Sex for Money

I didn’t grow up dreaming of this version of myself.
No child ever does.
It started the way many hard decisions start — quietly, without drama. Rent was due. My phone kept buzzing with reminders I didn’t have answers for. I had worked, tried, waited, hoped. Hope doesn’t pay bills.
When the offer came, it didn’t feel evil. It felt practical. Almost boring. Just numbers, time, and a body I already lived in.
I told myself it was temporary. Just once. Just until things stabilized.
The first time, I remember staring at the ceiling more than I remember the person. I wasn’t present. I wasn’t gone either. I was somewhere in between, dissociating enough to survive but aware enough to count the minutes. When it was over, I felt nothing — which scared me more than if I had felt shame.
Money has a strange power. It doesn’t just buy things; it rearranges your values when you’re desperate enough. Each transaction made the next one easier, not because it hurt less, but because numbness grows fast when it’s fed regularly.
People assume it’s about desire. It wasn’t. It was about control — or the illusion of it. I could decide when. I could decide how long. I could decide the price. But I couldn’t decide how it chipped away at how I saw myself afterward.
Some nights, after counting the cash, I’d sit alone and wonder which part of me I was selling — my body or my belief that I deserved better. The truth is, it was both.
I learned that survival choices don’t always feel heroic. Sometimes they feel ugly, quiet, and necessary. I don’t romanticize it. I don’t condemn myself either. I did what I thought would keep me afloat when I felt like I was drowning.
What stayed with me wasn’t the acts — it was the loneliness. Being touched without being known. Being wanted without being cared for. Being paid without being valued.
Today, I’m still rebuilding. Not just financially, but internally. Learning that my worth isn’t negotiable, even when my circumstances once were.
This isn’t a confession for forgiveness.
It’s a confession for honesty.
Because behind every “easy money” story is a human being making the hardest kind of choice — the one between dignity and survival — and discovering that the cost is never just monetary.

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