On promises

We live in a moment of endless, unspoken ‘promises’: Buy this new cologne, and the object of your affection will throw themselves at you on first sniff;  Do everything your boss tells you, and domestic bliss and the picket fence will be guaranteed; drink this tasteless protein shake, and you’ll have an enviable Instagram body in no time; Make it through the Booker longlist, and you’ll become culturally enlightened. 

Of course, the flimsiness of these promises is revealed as soon as the first puff of that new cologne evaporates, but we continue to find ourselves seduced by them. We are attached to promises, not because we have any evidence they’re real, but because we want to believe they could be. It would, after all, be nice to exist in a world in which there are handy shortcuts to real happiness, rather than accepting the reality that happiness is far more elusive, and not a necessary byproduct of being rich, sexy, well dressed or clever. 

The late, great Lauren Berlant theorised these promises as “cruel optimisms” - the things you believe are good and desirable, but are actually an obstacle to your happiness. Berlant asked:“Why do people stay attached to conventional good-life fantasies—say, of enduring reciprocity in couples, families, political systems, institutions, markets, and at work—when the evidence of their instability, fragility, and dear cost abounds?” For Berlant, these objects of desire are recast from singular thing to a “cluster of promises” that (erroneously) imply the possibility of a transformed life.

I have sometimes thought of the “cluster of promises” on dates when it becomes apparent that I am the cluster. The sense that I have become a cog in a magical thinking machine is a strange one, not least from the immediate sense of vertigo it induces when you realise you’ve been placed on a pedestal as vertiginious as Nelson’s Column. Because whilst it is always nice to be desired for who you are, it is an uncanny feeling to be wanted for what you represent. And it is, as Berlant identifies, a fundamental obstacle to actual connection. Reciprocity requires us to see each other as entire, complex people - not perfectly smooth surfaces onto which we can project our insecurities. So, in the interests of connection, allow me to debunk some of the promises that might coalesce around the idea of professional companionship with a London escort. You may of course prefer them undisturbed, in which case, this is the ideal moment to sneak out the back. However, for those interested in more honest attachments, I present ‘A series of promises I cannot make’:

I cannot promise we’ll click

I've spent a great deal of time and energy on this very website attempting to capture who I am, so that you can try and suss out our compatibility. And mostly - this works. The vast majority of my connections are underpinned by a mutual spark. But sparks are never a sure thing and chemistry can be a little more complicated in real life. A good match ‘on paper’ (as every Love Islander is obsessed with) doesn’t always translate perfectly. And that’s OK. The reality of seeking mutually fulfilling romantic experiences is accepting that nothing is guaranteed. You can only create the possibility of an “enthusiastic yes” if a “hmmm no, it’s not quite working” is also possible. Potential incompatibility is the price of admission when it comes to authentic connection, just as falling in love involves the very real possibility of rejection and heartbreak.  Whilst we may not be falling in love, the same ethos is very much true in this world. It’s true of sex too. People are not machines that produce reliable outputs - we’re all gloriously fallible and unpredictable. I therefore cannot promise surefire fireworks. What I can promise is that I won’t lie to you if there’s something I’m not feeling. And I can guarantee we’ll both leave with our integrity intact. 

I cannot promise I can solve all your problems

Truly, I wish that I could, but you and I know, it's never that simple. You may be seeking companionship to address some deep seated uncertainty, trauma, insecurity or craving, but little old me (or anyone else, for that matter) will never be the one-size-fits-all answer to this type of problem. Wishful thinking may be tempting, but those sorts of complex feelings can only ever be addressed holistically, from inside out.  What's more, even though I consider myself a compassionate person, I'm woefully under qualified to deal with lovers' biggest, thorniest issues. For that you'll most likely need a proper therapist, rather than a good listener that you roll around with naked.

I cannot promise it will be free of complication 

The sex industry is strange, not least because some aspects of it feel very inorganic. We do not have a “meet cute”. We have not accidentally bumped into each other when walking our dogs, nor have we met randomly at a bar. We have engineered this meeting, and have pre-ordained when it begins and ends. What’s more, we are people almost entirely removed from our social contexts: we share no connections outside of the little bubble we create together, and it’s quite likely no-one else will ever know we’ve met. This is an undeniably unnatural way to relate to someone else, with limited spontaneity or opportunity for co-regulation. Unless one develops a way of processing this, it may feel destabilising. This applies on both sides of the equation: I have had much-loved clients and colleagues simply vanish out of my life with no warning, and with no way to contact them. It has left me adrift, uncertain and naturally taking it all very personally. With a little time and reflection I gradually understood that the destabilising feeling is produced by the ways in which the sex industry magnifies the scary aspect of all human relationships: That other people will always remain unknowable and unpredictable to us, and any belief that we are completely in control in relationships is a short-acting placebo. Accepting this was pivotal for me, as was learning to enjoy connections in the present moment. Because a life spent avoiding any potential complicated feelings tends to have very narrow horizons. 

Let me finish with what I can promise

I can promise I’ll be emotionally present, in a way I hope means you’ll feel able to be too. I won’t be on my phone or distracted, because we probably both get enough of that already. I can promise to be honest about what I think and what I feel, even if I think you may not agree with me. I have always enjoyed the candor this space affords us; sometimes it is easy to be really honest with someone who only knows us by a made up name.I can promise to be professional, by which I mean discreet, punctual and conscientious rather than cold or clinical. I hold myself to high standards in that regard, and know that our time, our privacy and our expectations matter very deeply to us both. Above all, I promise I’ll be me, not an airbrushed or edited version, or a persona crafted for me to hide behind. All me. I hope you’ll be all you, too.