Marriage is Sex Work — It Just Has Better PR

We romanticize marriage as sacred—something exalted, pure, elevated above all other forms of intimacy. But strip away the vows, the mortgage, the tax breaks, and the white dress, and what’s left is a transactional relationship: emotional labor, sexual access, caretaking, logistics. If that sounds familiar, it should. It’s sex work—with better PR.

Let me be clear: I’m not promoting sex work, and I’m not condemning marriage. I’m pointing out that both are systems. Systems where love is often conflated with labor, where intimacy is bartered—sometimes explicitly, sometimes unconsciously—in exchange for security, access, or respectability.

I’ve occupied many roles in my life. I’ve been a girlfriend, a sugar baby, a professional companion. I’ve been loved in secret and tolerated in public. I’ve also been a tattoo artist, seated across from couples in moments that were meant to be tender—but instead looked like hostage situations. The wife, giddy and glowing, wanting her partner’s name tattooed on her wrist. The husband, sighing, rolling his eyes, standing behind her like he couldn’t wait to leave.

They almost always paid separately.

Nothing says “forever” like splitting the bill on matching tattoos while one of you visibly resents the other’s existence.

It’s easy to romanticize these roles. The devoted wife. The doting girlfriend. Even the high-end escort. But once you’ve seen the patterns, it becomes harder to pretend. In all of these dynamics, I found a through-line: emotional labor without reciprocity. I’ve watched women invest their entire nervous systems into relationships where their needs were never prioritized. I’ve been that woman.

Even in the roles where I was compensated—where clarity and boundaries were present—I often felt emotionally irrelevant. Useful, perhaps. But not deeply considered. Not emotionally held.

This is what I mean when I talk about emotional irrelevancy: being touched, but not felt. Being appreciated for your function, not your soul.

It’s not just sex workers who feel this. It’s wives. Mothers. Girlfriends. Partners who carry the emotional weight of relationships that run on female sacrifice and male entitlement.

And what continues to strike me is this: in all my years of romantic relationships, not one boyfriend has ever looked at me and said, “I’m so glad I met you. I love being around you. You make me feel alive.”

But clients have. Repeatedly. With sincerity. With tears in their eyes.

That tells me something.

It tells me that the structure of traditional relationships often fosters complacency. That access leads to entitlement. That the moment someone believes they deserve your presence, they stop earning it.

And here’s the hard truth: many men don’t marry the women they desire. They marry the women who fit. The ones who will pass the test. The ones with the right background, family, skin tone, and social polish. Their wives are legacy projects. Image reinforcements. But when they want desire? When they want to feel something again? They come to someone like me. Tattooed. Black. Brilliant. Unclaimed.

I once told a man, casually, that I used to want to be a trophy wife. Not ironically—sincerely. I liked the idea of being chosen, adored, and still sovereign.

He replied:

“That’ll never happen. You’re Black. And you have tattoos.”

And what struck me more than the racism? He didn’t even buy me a drink.

That’s the kind of quiet contempt that undergirds so many relationships. This belief that some women are good enough to dream with, but not to commit to. That intimacy and love are two separate tracks. That desire and legitimacy can’t coexist in the same body.

If I ever get married, it will be because I chose it—not because I was waiting to be chosen. It will be for estate planning. Legacy. Legal protection. Maybe for children. But I will never again confuse love with labor. I will never again pour into someone who resents the very things that make me radiant.

Because I’ve always been a lover. I’ve always led with heart. But I can’t afford to keep giving if I’m not receiving something real in return. And at this point in my life, that return is stability—not hope. Not potential. Not projection.

Stability. Financial, emotional, and spiritual.

Marriage, like sex work, is a role. A job. A performance. The difference is that one is socially sanctioned and the other is criminalized or shamed. But both require effort. Both demand emotional availability. Both involve risk. And both deserve clarity.

If love is going to ask for that much of me, then I will ask for something back. Because the truth is: I’m not just offering sex. I’m offering soul. And I refuse to be undervalued.