A Pint-Soaked Tale: My Dive into Escorting in England, 2025

Alright, mates, settle in, because I’ve got a proper story for you tonight. The fire’s crackling, the ale’s flowing, and I’m about to tell you how I ended up neck-deep in the wild world of escorting here in England, 2025. Yeah, you heard me right—escorting. Not the dodgy street corner stuff you’re picturing, but the high-end, champagne-and-caviar game that’s taken over since the world went a bit mental post-pandemic. So, pull up a stool, and let me take you through it—how it started, what I saw, and why I reckon it’s the strangest bloody gig in Britain right now.

It all kicked off last January, right? The country’s still shaking off the last five years of chaos—cost of living through the roof, rents in London hitting five grand a month for a shoebox, and half the high street boarded up. But me, I’d just lost my job at that tech startup in Shoreditch. You know the one—fancy coffee machines, ping-pong tables, all that bollocks—until they “pivoted to AI” and sacked half of us. I was skint, proper skint, and drowning in bills. That’s when my mate Charlie—shifty geezer, always got an angle—leans over at this very pub and says, “Mate, you ever thought about escorting?”

I laughed in his face at first. Me? Escorting? I’m no Brad Pitt, am I? Bit of a belly from too many nights here, hairline’s retreating faster than the tide at Brighton. But Charlie’s dead serious. “It’s not what you think,” he says. “It’s 2025, bruv. It’s all legit now—apps, agencies, the lot. And the money? You’d be sorted in a month.” He slides his phone over, shows me this sleek app called “Gentleman’s Companion”—all posh fonts and moody black-and-gold design. “Blokes like you are in demand,” he says. “Normal lads, not too polished. Clients want real, not fake.”

So, I’m half-pissed, half-curious, and I sign up that night. Uploaded a photo—me in a decent shirt, pint in hand, grinning like an idiot—and filled out the profile. “Friendly, down-to-earth Londoner, good for a laugh and a chat.” Didn’t expect a thing, but by morning, I’ve got three bookings. Three! Turns out, Charlie wasn’t chatting rubbish. The escort game in 2025’s gone mainstream—regulated, taxed, the works. After that whole kerfuffle in 2023 when Parliament decriminalized it, the industry’s boomed. They reckon it’s pulling in billions now, propping up the economy while the rest of us scramble for crumbs.

First gig’s in Mayfair, right? Swanky flat overlooking Hyde Park, all glass and marble. I’m sweating buckets, thinking I’m about to make a right tit of myself. The client’s this sharp-looking woman, mid-40s, corporate type—runs some fintech firm. Calls herself “Claire” (probably not her real name). She’s not after anything dodgy, mind—just wants company for a gala at the Savoy. “I’m tired of showing up alone,” she says, pouring me a glass of something fizzy that costs more than my rent. “You seem normal. That’s rare these days.”

So there I am, in a rented tux—cost me a fortune on some app called “Dapper Hire”—schmoozing with CEOs and sipping champagne like I belong. Claire’s a laugh, actually—witty, bit sarky, knows her stuff. We dance, chat about the state of the Tube (still shite in 2025, by the way), and by midnight, she’s slipping me a grand in cash. A grand! For a night of nattering and twirling her round a ballroom. I’m hooked, lads. Hooked.

That’s when I realize—this ain’t the escorting of old. Back in the day, it was all hush-hush, seedy vibes, but now? It’s a bloody industry. There’s agencies popping up everywhere—London’s got dozens, Manchester’s catching up, even Bristol’s got a scene. They’ve got glossy websites, HR departments, health checks every month. You’re an “independent contractor,” they say, but it’s all above board. HMRC’s even got a tax code for it—E25, “Escort Services.” I’m filing returns now, lads, can you believe it? “Expenses: train to Leeds, £50; dinner with client, £120; new shoes, £80.” Proper job.

The tech’s mental, too. That app, Gentleman’s Companion? It’s got AI matching—pairs you with clients based on “vibes” and reviews. After every gig, they rate you—discretion, charm, punctuality, the lot. I’m sitting at 4.8 stars, thank you very much. One lass docked me a point ‘cos I spilled red wine on her carpet, but fair enough, I was a bit merry. There’s even VR previews now—clients can “meet” you in virtual reality before booking. First time I did it, I’m sat in my pants at home, headset on, chatting to some posh bird from Chelsea while she susses me out in a digital wine bar. Surreal, innit?

By summer, I’m in deep. Gigs every week—dinners, theatre trips, even a weekend in the Cotswolds with this eccentric old geezer who just wanted someone to play chess with. Paid me two grand to lose spectacularly and drink his vintage port. The variety’s mad—men, women, young, old, all sorts. Some want a date, some want a mate, some just want you to shut up and look pretty. And the money? I’m clearing five grand a month, easy. Paid off my debts, got a decent flat in Peckham, even started saving. Me, saving! Who’d have thought?

But it’s not all rosy, right? There’s the weirdos—had this one bloke in Birmingham who wanted me to dress as a Victorian butler and serve him tea in silence. Two hours, £300, but I felt like a right plonker. And the burnout’s real. You’re always “on”—smiling, charming, pretending you give a toss about their stock portfolio or their divorce. Plus, the stigma’s still there, lurking. Tell someone you’re an escort, and half the time they smirk, half the time they judge. My mum thinks I’m a “consultant.” Not far off, I suppose—consulting on how to not be lonely for a night.

The scene’s shifted, too, with all this new tech and laws. By late 2025, they’re trialing “escort bots”—AI-driven androids for the punters who don’t want a human. Saw one at a trade show in Earls Court—creepy as hell, all plastic skin and dead eyes. They reckon it’ll take over the low-end market, but the top-tier stuff? That’s still us flesh-and-blood types. People want the real deal—sweaty palms, bad jokes, a heartbeat. Can’t code that into a robot, can you?

What gets me, though, is how normal it’s become. Walk down Oxford Street now, and you’ll see billboards—tasteful ones, mind—advertising “Companionship for the Modern Age.” There’s podcasts about it, influencers flogging “How to Be an Escort” courses for £99. Even the Guardian’s got a column—“My Life in Escorting”—every Sunday. It’s not taboo anymore; it’s just… Tuesday. And with the economy still wobbling—Brexit 2.0’s a nightmare, by the way—more lads and lasses are jumping in. Students, ex-bankers, even a former MP I met at a gig in Kensington. She’s raking it in, apparently.

So here I am, end of 2025, pint in hand, telling you lot this daft tale. I’m still at it—got a booking tomorrow, actually, some tech bro’s launch party in Canary Wharf. Pays £800 for four hours, and I might nick a few canapés. Am I proud? Dunno. It’s a job, innit? Keeps the lights on, keeps me off the dole. But it’s changed me—seen too much of the world now, the lonely bits, the flashy bits, the bits that don’t make the headlines.

What’s next? Reckon I’ll keep going ‘til the bots take over or I meet someone who doesn’t care I’ve spent my nights charming strangers for cash. Maybe I’ll write a book—“Pints and Punters: A Year in Escorting.” Stick it on Amazon, make a few quid. For now, though, I’m here with you lot, in this grotty old pub, and that’s alright by me. So, who’s getting the next round? I’ve earned it, haven’t I?