I spent ten years as a £1,500-an-hour escort – I was shocked at what clients REALLY pay for: AMANDA GOFF’S brutally honest new book

I was lucky. In my ten-plus years as the high-class escort Samantha X, I had just one bad experience. One.

I’d left a career in tabloid journalism – first in the UK, then Australia – to become an escort at the age of 37. And I have to say that I really enjoyed it.

Today, however, Samantha X no longer exists. I gave up sex work just a few months ago, and returned to being myself: Amanda Goff. The trouble is, after so long as an escort, I’m no longer sure who I am.

As Samantha X, I felt empowered and in control. But since becoming Amanda again, I’ve had men behave grossly inappropriately with me, and that’s left me shaken.

You’re probably assuming my former clients must have also pushed boundaries and taken advantage of me. But the truth is that the kindest men in my life were those I met when I was a $1,500-an-hour escort.

I still have the occasional coffee or meal with some of them. They’ve listened to me bang on about toxic men in my life, my struggles. Most of them have seen me cry and comforted me.

As Samantha X, I connected emotionally with them – I talked clients out of killing themselves, I hugged them as they cried. I listened to their secrets and their stories of abuse or neglect or of their childhood bullying traumas.

Amanda called herself Samantha X, named after her favourite Sex And The City character, Samantha Jones played by Kim Cattrall

I was happy to help them; it was a great distraction from the mess and chaos that was my own life, a lot safer than looking inward.

These men literally paid me thousands to sit and listen to their dysfunctional lives. And I sent them to therapists, advised them on addiction groups, even sent one to my spiritual healer.

I used to ask clients why they didn’t just go directly to a therapist, who’d be much cheaper than me. ‘Therapist? Why would I want to see one when I’m going to be judged?’ was their genuinely bemused answer.

Seeing an escort was more socially acceptable to them than seeing a therapist. What they wanted was emotional intimacy; sex with me was the cherry on top, if it even happened.

Recently, I had a reading with a psychic. ‘I don’t know what you do for work but you’ve saved about 15 men from suicide,’ she said.

That didn’t come as a shock to me. Only 15?

Spending hours and hours alone with clients in hotel rooms, I got to know men very well. They’re pretty simple, pretty basic and pretty emotional.

They’re like tall children; loveable, naughty, a little bit selfish and – let’s not live in denial – some are governed by desire.

Yet during those escort years, my clients were the men I felt the safest with. They’d never, ever be rude, raise their voices, be abusive or revolting towards me.

Surprising, isn’t it? You’d think the opposite. Society tells us sex work is dangerous, dirty, disempowering. Not for me, it wasn’t.

Yet as Amanda, keeping a low profile at my home in Bondi Beach, Sydney, and no longer dressed to the nines, I seem to be fair game for gross behaviour and sexual assault. Is this what men will be like with me now?

It never happened when I was Samantha X – only before I became an escort and afterwards. That’s one reason why it’s so bloody hard to walk away.

For what – a relationship? To be ghosted, dumped, lied to, assaulted? Men treated me better as Samantha.

Some of the men who’ve abused me as Amanda are in the public eye. They pride themselves on being happily married; they’re on the front cover of magazines with their loving partners, portray themselves as loyal family men.

And these same men have forced me to touch their penis or locked me in their office so I couldn’t escape.

As Amanda, I’ve also had men creep into my DMs on Instagram: ‘Hey, Samantha! Saw you on Hinge. Love to take you for dinner and get to know you. I think we’d have a lot to talk about.’ (Which, by the way, is code for: ‘I feel you are the kind of woman who will listen to my s*** and give me a b*** job after.’)

You mean you want a free date with me listening to your achingly dull issues because I’m one of those women who’d look sexy, smile sweetly, nod in the right places and have obliging sex with you. Because y’know… Samantha…

No, thanks. I’d rather gouge my eyes out with hot knives. If it’s Samantha you want, you had ten years to book me.

I don’t care how good-looking, how nice and funny and smart they are; if I get so much of an inkling it is Samantha they want to date, not Amanda, then it’s goodbye.

It pains me to admit I no longer enjoy the company of men. I no longer feel comfortable with them. I no longer respect them. I’m beginning to believe that most men are unsafe.

The irony is, I’ve only felt this way since I gave up sex work.

I had dinner with an ex-client last night. Let’s call him my Jesus client. He found God at the age of 58 and was recently baptised.

My Jesus client worries me sometimes. He’s lonely, divorced with two kids. He called me years ago and told me he wanted to kill himself. I sent him to his GP and he’s now on antidepressants.

Anyway, I told him about a man I’d met in a boardroom recently to discuss a business idea. Instead he’d talked about his sordid sex life, which sent me running out of the room and having a panic attack.

‘It just brought back so much trauma,’ I told my Jesus client, swirling creamy fettuccine with my fork. ‘I’ve had men do that to me since I was a teenager.’

Amanda says she no longer enjoy the company of men, no longer feels comfortable with them and no longer respects them

She said clients were the men she felt the safest with. They’d never be rude, raise their voices, be abusive or revolting towards her

I looked at him. Please don’t tell me to find God: I’m not going spend my Sundays in church. Probably half the worshippers would be former clients.

He gently placed his wine glass down, choosing his words carefully. ‘You know, Amanda, some things can’t be fixed.’

Some things can’t be fixed. Maybe that was it. I couldn’t be fixed. I was too far gone.

Samantha X was created from trauma and sheer exhaustion, caused by men. Sometimes I think I made a huge mistake by becoming an escort, that I messed my life up, that I sabotaged my future.

But sometimes I think it was the smartest bloody decision I ever made. I think I saved myself. Samantha saved me.

When I slipped into her high heels, I erected sparkly steel gates around myself. No one could hurt me then. And they didn’t.

Despite my public bravado, not a day, not one single day, goes by without pangs of guilt. I knew I was controversial. I knew people were either intrigued, perplexed or thought I was awful, mad, sad.

Sometimes the self-imposed shame of my very public choices makes me so sick that I think everyone would be better off without me. I should have made better choices; I should have stayed in my office job, had a different life. The self-torture doesn’t end.

Despite my X-rated books; the glossy, half-naked shoots wearing lingerie… none of it was ever really me. I was a stranger in my skin. I didn’t feel sexy; I felt wooden.

I look back at old photos, and my smile looks painted on, my expression blank, my eyes dead. As if I was telling myself: ‘Act like Samantha would’.

Now I re-read my old sex columns with fresh eyes, and I study topless photos with curiosity, as if I’m looking at a completely different woman. It genuinely baffles me.

Who on earth was this woman? Where was Amanda? Where was I? Who was I? Who was she?

This sexy, confident woman Samantha had taken me hostage. And I handed her my body and life on a platter.

Sometimes I wish I could get an eraser and furiously rub out parts of my life and start again. Why didn’t anyone stop me? They probably tried to, and I didn’t listen.

Don’t get me wrong: I envy Samantha, I’m not disgusted by her. I constantly swing between envying how she owns her sexuality to being absolutely mortified.

It’s exhausting, it’s draining. And it doesn’t matter if you judge me or not, really, it doesn’t. Your judgment of me will never be as harsh as my judgment of myself.

Then I stare at families in my local park, sitting on blankets, eating homemade sandwiches, shooing flies from plastic tubs of hummus and drinking warm white wine.

Doesn’t this life bore you? How could you live like this, so normally? How can you trust your husband?

I can see him taking secret lustful glances at young women in bikinis while you keep a watchful eye on your kids running around. Perhaps you don’t even care any more.

As I walk past, a feeling of resentment bubbles inside. Why can’t I be happy doing normal things? What am I so scared of?

I met a man a few days ago. It’s quite the story. I haven’t met a man I have liked for years, and I mean years.

I’d taken some blankets into the local laundromat and almost knocked him over. He stopped, almost bowed to let me pass. Such manners!

He was dressed in a smart navy shirt, blue jeans, nice shoes. His skin was tanned, his hair brown, flecked with grey. I stood there for a second, with the washing machines gurgling and the driers spinning.

Amanda believed that becoming Samantha was the smartest decision she ever made

But despite her X-rated books – the glossy, half-naked shoots wearing lingerie – she says that none of it was ever really her

I had to stop myself from tapping the shoulder of the backpacker unloading her sheets into a machine and saying: ‘Excuse me, did you see how good-looking that man was?’ Even my dog was wagging her tail.

The next day, I took my dog for a walk – and who should be sitting on a bench drinking coffee, basking in the winter sun? Laundromat man.

Oh my god! Why didn’t I have a shower after Pilates, why didn’t I brush my hair? I didn’t even look in the mirror before I went out! Did I pluck that black hair from my chin?

Talk to him, Amanda! Say hello! You’re confident! Turn round and say hello!

I can’t, I look tired, he won’t be interested, he’s probably gay… Shut up, Amanda! You haven’t had an excited feeling in your tummy about a man for years. You’re not 100 yearsold, your love life isn’t over.

I turned round. ‘Hello. I think you’re the man I saw yesterday at the laundromat?’

His name was Jon and we talked for over an hour. Not gay – I asked him. He works in tech, he’s single, he’s 40…

And then came the question. ‘What do you do for work?’

Here we go. This is a good test, Amanda. If he’s put off, he’s not for you. Go on, tell him.

‘Look, it’s a controversial story. I was a journalist, I became an escort and now I’m a journalist again.’ I bent down and patted my dog, avoiding his gaze.

This is the moment men say ‘Wow, I have so many questions’ or ‘Wow, I’m so intrigued’ or ‘Tell me all your funny stories’ or ‘Yuk, how can you have sex with ugly men?’ or smile knowingly, assuming I’ll be an easy lay. This is the moment everything is ruined.

‘What an intelligent woman you must be,’ he said. ‘You must have so much compassion for people.’

He was going to Europe the next day for seven weeks. ‘Could we have dinner when I get back?’ he said.

I haven’t felt like this about a man in years. Years. Men were either clients or creeps. I’d felt that part of me was dead – the tingly part where I felt giggly about a man.

Jon hadn’t banged on about my job, hadn’t asked for salacious details or asked predictable questions or made it a big deal at all.

I don’t know what’s going to happen and, in a way, it doesn’t really matter. The point is, I now know I’m capable of feeling something. I haven’t given up.

I’m excited about laundromat man. Really excited about him. This is a first.

I know why I run away from intimacy; it’s self-protection, self-preservation. Men in my life as Amanda mean hurt, rejection, trauma. Solitude is far safer than risking my peace for another short stab of pain.

I’m content, really, I am. I have a queen-sized bed. One side is mine, the other is for my books, my dog, my laptop, my glasses. I go to bed alone, I wake up alone, and it’s been this way every single day for years.

It’s mostly blissful. I used to feel incredibly lonely, but now, at almost 50, I feel at peace – most of the time.

Then yesterday a text popped up: ‘I’m in the area. U home? I’m coming over. Address?’

I paused. This was a male friend I knew through media work but had never met in person. Our relationship was always professional and via text or phone call.

I liked him enormously. We chewed the fat on politics and the media and had established our friendship was purely platonic.

He came over. He plonked himself down on my sofa and said: ‘Amanda. I am addicted to big fake t**s. In a big way. Like, a kink. I mean, I am not asking you to show me, not at all, absolutely not. But if you were to, I mean, I’d last 15 seconds…’ and his voice trailed off.

I sat there looking at him in his smart business suit, sprawled on my nice sofa, with my nice pink cushions, as he noisily slurped his tea out of one of my nice pink mugs. My smile disappeared.

I felt my body cave inwards. I wanted to disappear. I could hear something in the back of my mind. Someone laughing.

Amanda, you’re so stupid! Men don’t like you for you, they never will. You may as well be Samantha again.

People wonder why a nice, smart, well-educated and successful woman like me charged men for their time. Now do you get it?

I’ve just bumped into laundromat man in the supermarket. ‘Hi!’ I beamed, putting my basket down.

‘Oh, hi!’ he beamed back. ‘I got back yesterday. I was going to message you tomorrow. How have you been?’

‘Good! How was your trip?’

His face lit up as he rattled off a few things he’d done, a few places he’d travelled to. I wasn’t really listening. I felt the butterflies swirl inside me; he was genuinely happy to see me.

The connection between us was strong, it was real. You can’t fake chemistry can you? Ask him, Amanda, why not? Dinner was his idea before he left.

‘Did you want to have that din…’ ‘And I met someone!’

I blinked. What did he just say? Did I mishear? Excuse me?

‘You met someone?’

‘Yes, she’s amazing. Our connection was incredible.’

My heart sank but I painted on my biggest fake smile, really hoping the hot salty tears in my eyes didn’t roll down my cheeks.

‘Yeah, she’s a model, you know – New York, Milan. It was amazing; our chemistry was out of control. The sex was so exciting, in hotel rooms, on the beach.’

And I suddenly hated him. His stupid, boring travel stories, his probably too-skinny vegan girlfriend with her small, fried-egg boobs, who probably only slept with him for a visa.

I managed to hold in the tears till I was home. ‘He met someone; a model,’ I sniffed to my best friend over the phone. ‘All I wanted was to go on a date with someone, to see what that felt like.’

And I did what I always do when I’m upset. I went to bed even though it was 11am, pulled the covers over me and slept with my dog nestled next to me.

But it wasn’t laundromat man in particular I was mourning. It was me. It was the enormity of my past decisions. It was believing that at almost 50, I’d be alone for ever.

When I woke up a few hours later, there was an alert from my bank on my phone: someone had just deposited $1,500 in my account as a gift.

I checked – it was from one of my old clients, a university academic. We’d stayed in touch since my retirement, speaking on the phone every few months.

Clients really are the kindest men I’ve ever met. No man ever has been as nice to me as a client has. I think it’s time I went back to being Samantha.

TOMORROW: A photographer interrupts a dream date…

• Adapted from Misfit: The Unravelling Of Samantha X by Amanda Goff published by Echo Publishing, an imprint of Bonnier Books UK. Available online in eBook at £6.99 and audio £13.99.