“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.

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