The Honeytrap: Money, Sex Work, and the Price of Ambition

Yes, I have money. Yes, I want more. And yes, my relationship with it is complicated.

I’m a retired sex worker who now works in corporate tech, but I still dabble in sex work to fund some of my more frivolous expenditures—and, if I’m being honest, out of fear that the bottom will fall out at any moment.

The thing about sex work—something I’ve heard echoed by many others in the industry—is that it creates a chase. A honeytrap. For me, it’s turned into this mindset of “just one more push.” One more video, and I could have this. One more custom clip, and I could have that. Maybe I could finally get the Bottega Veneta Andiamo bag I’ve been eyeing or a perfume I definitely don’t need. And no matter how unhappy or exhausted it makes me, the thought that I could have more keeps me moving.

That’s the trap—it keeps pulling you in, convincing you that “more” is always within reach. It forces you to weigh what you want against what it costs—emotionally, mentally, physically. How much is enough? How much is too much? And how much is my own happiness really worth?

Over the last year, though, my patience has worn thin. Burnout looms, and the honeytrap feels less like a chase and more like a snare. I’m at a crossroads, knowing I need to confront my relationship with money if I ever want to grow. So, let’s talk about the thing we’re never supposed to: money.

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The Family Blueprint for Spending

I grew up in a working-class household that eventually settled into middle-class stability. My father worked in a distribution warehouse for building supplies. My mother, a bank teller turned public school teacher. The rest of my family was made up of mostly blue-collar, union workers.

I don’t have many early memories of money, besides winning five dollars on a scratch-off lottery ticket—my family’s favorite gift to give. I spent it all on gum, stickers, and chips at the local 7/11, feeling on cloud 9.

But money is obviously more complicated than that. My father constantly worried about it—how to get more, how to make us appear like we had more than we did. He loved luxury, albeit in a very middle-class, slightly tacky way: gold chains, Miami Vice-inspired outfits. Very Greek immigrant energy. For him, appearances mattered. He believed that if we signaled we had money, we might actually manifest it. His approach was always about keeping up momentum—this mindset of “just keep moving, keep working, and eventually, something will shake out.” And while I can’t knock his hustle—in fact, I kind of admire it—his approach to money left its mark on me. Somehow, he figured it out. My dad is still hustling and working, by the way.

As I grew older, my parents divorced, and our family dynamic shifted. My mother, despite her stable career, struggled with addiction and wasn’t present for much of anything—especially not about money.

My relationship with money began to develop in tandem with my teenage obsession with the 2000s "it girls"—Lindsay, Paris, Nicole, and Britney. I wanted their life. Zooming around in a Benz, hopping into Kitson, running out on tabs at Les Deux. Just girls being girls, right?

The Sweet Start

As I grew older and came of legal age (well beyond it), I naively entered sex work. At the time, I didn’t even realize what I was doing could be considered sex work. I was creating plus-size fashion content on Tumblr (lol), and it started attracting a lot of attention from fat fetishists. They offered money for simple things—pictures of me in a bikini, for instance. It felt casual at first, just fun money to buy disco pants at American Apparel or rounds of shots for my friends at the bar.

But then I realized I could make so much more by hustling the hell out of these men. I learned to tell them what they wanted to hear, letting them project their fantasies and desires onto me. It felt easier than clocking in at a traditional job, so I dove deeper into sex work.

Those early days felt golden—no identity verification on PayPal, no social media oversaturation, no pressure to be public-facing. I could pop into chatrooms and fetish sites, pulling in money without anyone knowing my real identity. It seemed like all reward, no risk. Of course, that wasn’t reality.

As the industry changed—with stricter payment platforms, increasingly complicated social media dynamics, and rising production demands—I started to hate how it made me feel. I loathed the fetish work. It amplified insecurities I already had, turning my body into a commodity in a way that left me deeply uncomfortable.

So, I left. All the while, I never thought of myself as a sex worker because I didn’t fully understand the complexity of my work. At the time, nuance around sex work wasn’t something I had developed. After all, I told myself, I was just a girl, being a girl.

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The Cost of Staying Comfortable

Over the years, I stepped in and out of sex work. The allure of “easy money” was always there, calling whenever I wanted something extra: a new computer, a big trip, whatever I could justify. But in 2018, after leaving a non-profit job that didn’t pay enough to survive, sex work stopped being about extras and became a matter of survival.

There had been times in the past when I used it to get by, but this time felt distinctly different. FOSTA/SESTA had passed, making the industry more precarious and limiting the platforms I could safely use. I leaned into a persona, creating clips and offering services I hated. I had to be much more public-facing—my face was on clip sites, often on multiple ones.

I felt trapped, helpless, and convinced I didn’t have the skills to succeed in the corporate world. I didn’t want to keep doing sex work, but at the time, it still felt easier than trying something new. I wasn’t ready to be uncomfortable.

Eventually, with the support of my now-spouse and friends, I began showing up in tech and marketing spaces. Slowly but surely, I built a network, started overcoming imposter syndrome, and landed jobs in startups. For the first time, I didn’t need sex work.

But even after leaving it behind, I hadn’t left behind my toxic relationship with money.

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Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous

Admitting this feels embarrassing because it disrupts the image I’ve carefully tried to curate. Posting about money inherently invites speculation, curiosity, and assumptions—I get that. It’s a choice I’ve made, and I’m choosing to post this, so… fucking whatever. But here’s the truth: I’ve been really dumb and irresponsible with money.

Over time, I’ve realized I’ve inherited my family’s complicated spending habits. I cared more about appearing wealthy than actually being financially secure. Worst of all, I didn’t think strategically. I lived in the now, relying on sex work as a safety net when things got tight.

Then it happened: I got laid off, and everything fell apart. I felt stupid. I was scared out of my mind. Why had I been so naive to think I could ascend to a new level of wealth and income? Why did I believe I could have something bigger than what I came from? Why did I think I was worth more?

I felt foolish for believing I could break into a level of comfort my family never had. I was so close, but when it slipped away, it felt like the ground had been pulled out from under me.

I went back to sex work out of necessity, feeling broken and ashamed. I hated it, but I refused to give up the lifestyle I’d built. Over the past year, I’ve been forced to confront my relationship with money—and myself. I was unemployed for eight months. My savings and unemployment benefits ran out after five. I eventually found another job, but it paid less than the one I’d lost.

I kept doing sex work to supplement my income, clinging to the comforts I couldn’t bear to lose. I liked nice things. I liked to travel. I didn’t want to give up my lifestyle, even though I hated how I was maintaining it.

Looking back, I see how my habits and mindset led me here. I didn’t talk about money with my partner or loved ones. Instead, I focused on projecting an image of wealth rather than actually being financially stable. I wasn’t thinking strategically—I was living paycheck to paycheck, all the while knowing, deep down, that sex work could always bail me out.

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Big Tits, Bigger Dreams

Over the past year, I’ve had to confront my relationship with money—and I’ve realized I have a problem. Somewhere along the way, sex work shifted my mindset, or maybe it was always this way. I stopped thinking about what I had and started obsessing over what I could have if I just kept pushing. I convinced myself that what I was making wasn’t enough, even though I was comfortable.

If I just did a little more sex work, I could have both the base salary and the extras. I could have more. But then the question hit me: what is enough? What’s the magical number that would finally make me feel okay to stop? And that’s when I realized—I didn’t have one. The goalpost just kept moving: more, more, more.

It’s an uncomfortable conversation to have with yourself because it comes with guilt. Wanting more makes me feel ungrateful and delusional, like I don’t appreciate what I already have. And I do appreciate it—I’m so fucking lucky and blessed to live the life I do. I never take it for granted. A lot of the time, it still feels like a surreal dream.

But even with all that gratitude, there’s still this part of me that isn’t satisfied.

I’m working on figuring out the root of that dissatisfaction. Will I feel satisfied with an income? A title? A company? A family? An appearance? Why does the goalpost keep moving? I used to think I’d be happy when I reached the place I’m at now. But I’m not.

And yeah, I know that sounds bratty. But I’m more committed than ever to working on it.

Patience Is a Bitch

So here I am, still caught in the honey, trying to find my way out. Slowly getting out of the mindset of “I can always hustle more.”

Over the past two years, I’ve worked hard to break free from the constant pull of immediate payouts. I’ve learned that building something meaningful takes time. It’s not about chasing quick wins or instant gratification anymore—it’s about stepping back, being intentional, and making choices that align with the future I want.

I’m more committed than ever to my long-term goals. I’m taking financial literacy seriously, working toward the life I envision. I’m learning to invest in what truly matters, compromise when it’s necessary, and, most importantly, stay grounded in my priorities.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that nothing you see online is real. The effortless success? The perfect lives? Take it all with a grain of salt. Growth is possible, but it demands patience, discomfort, and a lot of honesty.

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