An accidental brothel tour

And what it taught me about men

Let's start at 11pm in Kings Cross, now Potts Point (RIP Sydney nightlife) a couple of weeks ago. It was one of those rare 'out past 9pm' occasions as a mum and late millennial that makes you silly with excitement, that particular brand of mischievous giddiness like you're back breaking curfew. The restaurant had closed around us, gently pushing us onto the street, where the Cross was doing what it does best - transforming as night enveloped it. Like a reverse Cinderella, new signs flickered to life and places that didn't exist during our twilight dinner suddenly materialized, as if from behind a velvet curtain.

Next to the restaurant, a strip club had suddenly materialized. "What is this place?" I exclaimed, drawing the attention of two burly security guards who answered, also appearing from nowhere. "I thought it was a brothel," I mused out loud. "The brothel's across the street," offered a nondescript man standing next to them, whom I'd assumed was waiting to enter. "I own it," he added proudly. "Bullshit" flew out of my mouth before my wine-soaked conscience could catch up and scold me. This kind of dorky, innocent-looking man didn't fit any stereotype of a brothel owner I'd unconsciously harbored. I guess he might have gotten that reaction a lot, because his immediate response was, "I do too, come on I'll show you."

The opportunity to explore a hidden part of society, Theroux-style, had me practically bouncing across the street in excitement, my friends assuming the role of chaperones.

They were closed for the night - something about a license renewal - allowing for a detailed tour without the complexity of it being operational. While the aesthetics were underwhelming (it felt like an investment banker's bedroom, too much grey, minimal, devoid of vibe), what I learned challenged my assumptions about the industry in two significant ways.

First was the emphasis on consent and safety. He showed me the 'greenroom' where female workers viewed potential clients and decided if they wished to come out and offer services. It was completely up to them who they interacted with and what they agreed to. There were certain clients who were known to be more aggressive, and this was at least one element of filtration the women could use to avoid that.

When I questioned the hour-long booking standard - seemingly lengthy for a sexual encounter - I got the second lesson and response I didn't expect. He explained that the majority of men came not just for physical intimacy but for conversation. They were lonely, searching for a space where they could feel safe to speak without judgment. While physical intimacy was a key part of the transaction, the value for many was found also in conversation and the 'psychological safety' it provided.

I had to bite back another reflexive 'bullshit.' I am pretty neutral on sex work - I don't have strong feelings about it one way or another - but I wasn't prepared to be pulled into sympathy. As a woman, mustering empathy for men isn't always easy.

But the story stuck with me. I started asking questions and researching. Nicole Emma, a sex worker with a TED Talk amassing over 3.2 million views, frames this issue starkly

"Studies have shown that sex only lasts on average 5.4 minutes, so if they're paying for an hour, or three, what are they actually paying for?"

She talks about sex work as a place where men can talk about challenges without being criticized, judged, and feel loved and worthy. A recent survey by Vivastreet has shown that "over 50% of sex workers say they have experienced more clients looking for companionship (no sex involved) since the start of the pandemic."

Talya De Fay explains,

"In my case, my work is a mix of sex and talking. For those who wish to chat, it's a safe, non-judgmental space where they can escape the labels or pressures society gives them. Interestingly, I've just had a client increase his booking up to an hour solely to have 'counseling talk' time."

Former escort Stacey Swimme describes her work as

"a gateway for men to get in touch with their authentic feelings."

Nicole Emma's insights touch on the societal pressures of masculinity. Boys raised to suppress vulnerability often become men who struggle with alienation, rejection, or loneliness. Without tools for emotional expression, this suppression can manifest in violent behavior, abuse, or membership in radical hate groups. She quotes Joe Herman:

"Boys who can't cry shoot bullets."

This feels suffocatingly relevant right now. With the rise of radicalized young men, Tate and Trump's Alphas and angry, rejected, isolated men are loudly asserting a dangerous place in the world. Scott Galloway talks at length of the plight of men as the demographic falling fastest - men are four times more likely to die by suicide, three times more likely to be addicted, underperforming in school, they aren't going out, no confidence, no self-esteem. But are they unfairly expectant of what society and the economy should be giving them?

A very large part of me is just increasingly furious at their pity party. For the first time, men aren't the most powerful, prosperous, influential part of a room, space, or collective, and this is how they react. Most of me just wants to scream "BE BETTER MEN."

But then I remember I am a mum of two boys, and as Galloway often repeats, empathy is not a zero-sum game (let's be crystal clear my empathy does not include any of the Nick Fuentes/Andrew Tate/Your Body My Choice fanboys out there).

When we become hard and not soft, that's when we can't tolerate each other; we are rigid, we are polarized, we fight. The polarization of political ideas held by women and men is having social ramifications (the 4B movement) and will further divide us from getting together, having sex, and having relationships where we feel safe to share our beliefs and ideas. Women need emotionally available men. Galloway notes,

"When men don't have the prospect of a romantic relationship they come off the rails; women will reinvest that energy in friendships and work. Men will reinvest that energy into vaping, video games, and porn."

Ultimately, this all led me to a troubling question: What does it say about our society that some men find it easier to visit a brothel than a therapist? Is the stigma around seeking mental health support actually higher than that around visiting sex workers? These lonely men, seeking someone to touch them but also mostly to talk to, paint a poignant picture of modern masculinity and its relationship with emotional intimacy.

Perhaps that's what makes transactional intimacy appealing - the clear boundaries, expectations, and most importantly, an end point. No messy emotional aftermath, no fear of judgment that might follow you into daily life. The brothel becomes a confessional booth of sorts, where the seal of secrecy is guaranteed not by religious conviction but by commercial agreement.

What started as an accidental late-night tour revealed something far more complex about modern masculinity, mental health, and the spaces where these intersect. As I watch my boys grow, I'm reminded that the solution isn't in hardening our stance or judgment, but in understanding the complex web of social pressures, expectations, and needs that shape human behavior.

The neon signs of Kings Cross might blur into darkness each morning, but the need for connection - raw, honest, judgment-free connection - remains illuminated. The question isn't whether men should seek therapy instead of sex workers, but why, in our supposedly progressive society, authentic emotional connection remains so elusive that people must seek it in the shadows.

To note, sensitively:

• I am sadly aware the consensual nature of the brothel I toured is not the state of all sex-work environments and am sure that trafficking, sex slavery, and sexual exploitation exists in Australia.

• I am using gender binaries here as that is what was spelled out to me as the most frequent client/worker relationship within this environment. I am aware women also frequent brothels and all identities explore sex work.