Let me start by saying: I love sex workers. Truly. They’re out there grinding (literally), doing the Lord’s work — relieving tension, providing the human touch, and single-handedly preventing incels from going full Taxi Driver. They’re therapists, performers, and entrepreneurs wrapped in plastic body parts and scented everything. Society would crumble without them.

Which is why it hurts when you meet one who makes you question your whole damn worldview.

Enter the SFV Hooker With a Dream.

She’s aging out of the game (the walls of her 3rd apartment in as many years still echo with the ghosts of better rates), but she’s got vision. A luxury hoodie line. High-end. Except the logo she cheaped out on looks like it was vomited by a vape shop bot. Mint and teal gradient? It says, “holday grams on sale” not “Chanel’s athleisure cousin.”

But ok. This is her dream, her vision. I respect that hustle — until she hits me with the real fantasy: if I don’t cut her a fat deal or work for free, I’m taking advantage of her dire need and looming destitution.

When I don’t immediately prostrate myself before her plastic charms, she flips. Like, ”I’ve had CEOs beg to partner on this” flips. Girl, the only CEO in your DMs is cheating on his wife and disappointing his 2 children with you. He’s not in the market for your collab.

Now I’m left mourning the death of my own idealism. Sex workers are supposed to be cool. They’re supposed to be street-smart, no-bullshit goddesses who’ve seen it all and soldier through with pure professionalism. Not… this — a delusional part-time prostitute trying to angle for a pity deal, and sputtering out in a puddle of resentment when she finds that I, like her, don’t give it away for free.

I won’t let her ruin my dream of the happy hooker. All you glorious, jaded, actually professional angels keep doing your thing. It’s on me to vet my heroes on a case-by-case basis.

And for God’s sake — nobody works for free. We know this! That’s hooking lesson numero uno. Be a whore, not a slut. Make ’em pay.