My name is Nisa, and I’m from Batumi, a city known for its beautiful coastline, lively nightlife, and tourists from all over the world. Growing up here, I always dreamed of being a model. I was tall, had striking features, and people often told me I could make it in the industry. The magazines and fashion shows I saw on TV seemed like a world away from the quiet streets of my hometown, but the dream never left me. When I turned 20, I started looking for opportunities to make that dream come true. I wasn’t from a wealthy family, so paying for modeling classes or traveling to bigger cities wasn’t an option. I worked part-time in a small boutique, saving up what little I could, hoping that one day I’d get my big break. And then, one day, it seemed like I might. A casting call was announced for a new modeling agency opening in Batumi. They were looking for fresh faces to represent their brand, and I was beyond excited. This was it—my chance to break into the world of fashion. I dressed in my best outfit, practiced my walk in front of the mirror, and headed to the casting with a heart full of hope. The agency was located in a sleek, modern building in the center of town. I remember walking in and seeing dozens of other girls, all stunning, all hoping for the same opportunity. The atmosphere was competitive, but also filled with anticipation. When it was finally my turn, I walked into the room, my heart racing, and stood in front of a panel of three people—a woman and two men. They asked me about my background, my goals, and then they had me walk back and forth a few times. I thought I did well, and after a few minutes of discussion, the woman smiled at me. She said they liked my look, and they saw potential in me. I was thrilled. They told me they wanted to invite me to a private photoshoot that weekend. “It’s a more exclusive event,” the woman explained, “for clients who are interested in scouting new talent.” I didn’t think much of it at the time—if anything, it sounded like a great opportunity to get noticed by the right people. That weekend, I showed up at a villa on the outskirts of Batumi, expecting a professional environment. But as soon as I arrived, something felt off. The setting was luxurious, yes, but the vibe was different from what I had imagined. Instead of photographers and makeup artists, I was greeted by a small group of well-dressed men, all of them much older than me. There were other girls there too, some I recognized from the casting, but they seemed different—more confident, more aware of what was happening. I felt a bit uneasy, but I didn’t want to seem ungrateful or out of place. One of the men, who introduced himself as Levan, approached me and started asking questions. He was charming, in a polished way, and made me feel like I was the center of attention. He said they were looking for girls like me—fresh, beautiful, and ambitious. He mentioned modeling opportunities, but as the night went on, it became clear that what he was really offering was something else entirely. I started noticing the way the other girls interacted with the men. They weren’t just there for a photoshoot. They were flirting, laughing, and staying close to these men who looked like they had money to burn. It didn’t take long for me to realize that this wasn’t a legitimate modeling opportunity. This was something else—a business of providing \"companionship\" to wealthy clients. Levan saw the confusion on my face and pulled me aside. He wasn’t aggressive or pushy. Instead, he spoke to me as if he were offering me the world. He explained that the agency wasn’t just about modeling, but about connecting girls like me with influential men who could offer us “opportunities.” He framed it as an exclusive, glamorous lifestyle—travel, expensive gifts, and financial security. I was stunned. This wasn’t what I had signed up for. I had come here to follow my dream of being a model, not to become someone’s escort. But Levan was persuasive. He told me I didn’t have to make a decision right away, that I could try it once and see if it was for me. He made it sound so casual, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Think of it as networking,” he said with a smile. “You’ll meet powerful people who can open doors for you.” I left the villa that night feeling conflicted. Part of me was angry, disappointed that what I thought was a legitimate opportunity had turned into something else. But another part of me couldn’t stop thinking about what Levan had said. The money he talked about was life-changing. I’d struggled my whole life, and here I was, being offered a way out—no more worrying about rent, no more counting coins at the grocery store. A few days passed, and I couldn’t shake the idea. I told myself I’d only do it once, just to see. I reasoned that I wasn’t committing to anything long-term, and maybe it really could open doors for me in the modeling world. So, when Levan called me, I agreed to meet one of his clients. The first time was surreal. The man was a businessman from Turkey, older, but not unattractive. He was polite, charming even, and treated me well. We spent the evening together at a fancy restaurant, then walked along the beach. He didn’t pressure me, and for a moment, I almost forgot what the evening was really about. By the end of the night, he handed me an envelope with more money than I’d ever made in a month. After that, it became easier to say yes. One night turned into a weekend trip, and soon, I was regularly meeting with clients—wealthy men from different countries who came to Batumi for business or pleasure. The money came fast, and before long, I moved out of my parents’ apartment and into a place of my own. I started dressing in designer clothes, eating at the best restaurants, and living a lifestyle I never thought possible. But with the money came a price. I had to keep my new life a secret from my family and friends. I told them I had found success as a model, which wasn’t entirely a lie—Levan did get me a few real modeling gigs to keep up appearances. But the reality was that I was living a double life. On the outside, I was Nisa, the aspiring model, but behind closed doors, I was someone else entirely. Over time, I became numb to it. The glamorous trips and luxury stopped feeling exciting, and the clients started blending together. I told myself it was worth it—that the money I was making now would allow me to build the future I wanted. But there were nights when I’d come home to my expensive apartment and feel a hollowness I couldn’t explain. Now, a year later, I’m sitting here wondering where to go from here. The life I thought I wanted—the fame, the glamour, the modeling career—seems so far away. I’ve lost something along the way, something I’m not sure I can get back. But the money has given me independence, and that’s something I can’t let go of easily. Levan still calls, still offers new opportunities, but I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up. I wanted to be a model, but instead, I became something else entirely. Sometimes I wonder if it was all just a series of accidents, choices I didn’t fully understand, that led me here. Batumi is still the same, with its beaches, tourists, and nightlife. But I’ve changed. I’m not the same girl who walked into that casting call, full of hope and ambition. I’m Nisa, still searching for her place in the world, caught between the life I wanted and the life I chose.

Leaving Russia was a decision I made quickly, though the thought had been lingering in my mind for months. Life back home had become unbearable—a series of dead-end jobs, broken relationships, and a constant struggle to make ends meet. I was 25, still living with my parents in a small apartment in Moscow, feeling like my life was going nowhere. I needed a fresh start, and Israel seemed like a place where I could find it. Tel Aviv had always seemed like a dream to me. I’d seen pictures of the sunny beaches, the vibrant nightlife, the modern skyline. It looked like a place where anything was possible, where people came to start over. So I took the leap. I sold whatever I could, saved up just enough for a plane ticket, and left Russia without looking back. When I arrived, the energy of the city hit me immediately. It was fast-paced, alive with possibilities, but also overwhelming. I didn’t know anyone, and though I had some money saved, it wasn’t nearly enough to last long. I had a small apartment rented for the first month, but after that, I had no idea what I was going to do. Finding work as a Russian immigrant in Israel wasn’t easy, and my Hebrew was limited to a few basic phrases. I had experience working as a waitress, but the pay in Tel Aviv was low, and the cost of living was higher than I had expected. After a few weeks of searching for jobs and scraping by, reality started to set in. The freedom and excitement I had felt when I first arrived were fading, replaced by the anxiety of not knowing how I was going to survive. That’s when I met Katya. Katya was Russian too, though she had been in Israel for a few years by the time we met. She was confident, glamorous, and seemed to have everything figured out. I ran into her at a café near the beach one evening, and we started talking. She asked about my life, why I had come to Israel, and what I was doing for work. When I told her about my struggles, she listened quietly, and then said something that changed the course of my life. “You know, I can help you,” she said, her voice calm and steady. “There’s a way to make real money here. You don’t have to keep struggling.” I didn’t fully understand what she meant at first, but as we continued talking, it became clear. Katya worked as an escort. Like many of the girls who came to Israel from Russia and Eastern Europe, she had found herself in a difficult situation—unable to make enough money through traditional jobs and searching for something more. Escorting had provided her with the lifestyle she wanted. She had a nice apartment, expensive clothes, and traveled often. Most importantly, she wasn’t struggling anymore. At first, I was taken aback. Escorting wasn’t something I had ever seriously considered. I knew girls back home who had gotten involved in it, but it always seemed so far removed from my own life. Yet, here I was, in a foreign country, with no job, no stability, and no plan. Katya made it sound so easy, almost like a business transaction. She explained that the clients were wealthy, respectful, and often looking for companionship rather than just physical encounters. It was about offering an experience—dinners, parties, even travel. “I’m not saying it’s for everyone,” she said, seeing the hesitation in my eyes. “But if you’re open to it, you could make enough money in a year to completely change your life.” I spent the next few days thinking about her offer. My financial situation was growing more desperate by the day, and the idea of going back to Moscow, defeated, was unbearable. I had come to Israel for a new life, and maybe this was part of that journey. Eventually, I called Katya and told her I wanted to try. The first few months were a blur. Katya introduced me to her network, and I began working almost immediately. At first, it felt strange, even uncomfortable. But the clients were polite, and Katya had been right—the work wasn’t just about sex. Many of the men I met were businessmen, traveling from Europe or the U.S., looking for someone to spend time with during their trips. They wanted conversation, companionship, and a bit of fun, yes, but it was rarely as transactional as I had feared. The money came quickly, more than I had ever earned back in Russia. I started saving immediately, keeping my eyes on the future. For the first time in my life, I felt in control of my financial situation. Within six months, I had enough to pay off my debts, and by the end of the year, I had saved enough to start thinking about buying my own apartment in Tel Aviv. The idea seemed unreal—I had gone from barely making rent to considering property ownership in one of the most expensive cities in the world. As time went on, I became more comfortable in the role I was playing. I learned how to navigate the business, how to maintain boundaries with clients, and how to manage my own expectations. But there were moments when the reality of what I was doing hit me hard. I had to keep my work a secret from almost everyone I knew. My family back in Russia believed I was working a regular job, sending home money from a steady office gig. I never told them the truth. I couldn’t. There were nights when I would come home to my apartment, look at the expensive furniture I had bought, and feel a strange emptiness. I had everything I wanted—financial security, freedom, independence—but it came with a cost. Escorting had changed me, in ways I hadn’t expected. I became more guarded, more distant from the girl I used to be. The girl who had come to Tel Aviv with nothing but hope and a dream was gone, replaced by someone who knew how to navigate a world of luxury, secrecy, and transaction. But despite the emotional toll, I couldn’t deny the freedom it gave me. By the end of that year, I had bought my own apartment—a small but beautiful place near the beach. I had my own space, my own life, and I didn’t owe anyone anything. I could travel when I wanted, take time off when I needed it, and live life on my own terms. Looking back, I’m still not sure how I feel about the choices I made. Part of me is proud—I survived, I thrived, I made a life for myself in a foreign country. But another part of me wonders what I’ve lost along the way. The relationships I’ve missed, the parts of myself I’ve had to suppress, the lies I’ve had to tell. Now, as I sit in my apartment, the Mediterranean breeze coming through the window, I think about what comes next. I know I can’t do this forever, and I don’t want to. But for now, I’m taking things day by day, grateful for the life I’ve built, even if it wasn’t the one I had imagined. Tel Aviv gave me a new life, but it also changed me in ways I’m still trying to understand. I came here looking for freedom, and I found it—just not in the way I expected

I never thought I’d be sitting in my own house, looking out at the sunrise through floor-to-ceiling windows, sipping coffee from an expensive mug I bought in Paris. A year ago, this life seemed impossible. A year ago, I was just a girl trying to figure out how to survive. Now, I’m a homeowner. It all started in Warsaw. I’d come to Poland from Ukraine like so many others—searching for work, searching for a way out. I was 23, broke, and living in a tiny rented room that barely had enough space for a bed. I spent my days working long hours as a waitress, scraping together whatever tips I could get, and my nights worrying about how I would pay rent and send money back home to my family. I had dreams, though. Big ones. I wanted my own house, something I could call mine. I wanted freedom. But at the time, all of that seemed so far away. I was drowning in the day-to-day grind of trying to make ends meet. It was exhausting, and no matter how hard I worked, I felt stuck. Then I met Anya. Anya was a regular at the bar where I worked. She was confident, always dressed in designer clothes, carrying the latest handbags. She seemed so carefree, like the weight of the world never touched her. One night, after my shift, she asked if I wanted to grab a drink. I was surprised, but curious. We ended up at a fancy rooftop bar, the kind of place I could never afford on my own. As we sipped cocktails, she told me her story. She, too, had come to Poland from Ukraine, but her path had taken a very different turn. She worked as an escort, but not in the way most people think. It wasn’t the shady, dangerous business I had imagined. She catered to high-end clients—wealthy businessmen, international travelers, men who were willing to pay thousands for discretion and companionship. It wasn’t just about sex, she explained. It was about providing an experience—being someone these men could relax with, talk to, and trust. At first, I was shocked. I’d heard of girls getting into that kind of work, and I had always told myself I could never do it. But as I listened to Anya, something in me shifted. She wasn’t ashamed. In fact, she was proud of what she’d accomplished. She had her own apartment, traveled whenever she wanted, and lived a life I could only dream of. Most importantly, she was in control. When Anya offered to introduce me to the world she was part of, I hesitated. It was a huge step, and I wasn’t sure if I could handle it. But the more I thought about my situation—barely making enough to survive, stuck in a never-ending cycle of working and worrying—the more the idea tempted me. Anya told me I didn’t have to decide right away, but if I ever wanted to try, she’d help me. A week later, I called her. The first few months were strange. I had to learn how to navigate this new life, balancing the thrill of luxury with the discomfort of knowing what it cost. I started slowly, meeting with a select few clients that Anya trusted. They were respectful, generous, and valued discretion. The money was good—better than I had ever seen in my life. With each booking, I started saving. At first, it felt unreal, like I was playing a role in someone else’s life. But the money changed things. With each passing month, I saw my savings grow, and suddenly, the idea of buying a house didn’t seem so far-fetched. I started to set goals for myself. In one year, I wanted enough to put a down payment on a house. I kept working at the bar for a while, just to keep up appearances, but eventually, the bar job became more of a formality. My real money was coming from my new life. I learned quickly how to handle myself. The clients were demanding, yes, but I had boundaries. I was clear about what I would and wouldn’t do, and for the most part, the men respected that. They weren’t looking for a cheap thrill; they wanted someone who could be their escape from the pressures of their everyday lives. I played that role well. In the meantime, I kept my eyes on the prize: the house. Every weekend, I scoured listings online, imagining myself in different neighborhoods, picturing what it would feel like to walk into a place that was mine. My friends back in Ukraine had no idea what I was really doing in Poland. They thought I had a good job in a restaurant, working hard like everyone else. And in a way, I was working hard—just in a different way than they imagined. By the end of the year, I had done it. I had saved enough for a down payment. I found a beautiful two-bedroom house just outside of Warsaw, with a little garden and plenty of space for me to finally breathe. The day I signed the papers, I felt a wave of emotions—relief, pride, and a strange sadness. I had gotten what I wanted, but it hadn’t come without a cost. I had made sacrifices, and not just financially. I had changed, in ways I couldn’t fully understand yet. Moving into the house was a surreal experience. I furnished it with the kind of things I had always dreamed of—plush furniture, modern art, high-end appliances. I finally felt like I had control over my life. No more cramped rooms, no more struggling to pay rent. This was mine. But with the house came new questions. Now that I had reached my goal, what next? The money from escorting was addictive—it was hard to imagine going back to a regular job, earning a fraction of what I had grown accustomed to. But at the same time, I knew I couldn’t do this forever. The thought of getting out, of leaving the life behind, was appealing. I had what I wanted, and maybe now it was time to walk away before it became too much a part of me. For now, though, I’m enjoying what I’ve built. I look around my new home, and I feel a sense of accomplishment. It wasn’t the path I thought I’d take, but it got me here. And for that, I’m grateful. This house is a symbol of everything I’ve fought for—the struggles, the choices, the risks. It’s a reminder that sometimes life takes you in unexpected directions, but that doesn’t mean you can’t find your way back to the dream you’ve always had.

I still remember the day I left Ukraine. The bus was packed, the air heavy with anxiety, yet tinged with hope. I wasn’t the only one leaving for Poland—there were many of us. Some were going for short-term jobs, some seeking permanent change. For me, it was both a necessity and an escape. The war had left its mark, and though my family supported me, I knew I couldn’t depend on them forever. Poland offered work, better pay, and a way to start fresh. When I arrived in Warsaw, everything felt new—too big, too fast. The language was different, but not unfamiliar. I had learned a bit of Polish back in school, though I wasn\'t confident. I quickly found a job as a waitress in a local bar. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid enough to cover rent and save a little. Plus, I liked meeting new people. Every night, the bar would fill with locals and travelers alike. And it was on one of these nights that I met Damian. Damian was a regular—tall, with a kind smile and an easy-going charm. He didn’t drink much, mostly coffee or a single beer. He liked to sit at the corner of the bar and chat with me when I wasn’t busy. At first, I didn’t pay much attention to him beyond the usual customer service. But over time, we got to talking more. He asked me about Ukraine, about why I came to Poland, and shared his own stories. Damian was different from the other men who frequented the bar—he seemed genuinely interested in me as a person. A few weeks passed, and Damian asked me out. It wasn’t a grand gesture, just a simple, “Want to grab a coffee sometime?” I agreed. That night, we met at a small café downtown. It was nothing fancy, but it felt intimate. We talked for hours about everything—life, dreams, the struggles of living abroad. It was easy to be around him. He made me laugh, and for a while, I forgot about all the reasons I had left home. As we started seeing each other more often, Damian introduced me to his circle of friends. They were successful—entrepreneurs, investors, and people who lived lives I had only seen in movies. I couldn’t help but feel out of place. I was just a girl from a small town in Ukraine, working in a bar, while they drove expensive cars and wore designer clothes. But Damian didn’t seem to mind. He treated me well, always making sure I was comfortable and taken care of. It wasn’t long before Damian started hinting at ways I could make more money. I was struggling with rent and sending money back home to my family, so the idea was tempting. He mentioned that some of his friends ran businesses that could offer me opportunities—\"exclusive services,\" he called them. I knew what he meant, even if he didn’t say it outright. At first, I was horrified. I had heard stories about girls who got into that line of work, and it wasn’t something I ever thought I’d consider. But as the weeks went by, the bills piled up, and the reality of my situation became harder to ignore. The bar job barely covered my basic needs, and the future I had imagined when I first arrived in Poland seemed farther away than ever. Damian was supportive, never pressuring me, but he made it clear that the option was there if I ever changed my mind. One night, after a particularly difficult shift at the bar, I found myself sitting with Damian in his apartment, sipping wine. He asked me how I was doing, and for the first time, I admitted how overwhelmed I felt. He listened, and then gently suggested that maybe it was time to think about his offer. He assured me it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. \"It’s not what you think,\" he said. \"It’s exclusive, high-end. You’d be in control.\" I don’t know if it was the wine, the exhaustion, or the feeling of being trapped, but something in me snapped that night. I agreed to try it, just once. “Just to see,” I told myself. The next day, Damian introduced me to a woman named Marta. She was older, elegant, and spoke with a calm confidence. She explained how everything worked—discretion was key, the clients were wealthy, and safety was a priority. The first time was surreal. I felt disconnected from myself, like I was watching someone else go through the motions. The man was polite, even kind, and it wasn’t as terrible as I had imagined. But afterward, I couldn’t shake the feeling of shame that settled deep in my chest. I told myself it was just temporary, that I would stop once I had enough money to get back on my feet. Weeks turned into months, and before I knew it, I was caught in a cycle. The money was good, better than anything I could have earned working in the bar. I sent more money home, bought nicer clothes, and even moved into a better apartment. But with each step forward, I felt like I was losing a part of myself. The girl who had left Ukraine in search of a better life was slipping away, replaced by someone I barely recognized. Damian stayed by my side, always supportive, always encouraging. But there were times when I looked at him and wondered if he ever really cared about me, or if I was just another part of his world—a pretty face to show off, a girl who had fallen into the trap he had set. I couldn’t help but feel used, even if I had made the choice myself. Now, as I sit here writing this, I think about how far I’ve come and how far I’ve fallen. I don’t blame Damian entirely—after all, I made the decision. But I can’t shake the feeling that things could have been different. Maybe if I had stayed in Ukraine, maybe if I had found another job, maybe if I hadn’t met him that night in the bar. But there’s no going back now. All I can do is keep moving forward, hoping that one day I’ll find a way out of this life I never meant to live.