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I'm a sex worker, here's a look inside my finances

I'm a sex worker, here's a look inside my finances

Metro2 days ago
It's nigh on impossible to say how much I earn.
For instance, yesterday I had a tooth removed, tweeted about it, and a findom sub (that's 'financial domination submissive') promptly dressed up as a tooth fairy, then sent me £40.
Delighted by his thoughtfulness, I tweeted about that too, and another three tooth fairies popped up to add to his bounty, while on Onlyfans I was tipped £400 to toast my tooth's demise.
The next day I got my hair cut and three men wanted to pay the £25 bill. Doubtless it'll be the same with next week's pedicure, only more so.
I realise I'm unlikely to garner much sympathy, but such generosity makes it pretty hard to keep my accounts straight, particularly since pedicures are tax deductible anyway. (I do a lot of foot fetish work, modelling, sessions and films, so I really need to keep my toes on tip-top form.)
This is why I have an accountant. I don't pay him, though, but spank him, four times a year on average.
He only likes my hand to touch his bottom, thighs and face – he adores a good whack around the chops, as hard and fast as I can manage. He even pays for the hotel we use, which I then keep to squeeze in a few other clients after him, as well.
I've no idea what he charges usually, but I suspect it's more than I charge for four spanking sessions. However, we both think we're getting an incredible deal, and have been for the past seven years. Priceless.
To be frank, I don't pay for anything. Any outfits, spanking implements or other equipment I might need for sessions or films, men are only too happy to give me. Some of clients seem to spend every waking hour in their sheds crafting me bespoke paddles and tawses, far more than I could wield in three lifetimes.
Usually these are engraved with my name so I can't even flog them, pardon the pun. Instead, I'll merely murmur: 'You are too kind. Let's try them now, shall we?'
Then they pay me for the privilege of using their gifts.
If I go out for coffee, or dinner, or cocktails, someone else covers the bill. They particularly like it if I go out with my husband, or indeed any other chap. 'Is he a proper alpha male, mistress? Does he have a massive c**k? Does he satisfy you in a way a pathetic little sissy slut like me could never imagine?,' they ask.
Sometimes a client will pay me to have dinner with him, pay for dinner, and then a sissy slut will pay for dinner too. Triple entry accounting, is that a thing?
And there are so many ways to be sent money. Gift cards, for instance: should I count those? Even for Christmas and birthdays? Envelopes of cash get pushed through my door, along with either keys to chastity devices, or lines for me to correct, or both: does that count as work, given I never actually look at the lines?
Once I had my handbag stolen, tweeted miserably about my plight – happily my phone is never out of my hand – and one client had an envelope of cash couriered round to me an hour later, so I could promptly change all the locks and buy myself restorative treats.
Being a disciplinarian is rather like having a fully comprehensive gold star insurance package. Life's little mishaps bounce off me.
Again, I don't expect sympathy, but it is a nice situation to be in for someone who came from poverty. We ate a lot of soup and weathered periods of homelessness. I recall always putting my pocket money back in her purse when she wasn't looking, as I knew she couldn't afford it. More Trending
I will never take any of this for granted. I still can't pass a penny in the street without stooping to scoop it up.
Nowadays my largest revenue stream is my property portfolio, paid for by many decades of mucky shenanigans, but I will never ever stop working, because none of this ever feels like work. There's true riches.
Oh, and that pulled tooth I was told to toast? You wouldn't believe how many of my submissive pain sluts are dentists. Well, perhaps you would.
View More »
Anyway, they're currently fighting between themselves as to who should be allowed to fit me an implant. In return for spanks, naturally, rather than cash.
Do you have a story to share?
Get in touch by emailing MetroLifestyleTeam@Metro.co.uk.
MORE: I tried a 'hybrid holiday' and discovered the secret to work-life balance
MORE: Crying at work is embarrassing — but it can reveal your biggest strength
MORE: 'Turn Job Centres into Dream Centres': Viral entrepreneur Simon Squibb on making dreams a reality
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I'm a sex worker, here's a look inside my finances
I'm a sex worker, here's a look inside my finances

Metro

time2 days ago

  • Metro

I'm a sex worker, here's a look inside my finances

It's nigh on impossible to say how much I earn. For instance, yesterday I had a tooth removed, tweeted about it, and a findom sub (that's 'financial domination submissive') promptly dressed up as a tooth fairy, then sent me £40. Delighted by his thoughtfulness, I tweeted about that too, and another three tooth fairies popped up to add to his bounty, while on Onlyfans I was tipped £400 to toast my tooth's demise. The next day I got my hair cut and three men wanted to pay the £25 bill. Doubtless it'll be the same with next week's pedicure, only more so. I realise I'm unlikely to garner much sympathy, but such generosity makes it pretty hard to keep my accounts straight, particularly since pedicures are tax deductible anyway. (I do a lot of foot fetish work, modelling, sessions and films, so I really need to keep my toes on tip-top form.) This is why I have an accountant. I don't pay him, though, but spank him, four times a year on average. He only likes my hand to touch his bottom, thighs and face – he adores a good whack around the chops, as hard and fast as I can manage. He even pays for the hotel we use, which I then keep to squeeze in a few other clients after him, as well. I've no idea what he charges usually, but I suspect it's more than I charge for four spanking sessions. However, we both think we're getting an incredible deal, and have been for the past seven years. Priceless. To be frank, I don't pay for anything. Any outfits, spanking implements or other equipment I might need for sessions or films, men are only too happy to give me. Some of clients seem to spend every waking hour in their sheds crafting me bespoke paddles and tawses, far more than I could wield in three lifetimes. Usually these are engraved with my name so I can't even flog them, pardon the pun. Instead, I'll merely murmur: 'You are too kind. Let's try them now, shall we?' Then they pay me for the privilege of using their gifts. If I go out for coffee, or dinner, or cocktails, someone else covers the bill. They particularly like it if I go out with my husband, or indeed any other chap. 'Is he a proper alpha male, mistress? Does he have a massive c**k? Does he satisfy you in a way a pathetic little sissy slut like me could never imagine?,' they ask. Sometimes a client will pay me to have dinner with him, pay for dinner, and then a sissy slut will pay for dinner too. Triple entry accounting, is that a thing? And there are so many ways to be sent money. Gift cards, for instance: should I count those? Even for Christmas and birthdays? Envelopes of cash get pushed through my door, along with either keys to chastity devices, or lines for me to correct, or both: does that count as work, given I never actually look at the lines? Once I had my handbag stolen, tweeted miserably about my plight – happily my phone is never out of my hand – and one client had an envelope of cash couriered round to me an hour later, so I could promptly change all the locks and buy myself restorative treats. Being a disciplinarian is rather like having a fully comprehensive gold star insurance package. Life's little mishaps bounce off me. Again, I don't expect sympathy, but it is a nice situation to be in for someone who came from poverty. We ate a lot of soup and weathered periods of homelessness. I recall always putting my pocket money back in her purse when she wasn't looking, as I knew she couldn't afford it. More Trending I will never take any of this for granted. I still can't pass a penny in the street without stooping to scoop it up. Nowadays my largest revenue stream is my property portfolio, paid for by many decades of mucky shenanigans, but I will never ever stop working, because none of this ever feels like work. There's true riches. Oh, and that pulled tooth I was told to toast? You wouldn't believe how many of my submissive pain sluts are dentists. Well, perhaps you would. View More » Anyway, they're currently fighting between themselves as to who should be allowed to fit me an implant. In return for spanks, naturally, rather than cash. Do you have a story to share? Get in touch by emailing MetroLifestyleTeam@ MORE: I tried a 'hybrid holiday' and discovered the secret to work-life balance MORE: Crying at work is embarrassing — but it can reveal your biggest strength MORE: 'Turn Job Centres into Dream Centres': Viral entrepreneur Simon Squibb on making dreams a reality

Gen-Z is afraid of porn, and Sabrina Carpenter
Gen-Z is afraid of porn, and Sabrina Carpenter

New Statesman​

time17-06-2025

  • New Statesman​

Gen-Z is afraid of porn, and Sabrina Carpenter

'There's no hope for women,' goes a common online mantra. The newest public figure to inspire this mode of feminist desperation is the pop star Sabrina Carpenter, who has just unveiled the cover of her new album, Man's Best Friend. On the last one she was smiling at the camera with a lipstick mark on her bare back; now she's on all fours, looking gormless in lingerie and getting her hair pulled by a man in a suit. This venture might have worked for a singer with an edgier reputation. It doesn't work for Carpenter, an ex-Disney star who shares a large portion of her mostly female fanbase with Taylor Swift. And these fans seems to hate it. 'It made me deeply uncomfortable, angry, even,' went one commentator for the iPaper. Elsewhere she is '[profiting] off images of abuse;' 'degrading [herself] just to appeal to their male audience' and 'leaning into the rise of conservatism.' 'Not empowering at all,' goes one X post with over a thousand likes. Others online accuse these naysayers of perpetuating 'purity culture,' and 'expecting women to be modest.' But purity and modesty don't seem to be the issue. For her whole tenure as an A-lister, her public persona has been deliberately raunchy. There is a distinction to be made here – the 2024 rebrand that sent her into the stratosphere was not just about sex. It was about sex before the Sexual Revolution. Her screwball comedy persona was seemingly inspired by actresses who got big in the age of restrictive Hollywood censorship codes. When she mimed fellatio and missionary at her live shows, she was operating under the pretence that the visuals of sex were still a secret language, only accessible with age and experience, rather than the basis of a multibillion dollar industry. Almost every photoshoot has had more in common with the era of the pin-up than the dawn of Playboy; her stage outfits were revealing, but they were done in a mid-century burlesque style more popular among 2010s feminist types than hardcore pornographers. No, none of that was the problem. It's porn Gen Z are afraid of. We get to it so early and in such overwhelming excess that it's hard to entertain the question that it might be empowering to women. To remain a girl's girl, you must excommunicate yourself from the entire adult sphere. A new Zoomerite women's culture reviles Onlyfans, sex scenes in films, one-night-stands, Instagram bikini models, and most men. In 2023, half of UK 16-21 year-olds reported they had first been exposed to pornography by 13; nearly 70% of American adolescents say they have seen it. The subreddit r/loveafterporn is crowded by young women who have caught their boyfriends talking to OnlyFans influencers. Onlyfans stars Bonnie Blue and Lily Phillips keep coming into the spotlight for sex stunts that rival 120 Days of Sodom. They run a cottage industry that locates and breaks taboos. They have colonised porno-land in the public imagination; and so stars like Sabrina who venture into it are more likely to provoke fatigue and anger than subversive titillation. Carpenter's new album cover places us in this much-loathed world. The colours, clothes, lighting are distinctly 1970s. We've bypassed the age of the pin-up and Scopitone and gone full speed into the Hugh Hefner era, from which rise thousands of pornographic VHS tapes and hundreds of sordid stories about abuse and exploitation. Carpenter has retained her sense of humour; her album has a tongue-in-cheek name; her music is still mostly anti-man. ('Why so sexy if so dumb/ And how survive the earth so long?' go the lyrics to the lead single, 'Manchild'). But her fans instinctively feel she is at risk in this world of flash photography and physical encounters with headless men. Since the release of 'Espresso' she has been their friendly sexual avatar; any transgression puts them at risk by proxy. Subscribe to The New Statesman today from only £8.99 per month Subscribe Carpenter should forgive them for what might seem like a sudden descent into prudery. They are not attempting to relive the travails of Mary Whitehouse. It is more likely that they have already seen too much, too early. They will probably feel jaded and used for the rest of their lives; while provocation has been a mainstay of pop for all of living memory, provoking Gen-Z on purpose is like setting off a firecracker next to a war veteran. Carpenter's job was to curate a safe world in which the age of VHS porn had never arrived and sex was a joking matter, free from sleaze and exploitation. The illusion has been destroyed. [See more: The rise of the West] Related

Lie, cheat, steal, repeat: will the Traitors knockoffs ever cease?
Lie, cheat, steal, repeat: will the Traitors knockoffs ever cease?

The Guardian

time13-06-2025

  • The Guardian

Lie, cheat, steal, repeat: will the Traitors knockoffs ever cease?

This is a punt, but Fox might have started to commission new shows via the power of online thesauruses. Take its new reality show The Snake. It's a game of secrets and betrayal, of feigning one emotion to gain trust while you stab your new friends in the back. In other words, it's basically The Traitors. I don't know whether any of you have ever searched Merriam Webster for synonyms of 'traitor', but 'snake' is literally second on the list. And this laziness is indicative of the show itself, which is such a painfully halfhearted retread of The Traitors that it ends up being exhausting to watch. Hosted by Jim Jeffries, presenting in the style of a drunk guy shouting through his letterbox at 3am, The Snake gathers contestants from the most easily stereotyped professions – detective, ex-con, pastor, Onlyfans model – and has them connive at each other until only one remains. The runtime of the first episode is almost exclusively given over to letting these people describe exactly how unpleasant they are. Subsequent episodes involve gross-out challenges, like drinking meat smoothies or being relatively close to some insects, so in that regard a direct comparison to The Traitors is slightly unfair, because it's actually ripping off The Traitors and Fear Factor in equal measure. But perhaps this isn't such a surprise, because at the moment you could wade through television blindfolded and stumble into any number of shows that desperately want to be The Traitors. Maybe you saw Netflix's Million Dollar Secret, which was a version of The Traitors set in a luxury hotel. Or Netflix's The Trust, which was a version of The Traitors hosted by someone from CNN. Or maybe you saw the USA Network's Snake in the Grass, or ITV's The Fortune Hotel. Perhaps you even accidentally found yourself watching Amazon's 007: Road to a Million, which was a version of The Traitors explicitly designed to make you feel depressed about the future of James Bond. None of these shows are shy about their inspiration. They are all about people encouraged to screw over their peers for a quick buck. But the problem is that, as a format, The Traitors is unbeatable. It is beautifully simplistic. People move into a castle. Some of them have to secretly undermine everything. Everyone goes crazy with paranoia. That's it. It's bulletproof. A monkey could understand it. But the networks can't just produce a straight remake of The Traitors, because that would be cheating. And so every new iteration has to add some new element, a gimmicky format point that differentiates it just enough to be legally distinct. With The Fortune Hotel it was a sunny location. With The Snake it's adding too many unnecessary insects. But this sort of tinkering can easily overwhelm a format. In the UK, ITV recently produced a Traitors knock-off called Genius Game that was so absurdly convoluted – every episode was full of endless tedious explanations about bags and tokens and codes and zombies and garnets – that it quickly felt like the worst kind of hungover Boxing Day board game imaginable, the kind where everyone gives up halfway through and just ends up eating Twiglets in silence. It was like watching The Traitors, but a version of The Traitors that had been loaded with so much superfluous paraphernalia that its ankles shattered under the weight. And, true, television has always done this. We've already lived through the Pop Idol phase, where civilians were alternately encouraged to either sing or cry on command. And then there was the Love Island phase, where we found ourselves inundated with an infinite number of nimrods copping off in villas. The Great British Bake Off formula has been variously transposed to sewing, pottery, dressmaking, glassblowing, flower arranging and, probably before long, bereavement counselling. Now it is the turn of The Traitors. A year or two from now another show will get its time in the test tube. That said, maybe The Traitors deserves this fleet of copyists. After all, The Traitors is not a new idea. It's based on Mafia, a game devised in the halls of Moscow State University in the 1980s. It's also incredibly similar to the board game Secret Hitler, not to mention a 2004 BBC show that was literally called Traitor and ran for five episodes in 2004. Even so, The Traitors stands as the perfect refinement of the idea; it is thrilling and accessible in equal measure. None of its copycats have even come close to replicating it. Still, the night is young, and there are still 41 perfectly unused synonyms for 'traitor' left in the thesaurus. Coming soon: The Rat (The Traitors but organised crime), The Quisling (The Traitors but wartime Scandinavia) or The Stool Pigeon (The Traitors but everyone eats cold chicken bones out of bins).

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