Suits, Screens, and Secret Power: How I Fell Into Online Sex Work

What started as play became power, pleasure, and freedom.

During the pandemic, I was doing what everyone else was doing—watching a shit ton of porn.

Pornhub was practically a default tab on my laptop. One afternoon, an ad for a camgirl site popped up. The woman on the screen had a voice so nasal, so exaggerated, so painfully bad, I actually laughed. Oh, daddy, give it to me, she whined, as if she were reading from a cue card. I rolled my eyes and thought, God, I could do better than that.

That thought stuck like a splinter.

I didn’t leap into action right away. Instead, I kept doing what I always did when I needed distraction: word games. Crosswords, Scrabble, Sudoku, Words With Friends. I was obsessed. During one late-night game, I got paired with a man in England. We became perfect matches—not just on the board, but in banter. Our chats turned playful, then flirty, and eventually, when the thought of sex work had begun to take root, I found myself wondering if he might be the one to test it on.

One afternoon, procrastinating the way only pandemic boredom allowed, I set up my phone and started to film. Not my body—just my face. My expressions, my voice. I touched myself and spoke softly into the camera, then sent the video to him.

Watching it back, I realized: it was hot. Not porn-star hot, not over-the-top. But me.

That was the first time I felt it—the possibility.

OnlyFans was exploding then. With strip clubs shuttered and live gigs gone, the platform had become a lifeline for dancers and sex workers. So I made an account.

At the time, I still held a high-profile corporate job. My LinkedIn was crisp, my suits sharp, my image carefully polished. Which meant everything I posted had to stay faceless. Anonymous. A shadow version of me.

I leaned into fantasy—the office affair. Stockings beneath a skirt suit, lace under a blouse, the delicious possibility of something wild happening in the most buttoned-up of places. That became my persona: well-dressed, faceless, in lingerie and heels, teasing with suggestion more than exposure.

And I loved it. I loved performing for the camera, learning how to seduce without words. It was play—private, hidden, yet broadcast to anyone willing to pay.

The real money, though, came from something unexpected: dick ratings.

Yes, exactly what it sounds like. Men sent me photos of their cocks, and I rated them. Not with numbers—I wasn’t passing out sevens or nines. I took a holistic approach: color, shape, grooming, overall presentation.

I was honest but kind. If a man was brave enough to share the most vulnerable part of himself, the least I could do was meet it with curiosity and grace. But not everyone wanted kindness. Some begged me to tell them how small, how pathetic, how laughable their dicks were.

That’s how I stumbled into SPH—small penis humiliation.

At first, it rattled me. I had to study clips online, trying to emulate the tone. But cruelty didn’t sit right with me. Eventually, I found my own rhythm: the passive-aggressive Southern mean girl.

“Oh, honey,” I’d say, voice dripping with sugar, “I’m just so sorry for you.”

Sweet on the surface, but barbed underneath. Sugarcoated venom. That, I could own.

What fascinated me most wasn’t the practice itself, but the reasons men wanted it. Some were exhibitionists who knew better than to send unsolicited dick pics—this was their way of showing off, with consent. Others were insecure, inexperienced, looking for reassurance. And some simply got off on the judgment itself.

Each cock wasn’t just a body part. It was a little Rorschach test of desire, vulnerability, kink.

I also began following other creators, partly out of curiosity, partly to learn. One of my favorites was a stunning Irish bodybuilder—strong, radiant, unashamed. Even from a distance, she became an unofficial mentor.

In one of her videos, I noticed she was using a machine—a thrusting contraption with attachments called a Highsmith. I remember staring at the screen, both shocked and intrigued, and thinking, I need one of those.

It cost $700. Outrageous. But worth every penny. That machine didn’t just fuck me—it fucked me into a new level of confidence on camera.

It wasn’t long before fans started requesting custom videos. The most common were simple: me masturbating while saying their name. Personalized, intimate, like a performance staged just for them.

But what surprised me most were the younger men who adored my mom bod.

I had a belly. I had stretch marks. Coming from a bodybuilding background, I’d always been self-conscious about it. Truthfully, I’d been self-conscious of my belly my entire life. What girl isn’t?

But these men celebrated it. They loved the softness, the roundness, the signs of a body that had stretched and lived. They worshipped what I had always tried to hide.

It didn’t erase decades of insecurity, but it cracked something open. My belly wasn’t a flaw. It was an offering. A source of erotic power.

The deeper I went into OnlyFans, the more exhilarating it became. Every post, every tip, every request was a pure dopamine hit. I felt powerful. I felt beautiful. I felt free.

Eventually, I offered video dates.

Video was different—it meant showing my face. That was my most carefully guarded boundary, and if I was going to cross it, it wouldn’t be cheap. A hundred dollars an hour, minimum.

People paid. Some wanted to see what I looked like. Others wanted intimacy, to feel like more than just a username.

And honestly, it felt good. Because if I was going to bare my face, they had to bare theirs too. No faceless consumption. No hiding. Mutual vulnerability. And that, always, is the first step toward trust.

When gyms reopened, I slipped back into routine. Everyone still carried the heavy weight of the pandemic. But one day, a friend looked at me and said, “You seem different. You seem… light. Happy.”

And he wasn’t wrong.

Because I was lighter. I was happier. I had this secret outlet, this playground where I felt powerful, desired, and free.

I laughed and told him, “Do you want to know the truth? …I’m doing porn.”

That was the first inkling I had that sex could be more than just pleasure. It could be healing. It could be liberating.

And in the middle of that discovery, I met Thomas Ashford.

Thomas was the kind of man who lived for elegant, expensive hobbies. His sport of choice was sailboat racing—the kind of pastime that required money, connections, and entire weekends devoted to chasing wind across the water. His wife was a successful plastic surgeon, the one who really paid the bills, but Thomas wore his leisure like a tailored suit. A romantic man with too much time, too much yearning, and not quite enough purpose.

The connection with him was instant. But that’s a story for another chapter.