There was a time when I compulsively created ads.
I remember a client who once opened his computer to show me something: if someone searched for an escort in the area, it was mathematically impossible not to find me. I was constantly appearing everywhere.
And it was true. I changed photos, polished texts, and invented new titles. I never repeated the exact same ad because I knew the algorithms would penalise or delete it. But I had accumulated so much photographic material and so many years of creating content that it had become a kind of digital OCD.
At that time, most ads were free or cost very little. That compulsion to occupy space online didn’t hurt my wallet so much.
Now it does. Today, every upload costs money. Every renewal costs money. Every ounce of digital visibility is worth its weight in gold.
And it’s then, when you look at the bills at the end of the month, that you begin to realise a perverse paradox: you’re no longer paying to work; you’re paying to avoid disappearing.
That’s the real business.
People on the outside think that platforms and ad sites live off advertising. No. Those sites live off our anxiety about visibility. They live off the raw fear of dropping in the rankings, the fear of the phone stopping ringing, the silent panic that everyone else will be working today, and you’ll be left out in the cold.
And of course I understand the rules of the game. If thousands of profiles are competing, someone has to appear first. But there comes a point where it’s impossible not to ask: how much money do those multi-million dollar platforms generate while we put in the work, the exhaustion, the endless chat conversations, the last-minute cancellations, dealing with disrespect, and the absolute mental and physical burnout?
We do the most human, intimate, and complex work of all… and yet, the system treats us like the most replaceable cogs in its machine.
Before, I entered that game almost with euphoria. There was something addictive about reinventing myself every week, about the rush of seeing a new ad and feeling like I dominated the digital space.
Today, I look back and say it without hesitation: “My real pimp is websites.” They, and the need to keep the low ceiling I live under. Sometimes you depend on a landlord, sometimes on a company, now on my own family… but in the end, the structure is the same. There was a time when my profession became pure passion and erotic teaching, but when the system squeezes you, you end up working simply to maintain stability. And when your roof depends exclusively on money, your body ends up negotiating directly with exhaustion.
Recently, a client in Zurich tried to destabilise me by offering me 75,000 euros for fifteen days, under his conditions and verbal fantasies. When I told him no, that my dignity and respect can’t be bought, his furious response was to tell me I “wasn’t good enough for him” and to stick to my regular sessions. That man didn’t understand anything. He didn’t understand that I adore my one-hour clients because there’s a human and respectful exchange. He didn’t understand that I pay for my own travel and my own freedom. How money blinds people, making them believe they can own other people’s lives.
That’s why I can no longer see pimping in the traditional way, as a relationship between a person who exerts control and another who submits. Modern pimping is a comprehensive system designed to turn human need into absolute dependence.
And we all fall into that trap, not just sex workers.
The escort who burns through her money posting ads so she doesn’t get overtaken; But also the waiter who endures humiliation from unbearable customers because he needs to make ends meet; the office worker who sells his health, trapped in a chair in front of a screen; or anyone who is unable to leave a job that destroys their soul because they have a mortgage to pay or all the needs they’ve created throughout their life. Business owners, freelancers, employees, and retirees alike. We’re all in it.
Perhaps the true pimp of the 21st century has no face, doesn’t wear expensive suits, and doesn’t shout at you in the street.
Perhaps the real modern pimps are monthly fees, the cost of living, and the programmed fear of being left out of the system.
Faced with that, my greatest act of rebellion remains the same: choosing with whom I share my energy and my time.
Maintaining control of my time and remembering that dignity, humility, and emotional intelligence are gifts that no digital platform or bank account can ever buy.
I aspire to live my sexuality and my profession, my life under my own rules, today and until I die, because desire and sovereignty over one’s own body have no expiration date or retirement.
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