It was one of those Stockholm evenings that feels more like autumn than spring. The air smelled like wet asphalt and perfume, and everyone outside seemed to be in a hurry — except me. I had nowhere to be, which usually ends up being exactly when things happen.
The Encounter I Didn’t Expect
I ended up in a bar near Slussen, one I hadn’t visited in months. It wasn’t loud, just dim and crowded enough to be interesting. I found a stool near the window, ordered a drink, and started the usual dance of pretending not to be people-watching while doing exactly that.
She walked in alone. Tall, striking, with long straight hair and the kind of elegance you notice even before she speaks. She looked around, locked eyes with the bartender, then with me. She smiled — not flirtatiously, just… knowingly. Like she could tell I wasn’t just passing time, I was waiting for something to pull me out of the blur.
She sat beside me and ordered a mojito. Her voice was soft but precise, her Swedish slightly accented. I asked her name. “You can call me Elina,” she said. She asked mine, and I told her. Then we both laughed at how awkward we sounded, like two teenagers hiding behind drinks.
The Kind of Conversation That Changes You
We started talking about music, then about why Stockholm seems obsessed with looking happy while staying emotionally cold. “Everyone’s performing,” she said, “but nobody applauds.” That line stuck with me all night.
I asked what she did. She hesitated — just a second — then looked directly at me and said, “I’m an escort.” No shame. No smirk. Just truth. “And yes,” she added, “I’m trans. Since that usually comes up right after.”
I blinked. Not because I was shocked — I wasn’t. But because her honesty had such weight, such force. And she didn’t deliver it like a confession. She offered it like a gift. Like, “Here. If you want to understand me, start here.”
Not What People Imagine
Elina told me she’s been working for almost four years, mostly through private ads and by word of mouth. “I don’t post on every site,” she said. “The serious ones find you if you’re worth finding.”
She explained how some clients come to her because she’s beautiful — full stop. But others are more curious. They want to explore something they don’t talk about with anyone else. “I’ve had CEOs, athletes, married men with two kids,” she said. “They come to me for what they think is a fantasy, but I’m not a fantasy. I’m a person who knows exactly who she is.”
She didn’t say it with bitterness. More like… pride. Calm, earned pride.
The Industry, From Her Side
We talked about how the world sees trans women, especially those who work as escorts. “Most people assume I’m either desperate or deceiving,” she said. “I’m neither. I’m deliberate. I know how I look. I know what I offer. But I’m not selling my body. I’m selling time. And space. And the ability to be seen without judgment — even if it’s just for an hour.”
That line hit me harder than I expected. Maybe because I’ve spent so much time writing about others — Ava, the woman in the café, the girl who warned me not to write her as tragic. And now here was Elina, telling me the same thing, but in a different key: “Don’t make me sound brave. Just tell the truth.”
According to Wikipedia’s article on transgender identity, trans people worldwide face stigma, violence, and discrimination — even in places like Sweden. Elina nodded when I brought that up. “Sure, we’re ‘accepted’ — on paper. But try dating. Try working in an office. Try being just a woman, no footnotes.”
What She Told Me That Stayed With Me
We talked for almost two hours. Somewhere around the second mojito, she told me about a regular client — a man who comes to Stockholm for business every six weeks and always books two nights with her. “He doesn’t even sleep with me anymore,” she said. “He just talks. About his wife. His guilt. His fears.”
I asked if that felt weird. “It used to,” she said. “Now I think it’s honest. People want connection. The sex is just easier to name.”
She looked down at her hands for a moment. Her nails were short, polished dark red. “There’s this belief that men come to trans women for a fetish. But a lot of them just want someone who doesn’t flinch when they say something real.”
Leaving Without Apologies
Eventually, she checked her phone and said she had to leave. “Client?” I asked, trying not to sound nosy. She smiled. “No. Friend. Real life exists too.”
Before leaving, she turned back and said, “You’ll probably write about this, won’t you?” I didn’t lie. I nodded. She gave a tiny shrug and added, “Just don’t write it like I’m broken. Or rare. I’m just one of many women in this city doing what we have to do — and doing it well.”
I promised I wouldn’t. And here I am, keeping that promise.
What I Felt Walking Home
That night I walked through Gamla Stan slower than usual. The cobblestones felt more alive under my boots, the streetlights warmer somehow. I thought about all the women like Elina — beautiful, real, complicated, direct. How many people pass them in bars, in cafés, on dating apps, never realizing what they’re missing by looking away.
Stockholm teaches you how to observe. But sometimes, if you’re lucky, it teaches you how to listen too.
And I’m still listening.
– Nora