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My client Mr Sheffield was so named because – as I told him when we were very drunk on our first date – he looked like Mr Sheffield from The Nanny.
Wait … did I say “date”? Yeah, you read that right. The second time we met, I told Mr Sheffield he didn’t have to book. A date, in case you haven’t read the manual – The Sex Worker’s Guide to Not Screwing Up Her Business 101 – is a real no-no. A good sex worker never blurs the line between client and boyfriend.
Mr Sheffield was about 10 years older than me, charismatic, charming and an absolute Adonis: slicked-back hair with a sprinkling of silver at the temples, glasses, expensive suit and the natural tan of someone who makes a lot of international trips.
Initially, he’d booked me through my website. In his messages he came across as polite and cordial. I was in Sydney for a tour and he was one of my first clients. I was in a rush that day, having to jump out of the cab at the hotel, check in and get in the shower all within about 10 minutes, because he would arrive in the lobby at any second.
I’d decided to go budget, so when I went down to the lobby, he looked out of place. This guy was super attractive and refined. He was no Booking.com Genius deal. Immediately I wanted to apologise for making him come to that place.
The moment we got the admin done – cash, shower – it was on. This man was beautiful. He smelled incredible. He had a way of taking control that was firm but fair.
Afterwards, we lounged on the bed and talked. We went overtime but I didn’t mention the idea of extending for extra. As long as we could order Uber Eats so that I could refuel before the next client, I was more than happy to have him stick around.
We related to each other on so many levels, beginning with the foundation of temperament and humour. Our birthdays were two days apart, making us both Cancers, and we both had ADHD and took the same meds. We were both parents and had similar values when it came to raising kids.
As with a lot of clients, he’d followed my work for a long time and was well versed in Kayla Jade, from my videos to every thought I’d ever expressed on Instagram. I pointed out that this gave him the advantage because he knew more about me than I did him. He lay back, his hands behind his head, and said I could ask him anything I liked.
“Are you still with the mum of your kids?” I asked, trying to make it sound like I was teasing rather than genuinely interested. Without hesitation, he replied that he was separated. I felt my heart rate spike in a way that was 100 per cent high school: a genuine excitement that I thought this job had drummed out of me. But, then, I only had his word for it. Also, men have very flexible definitions of “separated”.
When he finally got up to leave, I made a move. I told him that I was in Sydney on tour for five days, but that my final day was free. Should we go out somewhere? For a split second, my suggestion hung in the balance. I got the panicked thought that his face would suddenly distort into a laugh, or into disgust. Is this a date? With a sex worker?
“Let’s do it,” he said, smiling. “We could meet here and I’ll surprise you.”
Over the next few months I saw Mr Sheffield a lot. Either we’d hang out for a whole weekend when I came to Sydney, or he’d fly to the Gold Coast just to see me. Whenever we met, no money would change hands, but he would semi-regularly drop money into my account on other days, without any preamble or explanation.
Was it that he genuinely wanted to date me, but didn’t want to be presumptuous? Or did it mean these were bookings but he was trying not to be crass about it by handing over a wad of cash? Something prevented me from asking Mr Sheffield his intentions outright: probably the fear of disappointment.
In between dates, we messaged constantly. I gave him my personal number. My physiological response was rewiring my brain to become ever more obsessed.
KAYLA JADEWithout fail, the dates he organised required a lot of thought. He’d get a reservation at a restaurant with a three-month wait list, or book us into a brand-new boutique hotel that had been getting great reviews. Unlike most guys I met, he always asked me lots of questions about myself, but also respected my boundaries – what was left of them, anyway.
In between dates, we messaged constantly. I gave him my personal number, rather than my work number. My physiological response to Mr Sheffield was rewiring my brain to become ever more obsessed. His name – his real name – was the first thought in my head when I woke up and the last before I fell asleep.
I looked forward to our banter and chats just as much as the sex. As if I was his girlfriend, he debriefed to me about his day at work and the ridiculous workplace dynamics and gossip. As a sole trader, I missed out on that kind of drama, so I found it genuinely fascinating. I did notice that he gave fewer details of his friends, family and ex-partner, but then, I always kept those things secret, too.
One night, we went out to a beautiful restaurant and had the perfect evening. Back at the hotel, we talked till 3am. I was starting to doze off when a noise woke me. Mr Sheffield was stepping into his pants. Leaving.
“Where are you going?” I asked, clinging on to some insane hope that he was getting ice for drinks or making sure he hadn’t left his headlights on.
Mr Sheffield whispered, as if to try and soothe me back to sleep. He had to leave because of an early start at work. He wanted to let me sleep now rather than wake me in the morning. It seemed super-suss to me, but I was still being the cool girl. “Drive safe,” I said, and turned away to hug my pillow.
Sleep evaded me for hours, and then the insomnia bled into weeks. In my angrier moments, I wondered if I should start billing him again, but I couldn’t mentally write myself a script that didn’t seem childish. I also had to acknowledge that during that week I’d posted some stories on my Instagram that made it clear I’d packed in a lot of clients on that Sydney trip. He would have seen those stories, for sure. Maybe he was paying me back.
My friends had a theory: Mr Sheffield was a) taken and b) addicted to sex workers. Maybe he was even a collector. If that was the case, I didn’t understand why he would have to lie about it. I’d asked him outright what his status was and he’d sworn he was single.
After that trip to Sydney, I decided to pull the plug. I let Mr Sheffield know that I’d be available for bookings but that I wouldn’t see him casually anymore and that I wouldn’t be available to chat. He messaged back that he understood and that he’d be in touch next time I was in town. I had to respect that. He didn’t owe me anything, and I hadn’t asked for anything. It was just that seeing Mr Sheffield felt like driving a car and not knowing what was in your blind spot. It’s unnerving, and you know it’s probably not safe.
Over the next few months I only had occasional contact with Mr Sheffield while I licked my wounds. It was silly, because if he’d pledged his undying love for me I would have had to bounce anyway as I wasn’t ready to give up the job. While I know a few sex workers who have married a client and had kids, the reality is usually that a partner will get jealous, resentful or controlling or will start making up their own rules so that they can see other people. Don’t even get me started on the insecurity when you make more money than them.
No relationship ends neatly, though, so I don’t need to tell you that we had one last fling, months later. He offered dinner at the one restaurant we’d both absolutely loved: a super-exclusive place that basically offered three dishes – and if you didn’t like steak, that was your problem.
For four hours, we picked up exactly where we left off: the in-jokes, the genuine interest, the office gossip updates.
Back at the hotel, we had sex. Afterwards, we lay in each other’s arms. I bit the bullet and told him I really liked him. He said he felt the same way. I quizzed him on his relationship status and he admitted that he’d been seeing someone in the early days, but that it hadn’t been serious. I didn’t enquire as to the exact definition of “early days”, nor did I necessarily believe he was single now. While we’d always have that beautiful night, I had to accept that I’d never completely trust him – and that wasn’t any way to live.
When he followed up the next afternoon to see if we could catch up one more time before I left, I told him no way.
Edited extract from Call Girl Confidential (Simon & Schuster) by Kayla Jade out now.
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