What’s So Hard About Being a Sex Worker, Anyway?

Maybe you’ve told someone what you do, and they weren’t especially empathetic. Or maybe you’re struggling to understand why your life doesn’t feel as good as it “should.” Isn’t sex work supposed to be easy money?

I can’t speak for everyone—but I can speak for myself.

As a former dancer of nearly 20 years, I can tell you this: sex work (and here, i’m referring to dancing topless in a strip club as such) can be really fun, and it can also be really, really hard. Hard as in physically draining, psychologically exhausting, spiritually depleting, and deeply depressing.

We weren’t meant to stay up until 4 a.m. drinking shots with strangers, rubbing up against their bodies, whispering sweet nothings night after night. For many of us, it’s thrilling at first—but it gets old fast. It starts to feel fake. It becomes harder and harder to summon the emotion. You feel like a bad actress with a worse script, making the same movie over and over again.

When it’s working—when you’re on fire—the world feels like it belongs to you. Hundred-dollar bills fall like snow. Your body feels electric, golden, alive. You’re Helen of Troy. T-Pain is in love with you. Everyone within twenty feet is mesmerized. The money pours in. You’ve never been more certain of your power or your desirability.

That was Tuesday night.

Now it’s Friday.

The finance bros and sports guys are out in the cold in their wool coats and Ferragamo shoes, horny and armed with wads of cash wrapped in rubber bands. Black Amex cards at the ready.

You work at a good club. You just got your eyelashes done ($250, plus tip). You splurged on a long black velvet dress with rhinestones. You look in the mirror—your makeup is perfect—but it’s early, you haven’t had a drink yet, and the fluorescent lights make you feel exposed. You notice the bags under your eyes. Stubble on your legs. You spend another twenty minutes layering on body makeup. It stains the velvet. It won’t come out.

You start to feel messy. Cheap.

You wait to eat—again—because bloating is not cute. You won’t eat for another ten hours. You’ll have five cocktails and two shots by the end of the night. The dress will be ruined. The makeup will be everywhere.

You look around and realize the club is full of stunning women—models from Colombia and Russia with perfect bodies and accents men can’t get enough of. You suddenly feel small. Invisible.

You sit next to a man with a comb-over and thick glasses. Before you can even say hello, he turns away and says, “I’m looking for something else tonight.”

You just need a drink—something to convince yourself that you belong here.

Hours pass. Other women make hundreds while you wait for your nervous system to catch up. You finally do a few dances. Your arms feel too long. You can’t make eye contact. You feel alien in your own body. You wonder why you never got implants. Your body feels functional, not desirable.

You go home owing the club $20—but at least you paid the house mom, the house fee, and the DJ.

You’re drunk. You didn’t even cover the cost of your eyelashes. You have homework, but you’re hungover, so you watch Ancient Aliens reruns until you can face the day.

You’re supposed to work again tonight, but the depression is crushing.

“Just quit,” everyone says. Your best friend. Your therapist. Your sister.

Why is it so hard to quit something that isn’t working?

Because you made $2,600 on Tuesday and felt like Beyoncé.

Because you’re in school and can’t take on more loans.

Because your family can’t help.

Because you just need to make it through your degree.

You just need help staying steady. Help cutting back on drinking at work. Help honoring your body’s need for rest. Help managing the emotional whiplash.

And you need to stop telling people what you do, because they freak out—and then they look at you differently.

This story is partially fictionalized, but it’s based on my real life about seventeen years ago.

What I wish I could have told myself:

1. Take better care of your body.

2. Take better care of your mental health.

3. Stop drinking so much. Learn why it feels impossible to be sexual with clients without alcohol—and listen to that information.

   
   

If something requires constant numbing, it may not be aligned with who you are.

If quitting isn’t immediately possible, limits matter. For me, that would have meant no more than three drinks per ten-hour shift. No drugs. Ever.

I wish I had learned how to access my sexuality authentically—without relying on substances. I wish I had learned how to tolerate the ups and downs without making them mean everything.

On days I made money, I was “good.” On days I didn’t, I was “bad”—and so was everything else. My sense of power came from outside of me.

Sex workers must learn to self-source power, or the financial roller coaster will eventually break them.

This is a practice. A daily one. Like strengthening a muscle. When fear or failure shows up, move your body. Dance it out. Shake it loose. Repeat.

We are starting to compile a list of therapists and life coaches on our references page, who do incredible work around this idea of self sourcing your power. If that isn’t in your budget, our free mentorship program can give you the basics for mental hygiene. We can also find you a support group, which can be helpful as well. 

To lessons learned! And passing on the torch.

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Ezili is launching a series of topic-based reflections for sex workers and dancers who are still working, those considering a transition, and those actively enrolled in academic programs or preparing to exit sex work. These topics are riffs—psychologically salient themes—that Komi identified during her own transition from stripper to academic.

If there’s a topic you’d like to explore, we want to hear from you. We’re open to discussion-based formats as well. You can reach us via Instagram or at info@ezili.org. All of our content is free and available to anyone who could benefit from it.