25 March, 2025

Black Lawyer
Mar 25
3 min read

Diary of a Black Lawyer

Entry: Exhibit D—Desire, Dollars, and Delusion

Filed under: Escorts, Emails & Emotional Damage

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Dearest Diary,

There are days when practicing law feels noble—righteous, even. A solemn dance of justice in tailored suits and Latin phrases.

And then there are cases that test one’s ability to keep a straight face while scrolling through evidence.

Let us begin with my client. We shall call him Gerald.

Gerald was a respectable sort—buttoned-up, slightly baffled by his own life, and radiating the energy of a man who still uses “password123” for all his logins.

He retained me following what he described as a “gross invasion of marital trust.”

Translation: he found nude photos on his wife’s phone.

Not your garden-variety selfies. Oh no. These were curated. Styled. Lit like a Vogue spread. Sent, apparently, to multiple recipients.

Naturally, Gerald filed for divorce.

Now, Diary, we entered the discovery phase expecting bank statements and mild indignation. Instead, we received a spreadsheet that read like a business plan. His wife—let us call her Simone—had itemized her income as:

“Luxury adult companion and digital content entrepreneur.”

Line item 27: Self-employed. Escort. Approx. $3,250/week. Website attached.

Her website—tastefully designed, might I add—featured rate cards, client reviews, and a booking calendar more organized than a Nigerian wedding planner with five WhatsApp groups and a clipboard.

Reader, she had packages. Payment links. Testimonials.

One client praised her for being “more punctual than Amazon Prime.”

She earned over $3,000 a week! Diary… I almost reconsidered—never mind.

She filmed content in the marital home.

During school hours.

While Gerald was at the office, unaware that the guest room was doubling as a production set.

She even listed business expenses.

Ring lights. Satin sheets. A remote-controlled… item.

And yes—she submitted receipts. Latex. A fog machine. A very tasteful chaise.

He turned beetroot red when I showed him the disclosures. Whispered, “She filmed… there?”

I nodded solemnly. “Yes. There. And there again. And, it seems… in the garden.”

He gasped. “The tomato patch?!”

“She’s sending these from our home,” he cried. “On our sheets too!”

“She’s been filming content in the guest bathroom!” Gerald roared.

“And she has… merchandize!”

He said the word like it had personally violated the prenup.

I offered him a soothing cup of tea (figuratively—I was at my desk, he was on Zoom) and prepared my strategy.

We would argue marital fraud. We’d raise custody concerns. We’d fight for the house, the equity, the dining table, the dog.

The bedsheets? No. They’d witnessed too much.

But oh, Diary—I’m only just warming up.

During mediation prep, Gerald—still flushed with moral indignation and armed with printed screenshots—announced:

“I want her business awarded to me.”

I blinked.

“You want… the escort business?”

“She built it during the marriage. It’s community property.”

Reader, I had to take a breath.

I delicately explained that petitioning for a share of his wife’s escort enterprise—which he never participated in—positioned him, legally… as a pimp.

“Do you… want to be her employer?”

He paused. “Well. I wouldn’t call it that.”

I would.

And just when I thought I could not be more spiritually exhausted, he added—casually—that he, too, had engaged escort services.

Not hers. Others. Plural.

“But it’s different,” he said. “I never monetized it.”

Sir. Please.

By mediation, Simone arrived in a fur stole, serving Regency realness and knowing smirks.

Gerald arrived with a folder tabbed “Evidence” and the energy of a man who’s read one Reddit thread on family law.

They bickered.

She grinned.

He unravelled.