnerability without consequence.
Role play works because it holds truth and fiction in the same breath.You show who you are by pretending to be someone else. The costume is never the goal. It’s the excuse the scene needed.
When the session ends and he steps back into his clothes: jeans, business shirt, the uniform of a regular Wednesday, the atmosphere cools. The world outside starts knocking again. They always thank me for “getting it.”
For not laughing. For holding the frame even when it teetered.
I never tell them the secret: that I was laughing the whole time.
Not at them. With them.
At the beautiful absurdity of two adults playing make-believe with surgical precision and no audience but ourselves.
Because role play is serious business. But it’s also ridiculous. And that’s what makes it perfect.
I give them the costume, the excuse, the prop, the invitation made of polyester and optimism. They bring the courage to step into it. And somewhere between the zipper going up and the zipper coming down, we both land somewhere honest.
Even if we’re pretending the whole time.
______________________________
Entry 13
Be Like Water
The Dress Code Trilogy #3
(Published on 07/11/ 2025)
💧“Be like water, my fiend” Bruce Lee said. It moves, adapts, fills whatever shape will hold it. In my world, that shapes are usually sheer stockings and high heels.”👠
Some men arrive in suits that still smell faintly of boardrooms. Others in tradie boots, the day’s dust clinging to their cuffs. And some arrive with a secret underneath, lace knickers made of silk, a small rebellion pressed against skin that’s never been allowed to want softness. I have met men who want the full transformation: wig, nails, stockings, heels. Others prefer a single piece that feels like a quiet handshake with themselves. Half carry weight in their shoulders, a trace of stubble, bodies trained to endure. None of it disturbs the spell. The tension is the beauty, tenderness folded inside strength, the way a man with calloused hands handles something delicate as though it might break.
They never come to shock me. They come because there is nowhere else to rest. The world celebrates difference on stage but hesitates when it meets it up close.
Most keep a hiding place: a suitcase behind coats, a box marked tax, a drawer pretending to hold spare cords. Inside there is a faint scent from Darlinghurst, the scent I wore the day we met, clothing folded around a small hope or memory. It isn’t imitation. It’s release. When a man pulls a slip over his head, you can see the strain drain from his shoulders like air leaving a tyre. The sigh arrives late, weighted. Some call it a fetish. Most call it relief.
They joke: “Maybe I was born in the wrong wardrobe”. I tell them wardrobes don’t have genders. Only hangers. And harsh surgery-room lights.
On my Darker Menu there is a section called Transformation A or B. It is not drag and it is not costume. It is a small sanctuary, the air dim but forgiving. Sometimes we build the whole picture: a fitted dress that shows what’s real, or something loose that moves like water. I teach them to walk in heels without watching their feet, to let the spine remember grace. I blend foundation over the day’s shadow, the brush moving slow enough to steady his breath.
A few moments always stand still. When I am applying makeup, the atmosphere changes, not silent, just relaxed. Their breathing slows. Mine does too. Conversation flows naturally. They tell me things: wives, childhood, first crushes, fears they never meant to name. The brush moves on instinct, powder settling in slow, forgiving layers. There is no mask in that moment, only two people sharing quiet understanding. It feels private, like the rest of the world forgot to knock. By the time I whisper ready?, we are both unguarded, waiting together for the mirror to show what we already sensed. When they finally look, some cry. Not from sadness, from recognition.
Some of of them live what Bruce Lee said without ever realising it. Be like water, he said, shapeless, adaptable, strong enough to wear down stone. These men are not trying to become women; they’re trying to stop being statues. When they slip into something that glides or let foundation blur the hard lines of their jaw, they are not losing masculinity, they’re letting it flow. Power doesn’t vanish in quiet. It just learned a different shape.
Other sessions are quieter. A man sits on the sofa pulling on black sheer stockings, the fabric sliding as if it remembers skin. No mirror, no persona. Just skin meeting what it was never meant to know. I have zipped dresses over broad shoulders, fastened corsets on chests that could split timber, and seen tears form not from shame but from the shock of being seen. It is sexual, but not in the way people think. The arousal is about me and the clothing together: the fabric, the surrender, the mirror agreeing, for once. He is witnessed without being edited or shamed.
Some arrive with bags of midnight purchases, tags still on, sizes guessed by instinct. Others come empty-handed and whisper:
“You choose.”
That request always weighs more than the clothing itself. One man wore something delicate beneath his jeans for the entire drive, checking the waistband at every red light. When he stood before me and unbuttoned, his hands shook, not from fear of me, but from the risk of letting his truth breathe.
You start to learn the patterns. The man who brings his own wardrobe already knows her name. The one who lets me decide is still meeting her. Both are brave in ways they may never say. Braver than most men who think bravery requires a V8 Commodore.
When the hour ends, the dress is folded carefully, perfume lingering in the air. He checks his reflection once more before stepping back into denim and duty. Shoulders go up, phone comes out. The world comes back. Each one thinks he’s the only one. Maybe he is.
Outside, the world keeps moving. A man with long dreadlocks sat at a public piano in QVB, his hands shaping a melody older than he was. A woman in leopard and lace leaned close to listen. A tradie paused mid-work, half-smiling, half-confused. Three strangers, one current, nobody turning away.
Some men chase power. Some chase peace.
And some finally learn what Bruce Lee meant.
To be like water. To move, to rest, to take the shape of whatever truth will hold them.
What they wore goes back into hiding. The feeling doesn’t.
*** 💡 This piece is inspired by Bruce Lee’s quotes, and men who I’ve met, and learned to move with the current rather than against it. 🌊
_____________________________
Entry 14
JOY
(Published on 15/11/ 2025)
👶 🧸 “The inner child in All Of Us is what survives when everyone stops trying to be cool” 💃🏻 🕺
