Centre Stage

Sex workers get asked all kinds of dumb questions. What’s your real name? Can I get to know you for free? Do you have a boyfriend? (This is my real name, silly; absolutely not; and sure, too many to count.) There is, however, a more insightful question, one that erotic professionals ask one another in hushed tones: Do you ever really quit sex work? Believe me when I say I’ve tried.

My career as a sex worker started in 2011, when I was a 21-year-old student at U of T. I was an aspiring writer and performer, majoring in English lit with a minor in religious studies. I had been raised Catholic, but I struggled to relate to its stories and figureheads. Worship a father and a son? I couldn’t. The exalted feminine binary confounded me too. On one pedestal, the Virgin mother, Mary, a physiological impossibility; on the other, the repentant whore, Mary Magdalene. My yearning for heroines in the murky middle filled me with a desire to write about them myself.

One night, I was out with a classmate in Riverdale Park and they asked if I’d been to the nearby strip club. I checked the time: last call. We ran over. The dated decor, musty vibe and black-lit carpeted floors reminded me of a glow-in-the-dark bowling alley. We got ourselves a table near the small stage, which had two floor-to-ceiling poles. And then, through the throngs of men, I saw her—the pole-­dancing priestess, delivering her sermon to a rapt congregation. When she exited the pulpit to commune with her flock, she offered confession at just $20 a song.

Related: “Sean Baker messaged me out of the blue”: Andrea Werhun on her role as a sex work consultant on Anora

I’d found my future, my middle ground: a nude dancer in control of her sexuality and utterly shameless, like Eve in Paradise. I knew in that moment that I wanted to be a beautiful woman who got paid to parade around naked onstage. Praise be. I started taking pole-dancing classes and bought a pair of eight-inch, neon-yellow Pleasers, the heels strippers wear at work. I’d walk around my apartment in them, sweeping the floors and doing the dishes. I read stripper memoirs, blogs and anything else I could find online. I took the risks seriously too. I went to other clubs and paid the strippers for their advice.

Over drinks, I told another classmate about my plan. She recommended an alternative option, one she described as safer, better paid and more private: agency escorting—put simply, an exchange of sexual services for money within an agreed-upon timeframe. The agency’s role is to advertise an escort’s services, book appointments, and either provide a driver to shuttle workers to and from appointments or manage a central space where appointments take place. Convinced, I did some research and contacted the agency with the best website. I was hired almost immediately.

The agency charged $260 per hour. I took home $160, plus I got to set my schedule. Until then, my work experience was limited to retail, cafés and restaurants. The upgrade from minimum wage was life changing. Suddenly, I had savings. I could pay my rent, treat my friends to meals and, for the first time in my life, not worry about money. Being paid to be beautiful felt like a dream, like practice for womanhood.

Over the course of two years, I saw an estimated 500 clients. In a lot of ways, escorting was just like any other job: there were good days and bad days. On a bad day, a client might push my boundaries or violate my trust. Just like in civilian workplaces, sexual assault was a rare but real occupational hazard. We didn’t have HR, but we did have a blacklist, and I had the ability to say no to sketchy clients. That said, I was mostly treated with respect, kindness and generosity. I’d meet men, take their money, witness them at their most vulnerable and walk out the door. Just another day at the office.

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I asked a veteran dancer about her dreams. Curtly, she said, “We don’t talk about that here”

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For me, the hardest part about being a sex worker wasn’t the work—it was lying about the work. I felt no shame about what I did for money. In fact, I was proud of it. But I knew that not everyone would feel the same way. Keeping track of my cover stories was stressful, and I wrestled with the fear of discovery. The question “What do you do for a living?” became an intrusive assault on my right to privacy. I’d protest, evading the truth: “How pedestrian to be reduced to our occupations! Why not ask about my ideas, my hopes, my dreams?”

But sometimes, out of curiosity, I told the truth. The results were mixed. Once, I told a fellow student, who then blurted it out in the common room of his frat house without my permission. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Another time, I was with a group of friends at the Green Room on Brunswick, chatting about shaving. I mentioned that I hated it but had to for work. One of them, a philosophy major who struck me as kind and smart, asked, “What kind of job requires you to shave?” I evaluated the risk and answered honestly. He smiled and said, “Cool.” Within a few weeks, we were dating.

My biggest moral quandary had to do with my Catholic, Virgin Mary–loving mother. Was it more important to tell the truth or to do no harm? If she didn’t know what I did for work, it couldn’t hurt her. But keeping it from her was excruciating: we had always been close, and she’d raised me to be honest.

I lasted six months before I cracked. We were on the couch, watching TV, when I broke the news. I could feel my face sweating and my hands shaking as tears welled up in my eyes. I had a strategy: since my mom had been involved in union organizing for decades, I would highlight the labour injustices, arguing that sex work was real work and should be decriminalized so that we could have the same protections as everyone else. But, when I uttered the words “sex worker,” the blood drained from her face. I saw her body slump like I’d knocked the wind from her chest. I talked about labour rights, but she wasn’t in the mood. Her daughter was a whore. An unrepentant one at that. “What about diseases?” she asked. “What about pregnancy? What about violence?”

Over the next week, she called me several times in the middle of the night, scared for my safety and my soul. I reminded her that my clients—mostly married, newly single and heartbroken, happy bachelors, or men with disabilities—were vetted by the agency; someone always knew where I was; and if I ever needed help, my driver would be there in an instant. Most of all, knowing that my mom was now aware of my profession made me feel safe. Over time, the hurt and humiliation she felt began to fade. But, while she was always willing to talk it out with me, she was still eager to see this phase of my life end. When I graduated university six months later, we had a celebratory lunch at Hemingway’s. My mom asked, “So, when are you going to quit that job of yours?” I dawdled but finally said, “By my next birthday.” She asked me to put it in writing, so I signed a contract with my mom. When the big day arrived a year later, I honoured my commitment and quit hooking.

It turned out that making anything close to my escorting wages in another line of work was next to impossible. I spent a few years bouncing around between gigs, including stints on an organic farm and as a high school science tutor. In a victory for normalcy, I landed my first salaried nine-to-five as an assistant to a TV and film agent. The work was high pressure and poorly paid. I was miserable. I commuted during rush hour and worked during my lunch breaks, and every night I went home and cried. I had panic attacks for the first time in my life. I hated the expectation that I was supposed to suffer at work and pretend to like it. I quit and became a bike courier. But, after my 10th time nearly getting doored, I asked myself: What’s more dangerous in this city—working as a bike courier or as a stripper?

So, at 27 years old, I applied for a City of Toronto Entertainer Licence, the legal document required of all working Toronto strippers. I paid the hefty $417.65 fee by credit card and ordered the mandatory criminal record check. I picked a club east of Yonge that was the stuff of family lore: my mom’s father—a shell-shocked veteran and noted lover of wine, women and song—had gambled away their family home in the very same building in the mid-1950s. I told myself that I was going to make back everything he had lost. I also hoped the gig would give me time to finish a book I was working on with my friend Nicole Bazuin, a brilliant artist and filmmaker. I was writing short stories about my time as an escort, and Nicole was snapping photos of me. We called our art book Modern Whore.

Related: A Toronto hotwife’s adventures in ethical non-monogamy

Getting a job at the club was simple. I sent the entertainment manager a few photos, and he wrote back, “If that’s really you, then yes, you can come in for an interview.” I was hired on the spot, and the manager, who was short, bald and wearing a three-piece suit, gave me the tour. The building was windowless. There was a main room with a stage and a VIP area upstairs. Much like an office, it consisted of cubicles and glass-walled rooms.

There were two shift options. For a scheduled shift, I was paid $50, plus tips, to stay on the premises for seven hours and perform three stage shows. Or I could freelance, where I paid the club a house fee of between $20 and $100 per night—depending on when I showed up—and performed a single stage show for no additional pay. Our main-stage tips were meagre. Dancers primarily earned money by giving lap dances in the semi-private booths for $20 per song, or by spending time with clients in the private “champagne” rooms for $300 per hour. (And, yes, what happens in the champagne room really does stay there.)

There is no minimum wage at a strip club, let alone benefits or job security. Overall, my hourly take-home was comparable to escorting, and I didn’t have to do anything besides take my clothes off. On dead nights, I lost money, but mostly I averaged between $500 and $1,000 a shift, and some nights I made more. A customer once gave me $2,000 just to talk.

I loved performing—becoming that beautiful naked woman on a stage was a dream. I chose my own music, mainly disco, classic rock and ’90s bangers. If I made money onstage, I tipped the DJ. What I lacked in technical skill I made up for with eye contact and a smile. I could easily command the room’s attention—that is, when the patrons weren’t staring at their phones or gawking tip-less from pervert’s row, the area right next to the stage. The customers were every type of man you can imagine. There were suits and sweats, tuques and ball caps, sneakers and Oxfords, a Rolex here and a Casio there, young and old, rich and poor.

Besides the money, what I loved most about stripping was the other strippers. They ran the gamut from all-natural to surgically enhanced, grandmas to recent high school graduates. Some dancers gave their all onstage while others suffered from debilitating stage fright. We took refuge in the locker room, a safe space away from the male gaze. It had faded pink walls, smudged mirrors over crumbling countertops and lockers dappled with decades of old stickers. Dancers ate their dinners out of Tupperware containers and popped their ingrown hairs mid-sentence. Jokes were cracked, bottles passed around. I felt strongly that these were my people, though once I made the mistake of asking a veteran dancer about her dreams. Curtly, she said, “We don’t talk about that here.”

By 2017, I’d finished writing Modern Whore. Nicole and I launched a Kickstarter to raise money to print it. I often asked my regulars—the ones I trusted, ­sometimes during their lap dances—to donate to the cause. Many did. In a month, we raised the $20,000 we needed. It was exhilarating. After a lucrative six months of stripping, I was ready to hang up my heels and finally launch my career as a writer. I had a big going away party. My friends came to the club, the waitresses climbed up onstage with money in their mouths and the DJ announced my departure. It was a glorious send-off.

We launched the book in Toronto, New York, Montreal and Vancouver and got a ton of press. Our copies were selling out fast, but that didn’t mean we were making bank. With a creeping dread, I asked people I knew in publishing if that was normal, and they told me there was no money in books. In fact, I discovered that most writers had day jobs, even the ones on the bestseller lists. How come nobody told me? Seven months later, I returned to the strip club, mortified. I learned an important sex work lesson that day: never announce your departure. The beauty of the industry is that you can leave and come back, and none would be the wiser. We don’t talk about our dreams. We work.

I laboured at my night gig but never stopped being an artist. Once the copies of Modern Whore sold out, Nicole and I began working on a short film. We envisioned a hybrid documentary, a blend of interviews and re-enactments, starring me and directed by Nicole. We tackled the controversial topic of “escort review board” culture. Hobbyists, as they call themselves, are clients who write reviews about escorts on public message boards. A few had reviewed me—every part of my body, what it was like to have sex with me—so it only seemed fair to write reviews about them. In the short film, I re-enact both narratives: the client’s account and what really happened.

After it was done, we submitted the short to a few film festivals. I was grocery shopping when I got a phone call from Nicole: we’d gotten into SXSW, the music and film festival in Austin, Texas. I kept saying “oh my god, oh my god, oh my god” in the middle of the health food store. But, as we were excitedly making plans to attend the premiere, the pandemic hit. The festival was swiftly cancelled.

During lockdown, I struck up an unexpected correspondence with David Chilton, the author of The Wealthy Barber. David had watched our short film and sent it to his friend, Kristin Cochrane, the president of Penguin Random House Canada. To our utter delight, she asked Nicole and I to publish an expanded edition of Modern Whore. I spent lockdown fleshing out the narrative to include my stripping career. By the time I finished writing and Nicole had crafted more visuals, it had doubled in length.

I got an advance for the book, but it was modest, and the clubs were closed because of the pandemic. I needed money, so I started an online business called Hire-A-Muse. I offered striptease videos, other creative and erotic content, writing sessions, and for the first time, consulting. I started getting regular gigs doing sensitivity reads of manuscripts and screenplays that featured sex workers. I loved combining my writing experience with my lived experience, and I felt like I was starting to make a small difference in how the job was represented in popular culture.

One day, I got a request to appear on a SiriusXM live radio show called Canada Talks. I thought, Let’s go. On the show, I explained how, in Canada, most forms of sex work are subject to a slew of harmful laws. For example, it’s illegal to solicit sex work in public or hire third parties who might provide protection or do admin. In 2014, the Supreme Court ruled these laws unconstitutional: they put sex workers’ lives at risk, because if something goes wrong, they can’t call emergency services without fear of being arrested. Instead of making sex work safer, Stephen Harper’s Conservatives made it a crime to purchase sexual ­services—for the first time in Canadian history—so now it’s virtually impossible to sell sex legally. The people most affected by this are sex workers on the street, who are often already marginalized.

The interview went well, and I was invited back. At first, the tone was conversational and informative, as usual. Then the host asked, “What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you as a sex worker?” I paused, and then I answered her, in stark, painful, granular detail—specifics I won’t repeat here—and instantly regretted it. I was even more shocked to discover that there were no further questions. After everything valuable I’d contributed, I had been reduced, in conclusion, to the worst thing I’d survived.

My dad had been listening to the show. Usually I would have called him, but I couldn’t even manage to form sentences. I was humiliated. I’d been exploited for trauma porn live on air. Afterward, I was a crying, crumpled mess. It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked that question, and it wouldn’t be the last, but I resolved to never answer it again. Going forward, I would challenge the narratives that dehumanize sex workers. If we’re not seen as nuanced, complex human beings—on screen, on live radio and in the news—people will never treat us with the respect and dignity we deserve.

In 2022, I was hired as a consultant on a project that aligned with that mission: Sook-Yin Lee’s Paying for It. It’s a film adaptation of Chester Brown’s graphic novel of the same name, about his decision to forgo conventional romantic relationships and pay sex workers instead. I had read the book when it came out, and I admired Chester’s courage in telling his story—legal name, face out—despite the risk to his reputation. In fact, it inspired me. I’d always seen Modern Whore as a response to Paying for It, as if I were one of Chester’s cartoons come to life. I even cast him as one of my clients in my short film, and after I did my read of Sook-Yin’s script, she offered me a part in Paying for It. I played Denise, an escort Chester engages with for more than two decades.

Related: What multimedia artist Sook-Yin Lee loves about Kensington Market

The second edition of my book was published that same year. A few months later, Sean Baker messaged me on Instagram. I knew who he was—an acclaimed director, writer, editor and producer. I loved Tangerine, which was about a trans sex worker, and in a wild coincidence, I’d watched another film of his, The Florida Project, just days earlier. It had earned Willem Dafoe nominations at the Oscars, the Golden Globes and the BAFTA awards, but I was most impressed by Sean’s compassionate portrayal of a sex-working mother. “I really love your book,” he wrote. “It provides so much insight with an incredible amount of humour and honesty. I am prepping for a new film which once again covers the topic of sex work. I was wondering if you do consultations.” The film would eventually be called Anora.

The title character of Sean’s movie, Anora, is a 23-year-old sex worker from Brighton Beach, New York. In the film, she impulsively marries a strip club customer who happens to be the wealthy young son of a Russian oligarch. My job was to read the script in its many iterations, from the point-form first draft to the refined nearly final version, to flag depictions of sex work that did not ring true. Sean’s dedication to authenticity was apparent. For instance, I was not the film’s only sex worker consultant: it took people from diverse backgrounds to lend the script its credibility.

I also spoke with Mikey Madison, who played the lead. She’d risen to fame after appearing in Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. Mikey was serious about understanding her character. She’d read Modern Whore and other sex work memoirs, visited strip clubs and paid for lap dances. She also learned Russian, rented an apartment near Coney Island and took pole-dancing classes—she had even installed a pole in her living room. I told her that, to play Anora, she’d need to tap into three key qualities: charisma, strength and, most importantly, her sense of humour.

As a script consultant, I wasn’t on set or involved in post-production, so I didn’t see the movie until its Canadian premiere at TIFF in 2024. By then, it had already won the Palme d’Or at Cannes. I happened to be at TIFF for the world premiere of Paying for It, and at the last minute, the Anora team asked if I could walk the red carpet press line. I didn’t exactly look the part: I was wearing a dress covered in lizards and a green bucket hat. But, of course, I said yes. Before the film started, I sat backstage at the Royal Alexandra Theatre as the Anora crew rolled through: Mikey; Sean; his wife and producing partner, Samantha Quan; Yura Borisov, who played a hired henchman named Igor; and Yura’s translator. Mikey gave me a hug and said she hoped I liked the movie.

From the opening scenes, the film was an immaculate depiction of the strip club experience from a stripper’s perspective. It showed the hustling of customers, the camaraderie and tensions among dancers. I grinned with recognition watching Anora eat her dinner from a Tupperware in the locker room. The way she triumphantly announced her departure from the club after marrying her wealthy client also rang true to my personal experience. That blowhard exit is my story too.

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I watched Anora sweep the Oscars while I bounced on a man’s lap for cash

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The film ended up being nominated for six Academy Awards. It felt like a career milestone for me, and I watched the Oscars from—where else?—the strip club. I’d returned to work in 2024, this time at a new club. During the broadcast, a customer snuck up beside me and asked for a dance. I would be a terrible stripper if I’d said no, so I picked a curtained booth with a slit big enough for me to keep watching the TV. I saw Sean win best film editing while I bounced on a man’s lap for cash. Soon, the night turned into a sweep. Anora took home five awards, including best actress and best picture. Both Sean and Mikey thanked the sex worker community in their speeches and committed to supporting our cause. I was buzzing. Then I got back to work.

The day after the Oscars happened to be International Sex Workers’ Rights Day. I did a live CBC Radio interview where I talked about Anora and how its success proved that audiences were eager for authentic sex-worker storytelling. But, because the industry is criminalized and stigmatized, it’s incredibly risky for most sex workers to speak publicly about their jobs. It could affect their housing, custody of their children, their livelihoods and, most of all, their health and personal safety. We need Canadian laws changed so that sex workers can tell their stories without fear. As I walked away from the studio, I gave my mom the ceremonial post-interview call. “It sounds like you’ve been preparing for this your whole life,” she said. “In a way,” I said, “I have.”

I was already hard at work on my own contribution to the ever-growing catalogue of sex work movies. Nicole and I had always imagined a Modern Whore feature film, another hybrid documentary that would be equal parts entertaining and educational. We had secured Lauren Grant, who’s had several films premiere at TIFF, as our producer, and after working with Sean on Anora, we wondered if he might be game to executive-produce. Nicole and I flew to Los Angeles to meet with him, and we popped the question on a café patio in West Hollywood. He said yes.

When it came time to shoot the feature, I took a month off work at the strip club. I didn’t have to request time off, use banked vacation days or stress about how the business would fare without me. My absence wouldn’t affect or inconvenience anyone. It was liberating to know that I could leave—for weeks, months and even years at a time—and so long as I had a valid licence to entertain, I could return to work when and if I needed to. After an incredibly inspiring shoot, my job at the club was waiting for me.

Still, the truth is, I don’t want to be a sex worker. I want to make a living as a writer and performer, but the artist’s way rarely pays the bills. I’m a published author, a sought-after consultant and an actor, yet I can’t make it work financially in Toronto without the extra income. Sure, I could explore different side hustles, but what other occupation offers both the flexibility and the earning potential of sex work? There’s one other way to quit the business that I haven’t explored: marrying into money, Anora-style. Too late for that, I’m afraid—I’ve been in love with that philosophy major boyfriend for the past 14 years.

A few months after shooting the Modern Whore feature, my boyfriend and I went on a trip to Amsterdam. As I walked the cobblestone streets of the red-light district, it occurred to me that I might be known as a sex worker for the rest of my life. A deep sadness washed over me. I felt like I would never be able to escape the stigma. I looked at the working women standing scantily clad at their glass doors, beckoning would-be clients from the street to come hither. All of them worthy of love, respect, dignity and protection. It made me think of the extraordinary sex workers I’ve met during my nearly 15 years in the industry—how smart, resourceful, supportive and creative they are. What a gift to be part of this cohort of beautiful people who have existed around the world since time immemorial. At that moment, I understood: being known as a whore for the rest of my life was a badge of honour, one I would wear with pride.

I used to dream of writing about complex women, ones who couldn’t be easily categorized. Then I became one of them. Stories can be immensely powerful, and my hope is that mine helps dispel some of the stigma around sex work. We’re currently putting the finishing touches on our feature film, and we’ve included a range of perspectives: a few of my wonderful sex worker friends share their insights, as do my mother and my boyfriend. Maybe it will inspire viewers to join the fight for safer labour conditions so that more sex workers can share their experiences openly. Because a sex work movie co-written and performed by the sex worker herself? I can promise you, you’ve never seen anything like it.

This story appears in the June 2025 issue of Toronto Life magazine. To subscribe, click here. To purchase single issues, click here.