On collectivity
As you may have already seen, we’ve recently launched a brand new KLE website—which, for London’s fellow kinky reprobates, is surely like all your Christmases and birthdays come at once.
This redesign was long overdue. Our old site was positively groaning (no sniggering in the back, please) under the weight of sexy photos we’d amassed over the years, along with a much-less-sexy mounting list of technical issues we were constantly working around. This buckets under a leaky roof approach could only last so long, and all of us felt a hankering for a refresh.
As with all new chapters, creating a site that will carry us into the future inevitably sent me ambling down memory lane, contemplating the Collective’s past. Back in 2017, a small group of us met at a restaurant in Islington—very Blair and Brown at Granita, I know—to discuss the possibility of creating a London-specific digital platform. A space by and for us, at a time when such spaces were few and far between.
We were sick of being held hostage by sites run by faceless offshore companies that treated workers with suspicion and hostility while profiting handsomely off us. We were bored of badly designed websites that provided terrible user experiences for both us and our clients. And with the arrival of FOSTA-SESTA—laws that ultimately placed many sex workers at far greater risk of isolation and violence—we were increasingly alarmed by the disappearance of online resources that our community relied upon.
So, with the overinflated confidence of people who had never attempted anything like this before, we decided to take matters into our own well-manicured hands. We wanted something beautiful, professional, secure, and—crucially—not for profit. We wanted something that was ours.
The first iteration of the site had just 20 members, which felt like loads at the time. As it slowly grew, we learned on the job, with different members generously contributing knowledge, time, and sheer bloody determination to figure out Google Analytics. Flash forward to today, and we’ve had to cap membership at 100, with the awareness that the Collective was never meant to grow exponentially.
Over the years, as our ranks expanded, so too did our role. We became more community-minded than any of us had initially envisaged, responding to a growing desire for connection, sharing, and peer support.
This has taken the form of socials, group trips, and AGMs (which reliably descend into debauchery at the post-meeting drinks), as well as industry-specific resources like the Photographers’ Pledge and a directory of sex-worker-friendly web developers. We’ve created original content—podcasts, group photoshoots—that were not only a ball but also a vital opportunity for ogling each other half-naked. We’ve shared skills, pooled knowledge, raised money, and extended care. We even made our own branded condoms (which are still well within their expiration date, I’ll have you know).
Along the way, we’ve connected with like-minded lovers who value all of these things too—and who tell us, time and again, how much they appreciate our fierce independence. Personally, the Collective has brought so many wonderful people into my orbit—friends, colleagues, and clients alike—and for this, I’m eternally grateful.
Mingled with that gratitude is a powerful sense of pride. I’m proud of everything we’ve accomplished without compromising our core values. I’m proud of how fiercely our community cares for one another and the lengths people will go to in the name of mutual support. And I’m proud that, after seven years of socials, we’ve managed to avoid getting kicked out of a single bar—despite always being, by far, the most raucous table in there.
That’s enough from me—go take a peek. You can thank us later!