The Power Manifesto: How I Own My Life as a Sex Worker

Kristina J The Power Manifesto: How I Own My Life as a Sex Worker

I am a sex worker, and I refuse to apologize for it. Every single day, I stand up, step out, and take control of my life in a way that challenges everything society tells me I should be. I am not your stereotype, your cautionary tale, or your dirty little secret. I am a professional, a visionary, and a revolutionary. This is my story, my truth, and my manifesto.

When I chose sex work, I took control of my destiny. In a world that wants to dictate what I can do with my body, I decided to flip the script. I chose this path because it gives me something most people dream of: freedom. Freedom to decide how I work. Freedom to set my own hours. Freedom to turn something society shames into my power. I didn’t fall into this work—I walked into it with eyes wide open. I knew what I was getting into, and I’m proud of my decision. Every booking, every interaction, every pound I earn is proof that I am in charge of my life.

What gives me even more strength is the people who stand beside me—my family and my friends. These are the people whose opinions matter, the ones who truly know me, value me, and accept me for who I am. They don’t just tolerate my choice—they celebrate it because they understand it’s part of what makes me the person they love and respect. Their support is unwavering, and when the world tries to tear me down, I lean on them. With them, I never feel judged or small. With them, I am fully seen and unconditionally loved. That kind of support is the armor I wear against every sneer, every insult, every attempt to diminish me.

And yet, people think they have the right to belittle me. They throw their judgment like stones, calling me names, trying to diminish me, acting as if their scorn can shrink my power. Let me tell you something: it doesn’t work. I’ve built my armor from their insults. Every attempt to tear me down has only made me stronger, sharper, and more determined to thrive. When someone tries to degrade me, I remind them—loudly and unapologetically—that their opinions have no place in my world. I refuse to engage in their small-mindedness. I hold my head high, meet their judgment with silence or strength, and carry on. I don’t owe them an explanation, and I certainly don’t owe them shame.

Here’s what I know: their judgment says more about them than it ever could about me. Their discomfort with my power, my independence, and my life is their problem—not mine. When they try to put me down, they’re only showing me how trapped they are in their own fears and insecurities. I refuse to let their limitations define me.

I’ve had people sneer at me, try to dismiss me, and speak to me like I’m less than. When they do, I don’t shrink—I grow. I smile. I succeed in ways they can’t imagine. That’s the ultimate revenge: not letting their words touch my soul while I keep building a life that is mine and mine alone. I remind myself that I am in control, and they’re just spectators to a show they’ll never understand.

I am tired of being shamed for what I do. Society loves to demonize people like me, pretending we’re “fallen,” “broken,” or “desperate.” That couldn’t be further from the truth. The stigma isn’t about me—it’s about control. They fear people like me because I don’t fit into their narrow ideas of what’s acceptable. But here’s the thing: I don’t care. I don’t need their approval to thrive. When I speak up about my work, I’m not just defending myself—I’m fighting for every other sex worker out there. Every time I share my story, I dismantle the lies people tell about us.

One thing I’ve learned in this line of work is how to master boundaries. When I meet special, valued visitors, I’m not just providing a service—I’m creating a safe, intentional space. But that doesn’t mean I sacrifice myself. Boundaries are what make this work sustainable for me. They keep my mind, body, and energy in check. I decide how much of myself I give. I set the terms for every interaction. I never let anyone cross the lines I’ve drawn. People think sex work is just about intimacy, but they don’t see the emotional labour, the mental strength, and the resilience it takes to maintain those boundaries. I don’t just survive—I thrive because I honour my needs.

Let’s get one thing straight: I’m not just a sex worker—I’m a businessperson. I manage my work like a CEO, and let me tell you, running this business is no small feat. I know how to market myself. Whether it’s building my online presence or keeping my regulars engaged, I’ve mastered the art of connection. I know how to plan. My time is my money, and I don’t waste either. I know how to grow. Every step I take is part of a bigger plan for my future. People love to assume I’m just winging it, but this job takes strategy. It takes discipline. It takes guts. If anything, it’s made me sharper and smarter than I ever thought possible.

For me, pleasure is about so much more than just sex. It’s about empowerment, connection, and liberation. Every time I create an experience for one of my visitors, I’m helping them embrace something society tells them to repress. But let’s not get it twisted: pleasure isn’t just for them—it’s for me, too. This work has taught me to love my body in ways I never thought possible. I celebrate my sexuality. I revel in the power it gives me. I refuse to feel ashamed for finding joy in my work and my life. Every moment I spend embracing my pleasure is a middle finger to a world that wants me to feel small.

Sex work comes with risks—risks that could be minimised if society saw me as human instead of a scapegoat. The laws and stigma surrounding this industry don’t protect me—they put me in harm’s way. They make it harder for me to stay safe, to report violence, and to build a secure life. I deserve better. I deserve safety. I deserve to work without fear. That’s why I fight for decriminalisation. It’s not just about my rights—it’s about my life. Until the world recognises sex work as legitimate work, I’ll keep raising my voice, demanding change, and standing up for myself and my peers.

Sex work can feel isolating, but I’ve learned that I don’t have to do this alone. There’s a whole world of sex workers out there who understand me, support me, and lift me up when I need it most. When I connect with others in this industry, I’m reminded that I’m part of something bigger. Together, we share advice, celebrate our wins, and fight for the changes we deserve. To my fellow sex workers: You are my family. You inspire me every day to keep going, to keep thriving, and to keep creating the lives we deserve.

If I could change one thing about this industry, it would be the way it’s criminalised. Decriminalisation isn’t just about legality—it’s about humanity. It’s about giving me the same rights, protections, and respect as anyone else. Here’s what decriminalisation would mean for me: I could work without fear of arrest or violence. I could access resources that make my job safer. I could demand respect as a professional. This isn’t just a pipe dream—it’s a fight I’m ready to take on. I’ll keep advocating, protesting, and speaking out until the world recognises what we deserve.

This is my life. My body. My choice. Every single day, I wake up and claim my space in a world that tries to push me into the shadows. I won’t let them. I am more than the labels they put on me. I am more than their assumptions. I am more than enough. I share my story because it’s mine to tell. I speak my truth because I refuse to stay silent. I own my power because no one can take it from me. And with the love and support of the people who truly matter, I know that I am unstoppable.

Kristina J xx