I had my first orgasm as an escort. Afterwards, I was overwhelmed—so much so that my client’s bemusement soon curdled into suspicion. He thought I was acting. I didn’t care. I was still glowing from the feeling that came just before and just after. Nothing else mattered. And it made me think about all the other times…
It didn’t happen because of technique or toys or perfect timing. It happened because I felt safe. Seen. Heard. The man was present in a way that the men in my past were not. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t trying to impress me with his skills or performance. He was there. With me. Completely. And that, more than anything, allowed me to soften into the moment.
It’s a modern-day Tantalus paradox: the more we chase pleasure, the more elusive it becomes. I spent so much time trying to manifest an orgasm by imitating the sounds and stories I’d heard from friends, from sisters, from movie sex scenes. They all made climax seem like a given. A walk in the park. A two-minute montage with tousled hair and perfect moans. The Pornhub soundtrack version. The exaggerated breaths. It was not long before I started to wonder: do most people play the part before they even understand the role?
Of course, I wasn’t always this clear. With late teen boyfriends, it wasn’t much better. Most of us were shy and unsure, clinging to those few pages in the school biology textbook (pp.75-76) that explained sex as something we’re eventually obligated to perform—for the sake of convention. Something purely anatomical. There was no mention of softness, or of trust & appreciation. No mention of how your mind needs to be quiet before your body can be loud.
One of the best recommendations I ever received was a website called OMGYES—an educational platform created to expand the ways in which women understand and experience sexual enjoyment. It didn’t offer clichés or unrealistic scripts. Instead, it gave language and permission to things I’d felt but never voiced. It taught me that pleasure is personal, layered, and evolving—and that curiosity is often more powerful than certainty.
Over time, I began to realise that pleasure doesn’t arrive on command. It isn’t a performance or a goal — it’s a negotiation. As I’ve grown more confident in my desires, I’ve explored fetishes, searched for new erogenous zones, discovered a deep love for BDSM, and come to appreciate lingerie as a way to express my mood and connect with my inner self. When I’ve trusted a client or a lover, I’ve been able to dive deep—physiologically, yes, but also psychologically. That’s where the shift happens. That’s when my body starts to speak clearly, and I start listening.
Through these experiences, I’ve spoken with my body. Learned what she likes. What she tolerates. What shuts her down. I’ve mapped out the sniper alleys—those hypervigilant places where I brace, anticipate, shrink—and I’ve chosen to take the slower, quieter paths instead. The ones lined with presence and patience. The ones that make me forget I have anything to prove.
And from there, everything changes: I no longer chase pleasure; I receive it. I don’t force orgasm; I allow it. You can have an incredible experience without climax, or you may choose to withhold it and redirect that energy elsewhere.
I’ve started to love sex again—not as performance, but as communion. And in that, I’ve begun to appreciate men more than ever. Not for their prowess, but for their presence. For the ones who make room. Who listen with their hands. Who don’t ask for anything but honesty in return.