Diary of a Courtesan, January 14, 2026

So today was one of those days that reminds me exactly why I love this life and also why sometimes I want to throw my phone in the fucking ocean.

Let me set the scene for you. I'm wearing this absolutely killer pink dress—and I'm talking a sexy long number that goes past my knees, hugging every curve, that sophisticated courtesan look that says "I'm expensive and worth every penny." Paired it with these off white boots with just enough heel to make my legs look endless without breaking my ankles. The whole look was fire, if I do say so myself. And I do.

I'm heading to see a client at this boutique hotel downtown, one of those places with the marble lobby and the kind of elevator that moves so smooth you barely feel it. I step into that elevator, and I swear to God, the energy shifted. There's this group of guys—looked like they were just getting off work, ties loosened, that end-of-day exhaustion mixed with that "let's grab a drink" energy—and every single one of them turned to look at me.

And I mean looked.

One of them—cute, probably mid-thirties, decent suit—literally said "Oh wow" out loud. Not even trying to be subtle. His buddy next to him just went "Goddamn" under his breath, but not quiet enough that I didn't hear it. I gave them my best mysterious smile, the one that says absolutely nothing and everything at the same time, and watched the doors close on their disappointed faces. Sorry guys, I've got an appointment.

Got to my clients room—let's call him Frederick, because that's his actual name and he's a regular so whatever—and did my usual routine. I brought my outfit for the session in my bag: this gorgeous animal print one-piece lingerie number that makes me look like a sexy jungle cat, complete with lace garter straps and these thigh-high stockings with the seam running up the back.

You know, the kind that makes men lose their entire minds. I'd even done my nails to match the animal print—this perfect spotted pattern that tied the whole look together. Details matter in this business.

Frederick wanted the full show tonight. He had me

Frederick wanted the full show tonight. He had me lounge back on that luxury hotel bed—and I mean luxury, we're talking 17 pillows and sheets with an insanely high thread count

So I did. I let my fingers trail down my body, dipping into my pretty cunt, taking my time, putting on a show.

I know exactly what I'm doing, exactly how to move, how to arch my back, how to let those little moans escape at just the right moment.

He just sat there in that hotel armchair, watching, getting more and more uncomfortable as his pants got tighter. I could see him shifting, trying to adjust himself, that needy look in his eyes. I made him wait. Made him squirm. Finally, when I could tell he was about to lose it, I gave him permission to pull it out and jerk off. He did, right there, watching me, and finished pretty quickly.

And here's where the night took a turn.

Frederick is one of those guys who immediately goes into guilt mode after he comes. Like, the second he finishes, it's like a switch flips and suddenly he's disgusted— with himself, with the situation, and unfortunately, he projects that shit onto me. The vibe went from hot and heavy to cold and awkward in about three seconds flat. He couldn't even look at me. Started getting all weird and distant, and I could feel him wanting me gone. Fine by me. I couldn't get dressed and out of there quick enough.

Threw my dress back on, grabbed my bag, took my money, and got the fuck out. Some clients are like that—they want the fantasy but can't handle the reality of what they've just done. Not my problem, honestly. I got paid.

So I'm heading back down in the elevator, and who do I run into? This other working girl I know—let's call her Mia—gorgeous Black girl, legs for days, always has the best wigs. We recognized each other immediately, did that little knowing nod, and she goes, "Girl, you working tonight too?"

"Just finished," I said. "And the client was a whole mood. Not a good one."

She laughed. "Say less. I need a drink. You down?"

And that's how we ended up in the hotel bar.

Plot twist? That same group of guys from the elevator was there. And the second we walked in, every single head turned. Again. But this time, I had backup, and we were off the clock, and honestly? We were both in the mood to have a little fun. We grabbed seats at the bar, ordered cocktails - Grey Goose and cranberry for me - and within about five minutes, the guys had migrated over. The one who'd said "oh wow" in the elevator—his name was Brad or Chad or something equally predictable—he was the first to approach.

"I saw you earlier," he said, trying to play it smooth. "In the elevator."

"Did you?" I said, all innocent, sipping my drink. "I don't recall."His friends laughed, and they all kind of circled around us like we were the main event. Which, let's be real, we were. There were five of them total—all in their late twenties to mid-thirties, that finance bro energy, the kind of guys who think buying a round of drinks means they're getting lucky tonight.

Spoiler alert: none of them did.

But it was fun as hell fucking with them. Mia and I were in rare form, playing off each other, laughing at their jokes when they were actually funny, roasting them when they weren't. They kept buying us drinks—and they kept hoping. The younger one, couldn't have been more than twenty-six, kept trying to impress me with stories about his job in tech. "I just closed a Series B funding round," he said, like I was supposed to be impressed.

"That's nice, honey," I said, patting his hand. "I have no idea what that means."

His friends cracked up, and he looked deflated. But here's the thing—and this is what really got me—as the night went on, it became crystal clear that I was the center of attention. Not Mia, who's younger and objectively stunning. Not the other chicks who'd started hovering around our group, sensing the free drinks and attention. Me.

These guys, these younger guys who probably usually go for the twenty-two-year-old Instagram model types, couldn't take their eyes off me. I had them eating out of my hand. Every story I told, every laugh, every time I touched one of their arms or leaned in close—they were gone. Absolutely mesmerized.

"How old are you?" one of them finally asked, emboldened by whiskey.

"Old enough to be out of your league," I shot back, and the whole group erupted. But really, they were all too yung for me. Not just in age, but in that way where you can tell they don't know what the fuck they're doing. They're still at that stage where they think sex is just about getting off, where they haven't learned that the real pleasure is in the tease, the build-up, the psychological game. They're puppies, basically. Cute, eager, but ultimately not worth my time when I'm not getting paid.

Around midnight, Mia and I looked at each other with that telepathic communication that women have, and we both knew it was time to go. We finished our drinks, thanked the boys for the entertainment and the free cocktails, and headed out. You should have seen their faces—that mixture of disappointment and disbelief that we were actually leaving without taking any of them home.

"Wait, can I get your number?" Brad-or-Chad called after me.

I turned back, gave him my best smile. "No, baby. But thanks for the drinks."

Walking out of that hotel, Mia and I were laughing our asses off. "Girl, they really thought," she said.

"They always do," I replied.

And that's the thing, isn't it? I've got that crazy sex appeal that you either have or you don't. It's not about being the youngest or the thinnest or having the biggest tits. It's about confidence. It's about knowing exactly who you are and what you bring to the table. It's about walking into a room and owning it, whether you're working or not.

Some women spend their whole lives trying to figure out how to command attention. I was born with it. And on nights like tonight, even when the actual work part is shit, I remember why I love this life.

I'm a fucking goddess, and everyone knows it.