I Run a Legal Brothel—Here’s What It’s Taught Me About People’s Fantasies

He arrived with merely a toolbox, a jumpsuit, and an urgent look on his face. Not the kind of urgency that you would expect in a brothel, but the kind reserved for when your boiler breaks down. He nodded politely to the receptionist, checked in with the same quiet formality someone might use at a dentist’s office, and then went upstairs.

For the next hour, he repaired the sink, adjusted the showerhead, and ran tests on the toilet. All of it in character and with his own set of tools. The sex worker he had booked played along, letting him go about his performative plumbing uninterrupted. When time was up, he changed back into his normal clothes, thanked her for a wonderful evening, and walked out the door with the calm satisfaction of a man who had fulfilled a deep need.

Nothing sexual had happened, at least not in the traditional sense, and yet, that hour had satisfied someone’s very real desire.

To some, this may sound bizarre, laughable, or even just plain sad. But for me, the manager of a legal brother, it was just another Tuesday.

Over the past nine years, I have seen just about every expression of sexuality you can imagine—and a few you definitely cannot. From classic role plays surrounding one’s age or pets to the strangely specific, like men being aroused by women playing with toy cars or eating pizza.

Since I started out at 22, I have learned one simple truth: there is no such thing as “normal” when it comes to fantasy and that people can be incredibly creative with their sexuality, which I absolutely love.

Society places a huge amount of anxiety around sexuality—we constantly compare ourselves to others in our performance, needs and desires, but it should just be boiled down to something playful.

We are expected to confess if we are turned on by the same sex, to label it and make it part of our identity. That is something that has always struck me as strange and narrow-minded. Sexuality and eroticism should be seen as something that brings us pleasure and joy—not something to be feared.

I always say: as long as everything is consensual and no one is being harmed, then it is nobody else’s business what people do in their bedroom.

I got into this work by accident. I was studying psychology at college when I found myself working part-time in this world. Right away, something clicked. It was not just a job—it was a real-time laboratory of human behavior, desire, vulnerability, and performance. I continued my studies, eventually earning degrees in sociology and organizational psychology, but I knew immediately that this was the field I wanted to work in.

Today, I not only manage operations, but also research sex work from a labor and policy perspective.

Most people think a brothel manager just sits in some seedy basement office counting money in low lighting. In reality, my work begins at 7 p.m. and ends at 6 a.m., and it is nothing short of operational acrobatics.

I oversee a team of around 60 people—bartenders, HR and IT professionals, customer support workers, and technicians. The sex workers, however, are not employees. They are independent contractors, and my role with them is not managerial, it is relational.

I am part advisor, part sounding board, part psychologist and occasionally, a big sister to the women who work with us. It is a very unique and multifaceted role to say the least!

We start each night with interviews—up to three a shift—with women interested in working with us. These are long, thoughtful conversations where I explain how everything works, review their documents, show them the venue, and discuss the kind of collaboration they want.

If you saw me working, you’d see that 90 percent of the time, I am talking to someone, whether it’s work-related or personal. After the interviews, I move between the rooms, talking to whoever needs me, helping solve whatever issues arise. You never know what might happen, and having a background in psychology has been incredibly helpful in this line of work.

This unpredictability makes my job all about ensuring that everything runs smoothly and safely. Still, what stays with me most are the stories—the fantasies that walk through our doors every night. Like the man who could not get aroused unless the woman he had booked read car manuals out loud to him, or the one who simply wanted to sit quietly while a woman played with her hair and watched cartoons.

The more I saw, the clearer it became: people’s fantasies are not just about sex. They are about power, safety, shame, control, escape, and joy. Sometimes they are rooted in childhood memories. Other times they reflect trauma, longing, or even rebellion. But they are never, ever boring.

One man’s ultimate thrill came from age play, while another paid to be treated like a pet.

I have seen people break down crying mid-session, overwhelmed not by desire but by the rare experience of being seen. And I have seen others book time just to be insulted—because that is what helps them release control. In all these cases, the brothel is not a place of debauchery, as some might see it. It is a stage where people try on versions of themselves that the outside world simply will not allow.

And yes, some of the requests are truly unusual. But that does not make them perverse. In fact, it is this sheer creativity of human sexuality that fascinates me most. I have come to see these encounters not as punchlines, but as puzzle pieces—clues into the incredible complexity of how we connect, express, and find meaning.

What surprises most outsiders is the structure behind it all. We run CRM systems, document incidents in spreadsheets, and hold everyone—clients, staff, contractors—to firm standards. Legal brothels like ours do not just provide a safer space for clients. They offer sex workers a controlled environment, one where they can set boundaries, access support, and report any violations without fear of retribution or arrest.

That last part matters more than most people realize. Criminalizing sex work does not erase it, it just pushes it underground—into spaces where violence cannot be reported, and boundaries cannot be enforced.

When the law turns sex work into a crime, it turns sex workers into criminals, and that, in turn, makes them vulnerable to the worst kinds of exploitation and suffering.

Legalization, on the other hand, creates room for dignity. It allows us to offer clean, regulated, transparent workspaces. It gives workers the power to say no, it facilitates a way for us to improve our working conditions, and it forces clients to behave—or be removed.

I fully understand the existence of laws to protect minors and children—and I agree with them, but telling a consenting adult whether or not they are allowed to accept money for something that most of us do and that is otherwise legal? That feels incredibly hypocritical.

People make a living in all sorts of ways, some take care of other people’s children for money, others make a living reading palms, and some choose to earn money with their own sexuality—and I believe they should be allowed to do that.

Being vocal about that and rapidly gaining 400,000-plus followers on social media was never part of the plan. I started my Instagram account (@catherine_de_noire) about 18 months ago, mostly out of frustration. My academic work was not reaching a wide enough audience, and so I created a place to share facts, legal truths, dispel myths, and yes, recount some of the wilder stories about brothels. I never imagined it would grow such a following, but it has—and I am glad.

Because here’s the thing: people are desperate for permission to be themselves. To ask questions. To be curious without being judged. And if my work helps with that, then I must be doing something right.

Catherine DeNoire is a 31-year-old brothel manager based in Europe.