Casting my gaze around the hotel room, I set to work transforming it into a more intimate environment. As I light an incense stick and carefully arrange a selection of crystals chosen for their calming properties, I think of the man who will join me here soon.
A virgin in his 40s, I know he may be feeling a bit nervous. Having sex for the first time is, after all, a huge milestone.
However, I feel quietly confident our afternoon together will be memorable for all the right reasons.
We’re not in a relationship, though, this man and I. Well, not a romantic one anyway. And, although he is paying for my time and expertise, I am not an escort.
I am a sex surrogate, a trained professional who works with clients – male and female – to address issues related to sexuality and intimacy.
My work spans the emotional and the physical, from talking about a client’s fears and challenges, to teaching them how to kiss, touch and feel relaxed with a partner – and, finally, having penetrative sex and orgasms.
The recent TV series Virgin Island, which was the subject of much controversy, shone a light on the work of sex surrogates.
In the Channel 4 show, 12 adults who had never had sex attended a luxury retreat to help them lose their virginity with the help of sex therapists, coaches and surrogates.
Perhaps understandably, I’ve been asked in the past, what’s the difference between me and a sex worker? Though the two roles are under the same umbrella – we both work with sex and are paid for it – there are a number of important differences.

Kaly Miller is a sex surrogate, who works with clients – male and female – to address issues related to sexuality and intimacy
The focus of an escort is her client’s sexual gratification. She is there to meet his needs, however he wants them to be met.
She will not teach him anything he can replicate in other relationships, will not critique his performance in order to help him improve it. And if he is a ‘good’ client, she will want him to return to her again and again.
By contrast, sex surrogacy is a therapeutic practice designed to teach a client the skills they need for intimate relationships, and how to feel comfortable with sex and their body. I have helped a broad range of people, from male and female virgins to a man with autism, victims of trauma and those struggling with the impact of porn addiction.
I am not performing for my clients; I do not dress up or play a character. My focus is on guiding them in how to be confident, skilled lovers, before sending them out into the world to have happy, fulfilling relationships.
My success is measured by them no longer needing my help. In fact, I usually cap the number of in-person sessions to ten. Unlike traditional sex work, I do not seek repeat business.
The work is rewarding and fascinating, and no two days are the same. Still, if you had told me 15 years ago this is what I would be doing for a career, I simply wouldn’t have believed you.
I grew up in Sao Paulo, Brazil, in a very conventional middle-class family and attended a Catholic boarding school, before moving to London for university when I was 21.
Marrying in my mid-20s, I ran an events company with my then husband and we had four children together. So far, so very traditional.
But when I was 35 we separated and, burnt out and feeling unfulfilled by my work, I made the decision to completely change careers, qualifying as a masseuse and working with sports people and actors.
In 2013, I saw an advert online for a course in surrogate partner therapy, which mentioned being ‘body-oriented’. Though there were no specifics, I thought it might be something that complimented my masseuse training and so, intrigued, I decided to find out more.
It wasn’t until I went to the first session that I learned, to my shock, that enrolling on it meant I’d be expected to have sex with clients.
Initially, I really wasn’t sure if I could sleep with strangers.
But I decided, with great trepidation, to stick with the course and see how I felt once I’d met some of those seeking help and heard why they wanted this kind of therapy.
Sex surrogacy is legal in the UK but it is unregulated, with no officially recognised training path or certification for surrogacy, unlike in some other countries.

Dr Danielle Harel, a sex and relationship coach, and Andre Lazarus, a surrogate partner, therapist recently appeared on Channel 4’s Virgin Island, shining a light on the work of sex surrogates

In the show, 12 adults who had never had sex attended a luxury retreat to help them lose their virginity with the help of sex therapists, coaches and surrogates
In theory, anyone can call themselves a surrogate and advertise for clients. I wish that regulation would come into place to help protect those who are vulnerable.
I found it beneficial that for the first five years of my career, I worked under supervisors who had already undergone intensive training, so could give feedback and advice.
My first client, who I began seeing three months into the course, helped me to realise just how important this work is.
A 60-something virgin, he confided that his brother had recently died, and he didn’t want to pass away without ‘knowing what love felt like’.
I was so moved by his honesty and desire for something so many of us take for granted. I was able to set aside my initial reaction and recognise this was someone who needed help and there was nothing sleazy about it.
I worked with him for a year, seeing him once a month for around six hours at a time, helping him to feel relaxed, comfortable with his body and teaching him how to touch a woman.
Then, a few months after our sessions successfully finished, including us having sex, he was able to embark on his first relationship.
His happiness and gratitude were so fulfilling, and when he contacted me to tell me how impactful the therapy had been, I felt so satisfied I knew I’d found my calling.
In 2014, while still on my UK course, I also enrolled on a three-year university degree in Erotology, based in the Netherlands, which is the study of human sexual love and desire.
Later, I went on to study under Vena Blanchard, president of the International Professional Surrogates Association (IPSA).
I don’t keep a tally but since then I’d estimate I have slept with up to 400 clients.
For the past seven years I’ve worked without supervision and have my own practice, The Naked Room. My prices start from £250 for an hour-long, in-person session, going up to £1,250 for a five-hour session.
When a potential client first contacts me, I will have a free ‘exploratory’ Zoom call with them. The purpose of this is to establish what issues they want to address; whether I’m content they understand what they are asking for and can consent to it, and whether I feel comfortable working with them.
There is no guarantee I will agree to take on a client and I have turned people away, including a man who joined the Zoom call naked.
Once I have agreed to work with someone, the progress is based on the individual, though I like to have a minimum of three Zoom calls before meeting in person.
I always meet clients at a hotel. They pay for all travel and accommodation but I choose the venue, one that feels safe and professional. Though I always use condoms, everyone must provide a recent, clear STI test and complete consent forms.

‘I believe I am a better lover as a result of my job. Now in my 50s, when I compare myself to who I was in my 20s and 30s, I know I have skills and insights I didn’t have then,’ says Kaly
My safety is paramount: I have a tracking device on my phone and always check in with a friend or family member when I get home.
My parents were accepting of my career change, though I didn’t tell my children what I did for a living until they were old enough to understand.
Now my whole family is supportive of what I do. They understand this is a therapeutic role and are proud of me for dedicating my life to helping others and breaking down taboos.
Often my clients feel unable to confide in anyone else because of the shame that surrounds sex.
That’s not to say everyone is positive. Although for the most part people are just very curious, some have been visibly uncomfortable and judgmental.
I remember talking to one couple about my career and, while she was interested, he insisted the whole conversation be shut down.
One of the most important aspects of my role is the preparation before meeting a client. I exercise regularly and practise yoga, because good sex is a workout and I want to be strong and flexible, especially now I’m 52.
I see a dermatologist to keep my skin glowing, but I don’t have Botox and tend not to wear make-up to meet clients because I want to be natural and authentic. Being ‘attractive’ is not part of sex surrogacy, that’s for escorts.
On the morning of a client meeting I will meditate, as it’s essential I meet them feeling calm, positive and undistracted by anything going on in my own life.
Although my work is not formulaic, there is a structure I follow.
First, they must feel safe and comfortable with me. We achieve that through talking, breathwork and holding and touching one another. How long it takes is completely individual.
After that, we move on to exploring and experiencing sensuality, keeping it light with an adult theme. So, for example, we will play games such as Simon Says but with a sensual twist.
It’s about experiencing joy more than pleasure. Creating intimacy should be fun, not scary.
Finally, we open up to the erotic, which may or may not involve penetrative sex, that’s their decision.
Men and women seek out my help for very different reasons. Male clients may be experiencing body dysmorphia, fear of intimacy, premature ejaculation or erectile dysfunction caused by porn addiction, which is becoming more of a problem.
I’ve helped an autistic man lose his virginity (with the support of his octogenarian parents, who brought him to the sessions) and a Hollywood actor to overcome his sex addiction.
With the latter client, clearly he knew how to have sex – only too well! – so my work focused on reframing his attitudes towards intimacy and women.
With female clients, some want to be sexually active in order to have a family, but are scared of sex due to a background of abuse, or have grown up in a religious household that created feelings of shame.
I have also worked with women who are sexually active but have never had an orgasm, and women who have struggled with sex since giving birth.
I will help them up to a certain point then, if they wish to have penetrative sex, I will pass them to a male surrogate.
When it comes to my work, I don’t label my sexuality, because I don’t believe our capacity for pleasure is tied to the other person – it is something we have ownership of.
I sometimes work with couples, though I don’t usually physically touch them. Instead I coach them on how to give pleasure to one another.
And my relationship with a client doesn’t end as soon as they have achieved their sexual goal, whatever that is.
I offer after-care in the form of Zoom sessions, checking how they are doing, what challenges they have experienced and how to work through them.
However, it’s important to maintain professionalism and avoid a client becoming overly attached and dependent, which is why I don’t accept repeat clients.
I’m currently single but have had relationships with men since becoming a sex surrogate.
They have been unfazed by what I do, and any man who asked me to choose between him and my work isn’t right for me.
However, this job has also made me incredibly choosy about my partners. Giving so much of myself, emotionally and physically, to my clients, I simply refuse to compromise on the values and standards I work to help others embody.
I believe I am a better lover as a result of my job. Now in my 50s, when I compare myself to who I was in my 20s and 30s, I know I have skills and insights I didn’t have then.
Lying in the arms of a client, after we have just had fantastic sex, I will smile.
Somewhere out there is the next woman he’ll sleep with. She may never know that, thanks to me, he’s been transformed from a clueless virgin into a skilled lover.
There is no job satisfaction quite like it.
- As told to Eimear O’Hagan