Book Review: Sex for Money by Lily Moreau; A London Escort’s Guide to Life, Love, and the Art of Hustle

Imagine your best friend—the brutally honest, wickedly funny one who’s always a little too open after a glass of wine—decided to write a memoir. That’s exactly what reading Sex for Money by Lily Moreau feels like. Equal parts raw confession, sharp social commentary, and wry humour, this book takes you on a whirlwind tour of life as an escort in London. And trust me, you’ll never look at a posh hotel lobby the same way again.

From the very first chapter, Lily Moreau’s voice leaps off the page. She’s unapologetically real, the kind of narrator who can make you laugh out loud one moment and break your heart the next. She dives straight into the nitty-gritty of her profession—from the awkward small talk to the glamorous (and not-so-glamorous) client encounters—without ever sugar-coating the realities. But this isn’t just a tell-all about the sex industry; it’s a deeply personal exploration of identity, resilience, and the human need for connection.

One of the book’s most striking aspects is how Moreau pulls back the curtain on a world that thrives behind closed doors. In doing so, she’s opened up her life to scrutiny, knowing full well the stigma and judgment that can come with it. It’s an act of courage that’s as inspiring as it is vulnerable. Moreau doesn’t just share the glamorous or salacious parts; she lays bare the emotional toll, the loneliness, and the moments of doubt. It’s a rare and intimate glimpse into a life most of us only speculate about, and her willingness to be so candid is nothing short of remarkable.

One of the book’s greatest strengths is its setting. Moreau paints a vivid picture of London’s underbelly, juxtaposing the glitz of Mayfair penthouses with the grittier corners of the city. As a Londoner myself, I found her descriptions both familiar and eye-opening. Who knew the Tube could double as a metaphor for navigating life’s chaos? (Though, to be fair, the Bakerloo Line at rush hour is chaos incarnate.)

What makes Sex for Money stand out is Moreau’s bravery in laying herself bare. She doesn’t shy away from the tough questions: Why did she choose this path? How does it affect her relationships? What does it mean to find empowerment in a job so often stigmatized? Her reflections are thoughtful and nuanced, offering a perspective that’s rarely seen in mainstream narratives about sex work.

But don’t think for a second that this book is all doom and gloom. Moreau’s wit is razor-sharp, and her anecdotes are nothing short of legendary. Whether she’s recounting the time a client tried to pay her in Bitcoin (spoiler: it didn’t go well) or her misadventures with lingerie that had more straps than a Westminster scaffolding, she’ll have you cackling like a hyena.

If I had to nitpick, I’d say the pacing wobbles a bit in the middle. There are moments when the narrative meanders, and you’re left wondering if Moreau’s editor fell asleep at their desk. But honestly, even these detours feel like part of the charm, much like a late-night cab ride where the driver insists on taking the scenic route.

In the end, Sex for Money isn’t just a memoir about being an escort; it’s a love letter to London, a celebration of resilience, and a reminder that life’s messiness is what makes it beautiful. Moreau’s story is one of courage, humour, and humanity—and it’s one you won’t soon forget.

So, grab a cup of tea (or something stronger), settle in, and let Lily Moreau take you on a journey through her world. Just don’t blame me if you find yourself side-eyeing every businessman in a tailored suit from now on.