escort diary® of Emi Laurentis: What Intimacy Really Means
I’m leaving a booking. I’m in the Uber, putting my music on and looking out the window.
I can still smell his perfume on my skin. I can still feel his touch on my body.
An hour ago, I was naked with someone who was a stranger to me a few days before.
Now I’m checking my phone and thinking about what I’m going to eat when I get home.
And I’m thinking:
Who am I?
It sounds dramatic but this job makes me ask myself that question more than I expected.
Because every person I meet gets a different version of me.
One gets the sexual me.
One gets the funny me.
One gets the confident me.
One gets the soft me.
One gets the woman who talks too much…
Another gets the woman who barely says anything at all.
So which one is actually me?
I used to think there was me and there was her.
The escort.
She puts on the heels. She walks into the hotel. She is confident, sexy, comfortable.
Then I leave, take everything off, wash my face and become myself again.
Except it doesn’t work like that.
Because she has my laugh.
My humour.
My desires.
My insecurities.
My body.
She tells my stories.
Sometimes she even says something too personal and I hear myself thinking:
Why did I tell you that?
And that’s when I realise something strange.
Being naked is not necessarily intimacy.
Someone can know exactly what my body looks like and know absolutely nothing about me.
And someone else can barely touch me and somehow make me feel completely exposed.
So what is intimacy?
I think intimacy is being seen.
Not looked at.
Seen.
It’s when someone notices the tiny change in your face when a subject makes you uncomfortable.
When they remember something you told them months ago.
It’s when you say something you didn’t plan to say.
When, for a few seconds, you stop deciding which version of yourself you want someone to meet.
That feels more naked to me than taking my clothes off.
Maybe sex gives someone access to my body.
Intimacy gives them access to something much harder to protect.
Me.
And that’s where this job becomes philosophical for me.
Because if different people see different pieces of me, does anybody actually know the real me?
Do I?
Maybe there isn’t one single “real me.”
Maybe I am all of them.
The sexual woman.
The vulnerable woman.
The confident woman.
The ridiculous woman laughing until she can’t breathe.
The woman who wants to be desired.
The woman who sometimes wants to be understood even more than she wants to be desired.
And the woman sitting alone in the Uber afterwards, thinking about all of it.
Maybe being yourself isn’t about being the same person with everyone.
Maybe it’s knowing which parts of yourself you are sharing without forgetting that they still belong to you.
Because people will touch me.
Some will know my body.
A few will know something deeper.
And everyone I genuinely connect with probably leaves with a tiny memory of who I was with them.
But they don’t take that version of me away.
She comes home with me.
And maybe that’s what intimacy really is.
Not giving yourself away.
Just allowing someone, for a moment, to meet a part of you that normally lives where nobody can see it.
