I have been called a lot of things. Classy. Courtesan. Companion. High end provider. Tantric this, elite that. Sometimes I read my own ads and laugh. It sounds like a cross between a fragrance launch and a hotel press release.

Strip it back and it is simple. I am a trans woman who books time with men for cash, company and climax. The pretty “C words” are just how we both stay comfortable saying it out loud.

The language existed long before I ever stepped into a booking. I walked into a world with its own alphabet already intact. Callgirl. Courtesan. Concubine. Comfort woman. Cum dump. Cock teaser. *C. Same work, wildly different price tags. Some of those words came with marble floors and soft lighting. Others came with spit. All of them circled the same act. Two bodies sharing time, a clock ticking, cash placed on the table.

In the beginning I clung to the polished ones. Companion. Class. Couture. Curated. I wanted the soft focus version of the industry, the one that would not make my high school headmistress stiffen if she ever read between the lines. My ads sounded like a boutique hotel listing. Elegant, comfortable, sophisticated. I thought that if I wrapped the work in graceful language, I could keep the rougher words on the doorstep.

Some clients play along, their enquiries come measured and courteous. And then there are the apposite kind of enquiry, the one that skipped the opening notes and went straight to the chorus: How big is your cock? No greeting. No introduction. Just the question that collapses the whole dance in a single line.

And when the room finally tips into hunger…

Bodies speak differently. They do not wait for perfect phrasing. They speak in shorter impulses. Warm. Closer. Gimme me your *C Now! When you are on your knees or leaning over a mattress with someone’s breath grazing your neck, the curated version of yourself falls away. Nobody murmurs, I am enjoying this beautifully arranged experience. They say the things they would never type. That is when the other *C words step forward.

I used to squirm when they did. the *C’s we both have, the one meant for sheets, not small talk. Nobody uses that word on a bus unless they are super drunk or sparring with an invisible audience. You can feel the whole carriage cringe at once.

Even when they came from heat rather than cruelty, they carried the noise of the internet. I had spent so long shaping myself into the lady in the little black dress with the refined perfume, not the tab they clear before breakfast. I wanted to be Chanel No.5, not the cloth they wipe up with.

Then something changed. Not in theory. In front of me.

It happened one evening with a regular who knew me well enough to stop pretending. We had already done the polished part. The warmth. The long strokes down the back. The held gaze. And then, carried by everything moving through him, he blurted, Your *C feels unbelievable. Then he froze, unsure, like a man who had said the truth out loud by accident.

Something in me loosened. Maybe it was the honesty. Maybe it was the way he said it like he was offering something instead of taking something. Either way, the word stopped feeling like a warning. It felt unfiltered, and strangely accurate.

After that I started paying attention to the full alphabet men bring with them. The careful ones hold on to companion. The sentimental ones try muse. The restless ones push for a deal, convinced they are negotiating. The porn fuelled ones reach their wallets and my *C* before they take their shoes off. The nervous ones avoid any word that hints at work and settle on meet or catch up, as if envelopes exchange hands only at brunch.

And circling every version of these words is the most honest *C’s in the room. Cash. It does not perform. It sits there quietly, the hinge between the fantasy and the fact.

Once I understood that, I stopped resisting the vocabulary and started arranging it.

On my website I still use the softer ones. Companion. Class. Curves. Conversation. These are the lobby words. They let people walk in without losing their balance. Nobody searches for a classy *C who will take my *C and then talk about Cartier. Google would combust. So we stay with suggestion. Candlelight. Chemistry. Connection.

Behind the door, the language relaxes. Sometimes it stays warm the whole time. Steady hands. Easy laughter. A sweetness that arrives unplanned. Sometimes it shifts and he asks quietly if he can use the stronger words. There is always a pause before the first one, like he is reaching for something he is not sure he is allowed to touch.

This is where I learned to love the C words. Not one word but a constellation. A spectrum from class to cunt with me choosing what fits.

Companion pays the bills. Cash pays for holidays. Class keeps me invited back. And the other *C, the one he whispers without thinking and apologises for once he catches himself, opens more doors than it closes.

On soft nights I lean into the gentler language. I become his quiet place. His ease. The woman who touches his cheek like he is something worth holding carefully. We eat chocolate. We talk. He calls me cute or captivating and I let him. The room feels like a long exhale.

On nights with more edge I walk him toward the darker *Cs. Collar. Control. Corruption. He sees the version of me that does not blink when the forbidden word slips out because it belongs to the moment rather than to any insult.

These words do not cancel each other. I am not one thing in daylight and another in the sheets. I am both. In the same hour. I can wear Chantal Thomass lingerie with cheap stockings. I can send crisp instructions about deposits and enjoy the way he shakes when he lets go. I can be thoughtful and commanding without losing myself in either direction.

Safety does not come from avoiding rough words. It comes from controlling them. From choosing who gets to use them and when. From knowing that cunt from the wrong mouth is a slap and from the right mouth is simply desire spilling over the edge.

Sometimes I picture the alphabet lined up like men waiting for their turn.

A is for anxiety, the first text he rewrites three times, sometimes formal, sometimes opening with cock.
B is for booking, the moment it becomes “COMFIRMED”
C is for everything that follows. Chocolate. Cash. Condoms. *C’s, Consent. Climax. Cuddle. Chat. Comfort. Closure.

Cunt stands in the corner with a crooked little smile, waiting for it’s time to “cum” in.

My name is Azura Blue.
A and B were given to me.
The C words I had to sort, reshape, reclaim and eventually enjoy.

Now when a man hesitates over how to address me, I almost feel for him. He is trying to find the right word. I am already choosing which version of myself will meet him at the door.

Call me classy. Call me companion. Call me cunt if I allow it.

The alphabet was never the danger. Avoidance was.

Me– Still clutching my pearls, but now with my mouth. Some Cs taste better this way – everything, everywhere, all at once…