Sydney Hormones

I met Marcus at a private wine auction in Paddington. He was sixty-two, built like a retired rugby player gone soft around the edges, with a bespoke suit that cost more than my first car. His wife had left him three years ago. He didn't want sex — or rather, he didn't just want sex. He wanted someone to have dinner with, to travel with, to laugh with at the Opera House when the soprano hit a note that sounded like a dying cat. He wanted a companion. Our arrangement started formally. Two...

She arrived at 7:42 PM — twelve minutes early for a nine o'clock booking. Marcus noticed because he always noticed details. It was how he'd made his money in derivatives, and it was how he navigated this life, a Sydney escort clientele that demanded discretion and rewarded it with cash. "Iris," she said, extending her hand. No last name. No kiss on the cheek. Professional. He'd been in the sugar daddy dynamic for about three years now, ever since his divorce finalized and he realized he...

Lily had two phones. The first one had her real life: WeChat messages from classmates, photos of her cooking dinner in her Burwood sharehouse, reminders about her part-time job at a Chatswood bubble tea shop. The second phone had the other life. She'd been doing Burwood incall work for eighteen months. Her regulars knew the address — a clean, modern apartment near the station that she rented specifically for bookings. Her agency profile called her "Mia" and promised "the ultimate Sydney...