My Own Pleasure - Yes, I Truly Orgasm
This article is part of a series. To read the first part, click on the following link: Who am I really?
I’m going to start by dismantling something.
There’s a persistent image of the sex worker as someone who performs pleasure without feeling it - a professional actress producing the expected sounds and expressions while her mind is elsewhere, waiting for it to be over, thinking about groceries or what she’ll watch when she gets home. That image exists because it is true for some people in some situations. I’m not going to pretend it corresponds to no reality at all.
But it doesn’t correspond to mine. And I’m going to explain why with the same frankness I apply to everything else.
What I Understood Very Early On
In the first weeks of this life, I made an observation that surprised me in its clarity: my body doesn’t lie well. Not in that context. I’m capable of many things - holding a conversation on any subject, navigating complex situations, maintaining impeccable presence under varied conditions. But convincingly simulating physical desire I don’t feel, for several hours - no. That’s not something I know how to do.
Which meant that if I wanted to practice this profession properly, I had to find something real to anchor myself to in every evening. A true desire, even minimal - a physical detail that attracts me in the man, a quality of his presence that moves me, a way he looks at me that activates something concrete in me.
And I discovered, with a kind of relief, that I almost always found that something. Not in the same way, not with the same intensity, not in the same places depending on the man. But something. A real foothold from which everything else can be sincere.
What Excites Me - Truly
Hands - I’ve mentioned them elsewhere. But I’ll be more precise here because the context allows it.
It’s not the hands themselves - it’s what they say about how someone inhabits his body. Hands that know where to rest, that don’t fidget, that touch with clear intention - those hands speak to me directly, before they’ve even done anything. A physical anticipation begins in the first minutes of an evening when I notice that kind of hands. It isn’t intellectual. It’s something much lower in the body.
The voice, too. A deep, low voice that doesn’t try to project - that speaks for me alone in a room, not for an audience. There are men whose voice alone creates something in my throat and at the back of my neck that I immediately recognize for what it is.
Attention. I always come back to that, but from the angle of desire it’s even more precise. A man who truly listens to me, who responds to what I’ve said and not to what he had planned to reply, who adjusts what he does based on what he feels in me - that man excites me in a way physical beauty alone cannot. Well-exercised attention is probably the most erotic thing I know.
And then there are things harder to name. A way of being looked at - not devoured with the eyes, not evaluated, but looked at with total presence that says I am the only thing existing in that field of vision. That gaze, when it’s there, produces in me something I’ve never found a better way to describe than: the desire to be exactly where I am.
The Men Who Make Me Lose Control
There have been several. Not dozens - several. Men with whom something happened that stepped outside the ordinary framework of what I experience, that took me by surprise, that produced a physical response I hadn’t anticipated and over which I didn’t have complete control.
I’ll describe one without naming him - because naming him would change nothing and because what matters is what happened, not who he was.
It was an evening in Geneva, a little over a year ago. A man I was seeing for the first time - in his forties, fairly reserved beyond what was strictly necessary, which had slightly put me on guard at first. Very silent men can go in two very different directions, and you don’t know which until you’re in the room.
This one was the right direction.
What happened, I won’t describe in detail because some things lose something when made too explicit. But I will say this: at one point during that evening, I realized I was no longer guiding anything at all. That my body had made a decision independent of my conscious will and gone somewhere I hadn’t planned to go. That loss of control - brief, intense, perfectly unexpected - left me in a state it took me several minutes to identify correctly.
When I got home that night, I had trouble sleeping. Not anxiously - electrically. The body continuing to resonate with something after it was over.
The Unexpected Orgasm - and What It Taught Me
There’s something I hadn’t anticipated when I began this profession: that some of my most intense orgasms would be with clients.
Not the most frequent - I’m not going to pretend it happens at every appointment, that would be false and would make no sense. But the most unexpected, sometimes the strongest. And that surprise taught me something important about how desire works - or at least how it works for me.
Desire, for me, is not primarily linked to familiarity or attachment. It is linked to presence - to the quality of attention, to what I described above, to that way of being looked at and touched by someone who is entirely there. And that presence, paradoxically, is sometimes easier to find with a stranger than with someone you’ve known for a long time - because there is no shared history weighing on the moment, no accumulated disappointments, no habits dulling perception.
Novelty facilitates desire. It’s not a revolutionary discovery - it’s a documented neurological reality. But living it in such a concrete, repeated way has given me an understanding of desire I couldn’t have acquired otherwise.
The unexpected orgasm I refer to in the title happened with a man I did not find particularly attractive at first glance. This isn’t a romantic story about inner beauty. It’s a story about how someone can surprise you through the way he pays attention, through one thing done exactly the right way at the right moment, and how that surprise can produce something physically intense that had nothing to do with what I expected to feel that night.
I kept that to myself in the moment. Then I wondered why - modesty? professionalism? refusal to give him something I hadn’t decided to give? The honest answer is probably all three at once. What my body does without my conscious decision remains, in a way, more private than anything I do voluntarily.
What I Perform - and What I Don’t
I’m going to be direct about something I usually avoid detailing too much: yes, I sometimes amplify. I let more show than I strictly feel, I shape what I express according to what the evening calls for.
That’s not the same as simulating. Amplifying something real means highlighting a part of what you feel. Simulating means producing something entirely false. The difference is not only moral - it’s perceptible. Men with some experience can sense the difference, even if they couldn’t always articulate it.
What I never perform: orgasm. That’s a line I decided not to cross from the beginning, for reasons that seemed obvious then and still seem obvious now. What my body does or does not do in that register is real or it doesn’t exist. Period.
What that means in concrete terms: some evenings, there is no orgasm on my side. And that evening, there isn’t one, and it’s not a problem, and the man opposite me has received what he came for and I have done my work properly and everyone goes home satisfied. Pleasure takes many forms - connection, the intensity of a moment, the awareness of having done something well - and orgasm is only one of them.
My Body - What It Likes That I Didn’t Always Know How to Name
This profession has taught me things about my own body that years of ordinary life probably wouldn’t have produced.
I learned that I like being watched more than I had understood. Not in an exhibitionist clinical sense - but that awareness of being in the field of vision of someone thinking of nothing but me produces something physical I didn’t know how to name at twenty-three and can name very clearly now.
I learned that slowing down - that male fantasy I described in other articles - is also mine. That evenings where everything moves quickly leave me with less than evenings where someone takes their time. Not out of sentimentality - out of simple biology. My body needs time to arrive somewhere interesting, and the men who understand that without having to be told are the ones with whom evenings are best.
I learned that certain areas of my body respond to attention I wouldn’t have spontaneously asked for - and that discovery, made with different men in different contexts, has enriched my knowledge of myself in a way I don’t minimize.
And I learned that pleasure isn’t always where you look for it. That some evenings where I anticipated nothing particular produced something unexpected, and that unpredictability - that inability to fully control what my body will feel - is one of the only things in my professional life over which I do not have complete command.
I’ve learned to like that lack of control. Because it says something remains alive, that nothing is entirely mechanized, that I have not yet reached a place where I know in advance exactly what will happen.
The day I do, I think it will be time to do something else.
For now, that isn’t the case.
Sofia
Sofia, 27 — Based in Geneva, she fully embraces her life as a luxury escort and speaks about it openly.
Through her stories, she shares her beginnings, her experiences with an international clientele, the advantages of the job (luxury, freedom), but also the more complex realities. She writes in a simple, honest way about what truly happens behind the doors of Swiss hotels.
This text was originally written in French. It was then translated to be readable in your language.
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