Working With Difficult People

Editor’s Note: mentions of manipulation, abuse, coercion, drink spiking, stealthing/assault.

In the civilian world, a difficult coworker might email you incessantly, not meet their deadlines or produce sloppy work you have to redo. However, in the sex work industry a difficult coworker could put you in very real danger.

We’ve all worked with difficult people at some point—however, it’s usually manipulative management or a gaslighting receptionist who insists, “You’ve seen him before,” only to walk out of the intro room knowing you’ve never seen that man in your life. As sex workers, we talk. Not just about clients, but about our experiences with various establishments, receptionists, management, and coworkers. In a world where, even in decriminalised contexts, we remain systematically stigmatised, sometimes all we can rely on is each other. This is how we decompress, this is how we survive. So what happens when someone has it out for you? 

From the very beginning of my journey in the industry back in 2019, it was clear to me how vital our community is for survival. When I was stripping, the one thing we could count on was looking out for each other, because we knew the management sure as hell wouldn’t. Like many other businesses, they were focused solely on profit, and that was all that mattered to them. So when we faced unfair fines, harsh treatment from the owner, or blamed for things beyond our control (like a client’s wandering hands), we didn’t run to management for help—we turned to each other. We shared advice, offered support, and leaned on one another, because we knew that in an industry like this, solidarity between workers is often the only safety net we have. Managers love to tell us we're in control when it suits them, but when the stakes are high, they impose consequences as if we’re employees, disregarding the fact that we’re independent contractors. It’s a reminder that in any workplace under capitalism, power dynamics are stacked against us. But unlike other industries, we don’t have the protection of contracts, legislation, or unions. All we’ve got is each other.

There are moments I’ll never forget, ones that cemented the importance of looking out for each other in this line of work. Like when a close friend of mine had her drink spiked at the club. Management flat-out refused to call an ambulance, and at first, I couldn't understand why. But when I thought about it, it became clear—they weren’t concerned about her well-being, they were worried about the club's reputation. There was already a heavy police presence at the venue, and they couldn’t afford to have anything on record that might suggest drugs were involved. That moment was a harsh lesson: the safety of workers always comes second to the bottom line. If something worse had happened and my friend had died, I couldn’t help but think that the only thing management would’ve been worried about was the potential fallout. It made me realise that in this industry, while sex work itself doesn’t discriminate, the attitudes of managers definitely do.

In the sex work industry a difficult coworkercould put you in very real danger.

A couple of years later, when COVID hit and Sydney’s lockout laws impacted the nightlife, my income took a serious hit. I was barely making enough to survive. At times, I was working zero-dollar shifts at the club, trying to get by as restrictions kept changing—masks one day, no masks the next, constantly adjusting to new seating capacities and social distancing rules. It was tough, and that's when I decided to follow a close friend into full-service work. It wasn’t just a career move—it was a necessity. 

In the sex work industry, you learn that survival often requires flexibility, and

sometimes you have to take on work you hadn’t planned for. But I quickly realised that working in a brothel, where management tries to sell you on shifts (often because they take a cut from commissions), was another world entirely. As a person of colour, I was marketed as European, South American, or Mediterranean—ethnicities that were nowhere near my own. I remember thinking, “Are they serious? I might be mixed-race, but I’m not that ethnically ambiguous.” It wasn’t about me at all, though. It was about getting clients through the door, no matter how misleading their marketing was. For them, if men walked in and saw someone different than expected, it didn’t matter—getting them to the establishment was the priority. For me, though, being repeatedly marketed as something I wasn’t—especially as a South Asian worker—meant facing awkwardness with clients when they realised I didn’t necessarily fit into any of the boxes they were hoping for when they arrived. 

Over the years, these are the realities I’ve had to learn to navigate on my own—adjusting, adapting, and finding my own ways to cope with what comes my way. While it's always preferable to work alongside people you trust, the longer you stay in any industry, the more you realise that change is inevitable. In this business, things shift constantly—new venues pop up, priorities change, and sometimes, careers take a whole new direction. Eventually, I knew that I’d have to venture into new establishments on my own. It was a daunting thought, especially with the current state of the sex work climate in Australia, which is oversaturated and competitive. By this point, I had heard enough and worked enough to know management would never be on our side. I was prepared for new people and new management, but what I wasn’t prepared for was the idea of crossing paths with new enemies. 

While it's always preferable to work alongside people you trust, the longer you stay in any industry, the more you realise that change is inevitable.

I’d been fortunate up until this point not to have major issues with other workers, but like any job, sex work comes with its share of difficult personalities. I’ve met many incredible, supportive people along the way, but occasionally, there’s someone who stands out as the embodiment of cruelty. And let’s be real—the industry doesn't discriminate. No matter how much we try to create solidarity and stand by each other, there will always be people who try to undermine that for their own gain. 

Not too long ago, I had an experience that really caught me off guard. I’d been working alongside a colleague for almost two years, someone I thought I could trust. She was someone I’d spent time with outside of work—we exchanged birthday gifts, knew each other’s real names, and had conversations about our personal lives. Unfortunately, when I found out that she was also a TERF (trans-exclusionary radical feminist), I knew I had to start creating some distance within our friendship. As a non-binary worker, I didn’t want to create waves in the workplace, so I kept my distance quietly—sitting in a different area, limiting our conversations. I wasn’t looking for conflict or drama, at the end of the day, I just needed to make my money and go home. 

In the weeks following, one day, things took an unexpected turn. It was a regular day at the brothel, with walk-ins not steady but steady enough for everyone to be in bookings except for the two of us. The doorbell rang, and she checked the cameras but refused to do the intro. I didn’t recognise the client, so I asked her, “What’s his deal?” I was just trying to get a heads-up so I knew whether to be cautious. This is generally how we’ve looked out for each other in the past. Although, this time she gave me an odd response, “I’m not sure if it’s him.” I asked again, “Who do you think it is?” With her refusal to answer, I was left in the dark, and I walked out to do the intro. To my relief, the client left. Moments later, I overheard her talking to the receptionist, explaining that the client had a history of stealthing, which was her reasoning for not doing the intro.

Like any job, sex work comes withits share of difficult personalities.

This hit me hard. Why hadn’t she just told me this when I asked? Twice? Is it because I created distance between us? Even so, in my head, I didn’t think it was reasonable to withhold that type of information. When I confronted her, her response was, “I’m not responsible for everyone’s job!!” This is when it clicked—she wasn’t concerned about my safety; it was about her own convenience. Her behaviour wasn’t just narcissistic—it was a stark reminder of how easily we can be left to fend for ourselves.

In a situation where solidarity should have been instinctive, it felt like I was on my own. The industry can be isolating in this way, I’ve found this especially when working at establishments interstate and being unsure of how other workers will react to someone new being there. The difference was, I wasn’t interstate – the reality is that I work at this establishment every week, and so after my initial reaction (which was anger) I decided to bring it up with my boss over text while the events were still fresh in my mind. I was disappointed in how quickly she went from hot to cold, but not as disappointed as I’d be in myself for not saying anything about her behaviour. 

I am lucky at this point to be working at an establishment where I think it might be worth saying something, even though over the years I’ve been conditioned to believe nothing would change. If I’m being honest, nothing really did change, but I was surprised to have support from my boss who agreed her behaviour was a safety risk. The conversation that followed was fruitful and unexpected… for the first time in my career I wasn’t let down when I assumed the worst. It was refreshing to feel not only validated, but listened to as an adult speaking to another adult. The further we unpacked the conversation the more she exemplified how much things have changed in the industry over the last 15 years. How staying static will never allow us to keep up with what’s current and as a result, business will falter too. How it’s only fair we pass on our knowledge to the next generation and look out for each other like others have for us in the past. 

In an industry where we’re often not seen or heard, speaking up can often feel pointless. Many of us are already exhausted from navigating the daily grind of stigmatisation, exploitation, and the power imbalances that are so ingrained in our workplaces. But as much as we want to throw in the towel, speaking up is the only thing that might initiate change. It’s not always something we might have capacity for, especially when it doesn’t always feel like it’ll make a difference, but every time we raise our voices—whether against difficult management, toxic co-workers, or unsafe practices—we’re pushing back against the system that seeks to silence us.