Most of the people I see aren’t paying for sex. They’re paying for permission.
Permission to want what they want without apologising for it. Permission to name a desire that’s been sitting dormant, untended to. Permission to be seen, really seen, in their wanting, and to not be met with disgust.
Shame does that. It makes you believe that what you desire is evidence of what’s wrong with you – and nowhere does shame cling more stubbornly than around sex, kink, and intimacy.
I was confronted by this one night with a familiar lover, in a hotel suite with those dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows that are so gleamingly polished, you feel like you’re floating above the city. Having kicked off my Valentinos, I was sprawled on the sofa, my body pleasantly buzzing from shopping and champagne (two surefire ways to get me in the mood, by the way). He was standing by the window, fidgeting with his cuffs and looking uncharacteristically hesitant. I could see him working up to…something.
When he finally spoke, his voice was careful, as if dipping a toe into water to test the temperature. He told me about an ache he’d been carrying covertly for years: he wanted to explore age play. He didn’t go into much detail, but simply outlined the shape of it.
My body reacted before my brain caught up. I felt a heat in my face, a tightening in my ribs, a little tingle down my spine. This wasn’t the familiar territory of seduction I was used to navigating. Adjusting my position on the sofa, I wondered if my body language was communicating the wrong thing, making him want to retract the words he’d just offered out, entrusted me with. Whether I’d made the water scalding hot.
The thing is, he wasn’t apologising. He stood there, motionless, holding my gaze. Nervous, yes, but unashamed. His steadiness shifted something in me; resistance gave way to curiosity. Was I uncomfortable with what he was asking for, or with some shame I’d absorbed without realising?
Tell me more, I said.
What is shame, anyway?
Shame isn’t guilt. Guilt says, ‘I did something bad.’ Shame says, ‘I am bad.’ (Shamone!).
The psychologist Patricia DeYoung defines shame as ‘the dis-integration that happens when a self cannot find empathic recognition from an emotionally significant other’. In other words, it’s the dissolution of your sense of self when your thoughts, feelings, needs, wants or desires are met not with understanding but with resistance, disgust, or just silence. Shame is relational by nature; it has everything to do with our experience of ourselves in relation to the people around us. When the person whose opinion matters most doesn’t see and understand you, shame fills the gap.
Most of us carry some version of this from early relationships: a parent, a caregiver or poignant adult figure. It lies dormant in the deepest part of our unconscious, only rearing its head when something or someone reminds us of it. And nowhere does this shame resurface more intensely than in romantic and intimate relationships, where we’re our most vulnerable, raw, and often asking for more: more connection, more intimacy, more empathy.
What does this have to do with dating an escort?
In my world, kink-shaming is a big no-no. I don’t profess to engage in every taboo fantasy – having limits is a sign of a well-adjusted, boundaried companion that you can trust to know where to keep going and when to stop – but you’d be hard-pressed to find me saying no without thought and inquisitiveness.
How to heal shame? It’s the million-dollar question, and it doesn’t happen in isolation. Opening up to someone you trust can facilitate a re-integration of the shamed experience. That might be a therapist, an attuned and non-judgemental friend, a kink-friendly companion (see: me), or all of the above! It’s about looking for an emotionally-balanced other who welcomes the shameful feeling without judgement.
I believe my services can help metabolise shame and connect it to experiences that are instead empathic, attuned and positively relational, rather than leaving it festering in secrecy. That said, if your shame feels deeply entangled with trauma, a therapist or intimacy coach is the appropriate first stop. What I offer is embodied acceptance, not therapeutic processing.
Let’s talk about three dynamics that often arrive shrouded in shame.
Cuckolding
A consensual dynamic where arousal or emotional intensity comes from jealousy, comparison, power exchange, or witnessing a partner’s desire for someone else. This one’s often tied to trust or vulnerability rather than literal betrayal. It clashes so violently with ideas about masculinity and ownership that most people fear even naming the interest means they’re weak or inadequate. But when it’s actually explored (with clear communication, boundaries, and aftercare, of course), it can expose and transform insecurity rather than confirm it. Some men discover unexpected freedom in not needing to be ‘everything’ to their partner.
Age play
Now here’s one that gets misunderstood more extremely than almost any other kink. It’s not about children, despite what people’s immediate horror might suggest. It’s about exploring a younger (or, sometimes, older) headspace; often, this kink is connected to care, safety, dependency, sometimes just simplicity. For many people, it’s about emotional regulation rather than arousal. But the taboo is so intense that people internalise a fear that wanting this means something is fundamentally wrong with them, that they’re unsafe or broken.
What shifts when it’s actually explored – with clear adult boundaries, explicit consent, a partner who understands what’s underneath – is often profound. It can heal unmet attachment needs, create a sense of safety that was never available in childhood, and soften the harsh self-control patterns that come from never being allowed to be vulnerable. Sometimes, it’s perfect for high-flying men who rarely get to let go and be taken care of.
Humiliation/Degradation
And then there’s humiliation play: consensual degradation in a controlled context, which probably sounds like the last thing that would help with shame! Until, that is, you realise it’s about externalising the feeling rather than being consumed by it. Yes, it mirrors the voice of internalised criticism, trauma or societal judgement, but when you negotiate these with someone you trust, it can be a powerful way to defang those old wounds. The paradox is real: bringing shame into the open, making it purposeful and temporary rather than ambient and endless, can actually reduce its power. People worry it means they deserve mistreatment, that it confirms their worst beliefs about themselves. But when it’s balanced with care and chosen rather than inflicted, it can create a strong catharsis, and even strengthen self-esteem outside the scene of the kink exploration.
These are just three places where shame tends to show up most stubbornly. It’s far from an exhaustive list. The landscape of desire is vast, and it’s always nice to have a travel partner.
Back in that hotel suite, I didn’t have all the answers. I still don’t! But I was curious. And curiosity, I’ve learned, is where shame begins to lose its grip. That particular lover confided in me because he trusted I wouldn’t make him feel small for wanting what he wanted, and he was right. Shame thrives in secrecy. So if you’re carrying something that makes your breath catch when you think about naming it out loud, I promise you I’ve heard it before. Or if I haven’t, I’m most definitely intrigued…
Go on, tell me about it.
