I'll be your boss

The art of being a fabulous companion is not to believe you are merely providing a service, but to understand that you and your client are in it together, creating an experience for both of you. It isn’t about clocking in, going through a list of pre-agreed acts and clocking out again. It’s about two human beings, for a brief window of time, choosing to step out of their ordinary lives and into a shared fantasy or a softer, more comforting version of reality.

All the scandal and hype surrounding my chosen line of work—people talking about “selling yourself” and “manipulating men”—is a complete load of bleep. The tabloids love to flatten us into clichés: gold-diggers, victims, man-eaters. In reality, my work is built on conversation, observation and an ability to read what someone really needs beneath the performance they put on for the world. Yes, money changes hands, but what happens between us is far more nuanced than that.

I’ll be your boss, but I’ll let you take the lead. By that, I mean I hold the frame: I make sure you feel safe, seen and looked after, but I give you space to decide how you want to show up. I suggest, guide and sometimes gently steer, but I don’t dictate. The men (and occasionally women) I have the pleasure of meeting are always regarded as equals—people with their own history, wounds, desires and humour—each one someone unique and new to learn about.

Meeting Reg

Take Reg, for example. He is sixty-one, very handsome in that quietly distinguished way, and filthy rich. He has the sort of tan that says he owns houses in places the rest of us visit once, takes immaculate care of his body, and dresses as if good tailoring is a second language. His sons and daughters now run his media company; they grew up in the shadow of boardrooms and glossy magazines, and they took over the business after their mother left.

She walked out years before their father started coughing up money the way he does now—extravagant holidays, properties, cars, charitable cheques with too many zeros. Because of that, his children are convinced he can’t possibly find genuine companionship at his more mature age. They imagine every woman he meets sees the headline figure in his bank account before they see the lines around his eyes.

Reg, being both proud and stubborn, has decided to seek my services on his own terms. If a woman is going to use him for his billions, he reasons, he might as well spend them deliberately, on his own conditions, without having to pretend that money isn’t part of the equation. Better a transparent arrangement than a slow, humiliating discovery. My quiet mission with Reg is to restore his faith in women—at least enough that he doesn’t let bitterness calcify over his heart. I don’t want him ruined. I want him to believe he can still find someone who loves him for more than the balance sheet.

A Life of Luxury and Isolation

Reg lives alone in a mansion that is, in his words, “way too modest,” although most people would gasp just walking into the marble foyer. The house is immaculate in that slightly lonely way: fresh flowers delivered twice a week, art that has clearly been chosen by a decorator, and rooms that feel curated rather than lived-in. He travels in his chauffeur-driven Mercedes or by private jet, and he eats only in the finest establishments, where the staff know his name and the wine list reads like a novella.

This is all fine, but there’s a peculiar irony in wealth: wanting humility becomes a form of practising humility. You can insist you’re “just normal like everyone else” while saying it from the back seat of a car that costs more than most people’s homes. Reg talks about missing ordinary things—queueing at a bar, buying his own coffee, feeling anonymous—but he hasn’t the faintest idea where to start.

Designing a Taste of Normality

So I will give Reg a taste of normality, or at least what would pass for it according to about seventy per cent of the population. We are going shopping in a regular mall: fluorescent lighting, bored teenagers, families arguing over shoe sizes. No private shoppers, no closed-off VIP lounges, no one discreetly calling ahead. Just us, wandering through chain stores, touching fabrics on racks that spin.

We’ll eat in a perfectly ordinary restaurant that is part of a national chain. There will be laminated menus, slightly sticky tables and a cheerful server who’ll ask if we want to “make that a large” without recognising Reg from the business pages. He will be driving his own car—no chauffeur, no tinted partition. He’ll have to find a parking space, curse under his breath like everyone else and worry briefly about scratching the alloys.

Then, we will wear our new purchases to a show, sitting amongst everyone else, squeezed into the row, passing programmes down the line. No private box, no one ushering us in through a side entrance. Just two people sharing armrests, laughing at the same jokes as strangers around us, caught up in the swell of applause at the curtain call.

After that, we’ll spend our night in a charming, but not overly expensive, room in a hotel. It will be elegant rather than ostentatious: crisp white sheets, a view of the rooftops instead of the skyline, and a breakfast menu that offers porridge as well as smoked salmon. We’ll talk in bed about nothing and everything—the past, the children, the ex-wife, the fear of getting old and vanishing into irrelevance—and somewhere in all of that, he’ll remember that not every intimate moment has to be gilded in luxury to feel valuable.

What It Means to Do the Job Properly

I can’t speak on behalf of all London agency escorts, but if I want to do my job properly, I need to do it thoroughly. For me, that means more than turning up in a dress and heels; it means thinking about what the client truly needs: reassurance, excitement, honesty, escape, or sometimes just the relief of being listened to.

I’ll be your boss in the sense that I hold the emotional reins. I watch the tempo, the silences, the shifts in your mood, and I decide when to soften or sharpen the energy between us. But within that frame, it can be delicious fun to play the princess, the confidante, the wicked accomplice, the sophisticated wife-for-the-night—whatever the client wants, as long as it respects both of us.

At the same time, taking charge of what women don’t usually get paid for—emotional labour, sexual confidence, the ability to create atmosphere—is deeply satisfying. In the world outside, we’re expected to provide those things for free, quietly, without acknowledgement. Here, in my line of work, I get to own them, name them and be compensated for them. That, more than any tabloid headline, is what being a fabulous escort really means to me.