One of the strangest things about my life is that sex work was really never my idea.
Or at least, not at first.
Long before Miss Keely.
Long before websites, subscribers, collabs, and all the strange places I’ve found myself over the last few years.
It was something we talked about.
My husband was fascinated by it.
Not in the way people might assume.
It wasn’t sleazy.
It wasn’t desperate.
It was a curiosity.
Fantasy.
The idea of being seen.
Desired.
Wanted by other people.
Years ago, he’d put videos of me online and send me screenshots of the view counts.
“Look at my wife.”
Another screenshot.
“Look how many people have watched my wife.”
At the beginning, it felt harmless.
Just another curiosity.
Something we talked about.
Something we occasionally played with before returning to ordinary life.
But relationships change.
People change.
And sometimes things that begin as a shared fantasy stop feeling quite so shared.
Over time, it became more important to him than it was to me.
The requests became more frequent.
The conversations became less hypothetical.
What had once felt playful started to feel expected.
I wouldn’t have described it that way at the time.
At the time, I was trying to keep the peace.
Trying to be a good wife.
Trying to keep us connected.
It’s only with distance that I’ve been able to recognise how uncomfortable some of it had become.
Not all at once.
Just gradually.
The way many things change.
By the end, we weren’t standing in the same place anymore.
At the time, though, I never thought much about it.
It was just one of those strange little things that existed inside our marriage.
Neither of us imagined where life was heading.
At least, I know I didn’t.
If you’d have told me back then that one day I’d make a living online, I’d have laughed.
If you’d have told me why, I’d have laughed even harder.
Because life has a funny way of ignoring your plans.
I got ill.
Really ill.
The marriage ended.
Money disappeared.
The life I thought I was building disappeared too.
Not overnight.
But slowly enough to watch it happening and quickly enough to be powerless to stop it.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, I found myself standing in the middle of the very thing we’d once talked about together.
Except it wasn’t fantasy anymore.
It was survival.
People love talking about choices.
As if every choice arrives neatly packaged, with a clear head and plenty of options.
Sometimes choices arrive in crisis.
Sometimes they arrive when the rent still needs paying.
When the cupboard still needs filling.
When life has backed you into a corner and you need to find a way through.
So no, sex work wasn’t the future I’d imagined for myself.
But it became the future I had.
The strangest part?
He always thought I’d be good at it.
I remember him saying it long before any of this happened.
Back when it was just conversation.
Back when we still thought we knew what our future looked like.
Turns out he was right.
He just wasn’t around to see it.
Even now, I occasionally find myself laughing at the absurdity of it all.
The universe has a twisted sense of humour.
His fantasy became my survival plan.
If you’d have asked either of us how our story would end, I don’t think either of us would’ve guessed this.
Or maybe that’s the point.
Most stories don’t end where you expect them to.