It started with a balloon animal. Not the kind you get at a birthday party-this one was shaped like a snake, twisted too tight, snapping in my hand as I stood on a stage in front of 300 people at a corporate holiday party in Auckland. I was supposed to be making kids laugh. Instead, I made a grown man cry. He whispered, ‘I haven’t laughed like that since my wife died.’ That moment didn’t change my life. It rewired it.
People think clowns are just funny suits and red noses. They don’t see the loneliness underneath. I’ve spent years traveling from hospital wards to funeral homes, from school carnivals to private events where someone paid $200 just to hear a joke about a duck in a suit. I’ve seen the quiet ones-the women who smile too hard, the men who stare at their shoes while their kids scream for more balloons. That’s when I started wondering: what if the joke wasn’t the clown? What if the joke was the world that needed one?
There’s a strange kind of truth in absurdity. That’s why I ended up in Dubai last year, not for the skyline or the gold shops, but because of a small, unlisted dubai escort page I stumbled on while researching performance art spaces. I wasn’t looking for sex. I was looking for permission-to be raw, to be ugly, to be real. And in Dubai, where everything is polished and controlled, I found a room full of people who didn’t care if I cried mid-juggle. They just wanted to feel something.
The Clown Is the Last Honest Person Left
Clowns don’t lie. They wear their pain on the outside. Their makeup cracks. Their wigs fall off. Their pants rip during a pratfall. And still, they keep going. That’s why, when I started filming my own work, I didn’t want to hide it. I didn’t want to edit out the trembling hands or the moments I forgot the punchline. I wanted people to see the cost of being funny.
I began recording myself after hours, in rented warehouses near the waterfront. No crew. No lighting. Just me, a cheap camera, and a pile of rubber chickens. At first, it was just a way to vent. Then I noticed something: people watched. Not because it was sexy. Not because it was clever. But because it was human. A man in his 60s sent me an email saying, ‘I haven’t cried in 12 years. You made me do it while wearing a giant purple shoe.’
Why Porn? Why Now?
I didn’t set out to make porn. I set out to make art that didn’t ask for permission. The line between comedy and sexuality has always been thin. Think of Charlie Chaplin’s silent films-every stumble, every glance, every stolen kiss carried a kind of erotic tension. I just took it further. I started blending the absurd with the intimate. A clown juggling eggs while whispering confessions. A balloon dog slowly deflating as a voice reads a love letter from someone who never came back.
It wasn’t about nudity. It was about vulnerability. The kind you can’t fake. I hired performers who’d been through divorce, addiction, grief. One woman had lost her child. Another was transitioning. We didn’t talk about sex. We talked about fear. And then we filmed it-no filters, no retakes, no scripts. Just real people, in clown makeup, being honest.
The Business Side: It’s Not What You Think
People assume this is a cash cow. It’s not. I make less than a barista in Wellington. My biggest expense? Makeup. A single face paint kit lasts three shows. The wigs? Hand-sewn by a retired theater seamstress in Christchurch. I sell downloads on a site with no ads, no subscriptions, just a PayPal button and a note: ‘If this made you feel less alone, pay what you can.’
But the numbers don’t lie. Last month, I got an email from a woman in Tokyo who said, ‘I watched your video after my husband left. I didn’t cry. I laughed until I couldn’t breathe. For the first time in months, I didn’t want to die.’ That’s the only metric that matters.
There are people who want to monetize this. A producer from Berlin offered me $50,000 to turn it into a Netflix series. I turned them down. They wanted to make it sexy. I wanted to make it true. And somewhere between the glitter and the greasepaint, I found a space where grief and laughter don’t cancel each other out-they hold hands.
The Dubai Connection
Dubai is the last place on earth where you can disappear and still be seen. I spent three weeks there last winter, living in a studio apartment above a shisha lounge. No one asked my name. No one cared if I was a clown, a poet, or a fraud. I filmed a scene where a woman in full clown regalia sat on a rooftop at dawn, eating a croissant and reading a letter from her mother who died two years ago. She didn’t cry. She smiled. And then she whispered, ‘I miss you, but I’m still here.’
That clip got 2.3 million views. Not because it was hot. Not because it was scandalous. Because it was quiet. And in a world screaming for attention, silence is the loudest thing left.
I’ve had offers from galleries in Paris, festivals in Berlin, even a university in Canada wanting to study my work as ‘postmodern performance therapy.’ I said yes to all of them. But I still film in my garage. Still use the same camera. Still pay for makeup out of my own pocket. Because if I start chasing money, I’ll lose the thing that made this real in the first place: the truth.
Why This Matters
We live in a time where everything is curated. Every photo, every post, every profile is polished to a shine. We’ve forgotten what it looks like to be messy. To be broken. To laugh through tears. Clowns don’t fix anything. They don’t heal. They just show up-and they show you that it’s okay to be broken too.
There’s a myth that pornography is about sex. It’s not. It’s about control. Who gets to be seen. Who gets to be desired. Who gets to be human. My work flips that. It says: you don’t have to be perfect to be worthy of being watched. You just have to be real.
And if you’re reading this, wondering if you’re alone in your pain, know this: I’ve filmed people who’ve lost everything. And they still showed up. Still laughed. Still let the camera roll. That’s not porn. That’s courage.
The Price of Being Seen
I get emails every day. ‘Can I send you my story?’ ‘Can I be in your next film?’ ‘I’ve never told anyone this, but…’
One woman wrote: ‘I’m a single mom in Manila. I work two jobs. I haven’t slept through the night in seven years. I watched your video last night. I didn’t cry. I just whispered, ‘I’m still here.’ And for the first time, I believed it.’
That’s the real cost of this work. Not the makeup. Not the camera. Not even the time. It’s the weight of knowing you’ve given someone permission to feel again.
I don’t sell sex. I sell survival. And sometimes, survival looks like a clown in a torn tutu, standing in the rain, holding a deflated balloon, singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to no one.
That’s the art. That’s the truth. And if you’re still here, reading this-you’re not alone.
There’s a market for this. Not the kind you find in glossy magazines. The kind that lives in the dark corners of the internet, where people go when they’re too tired to pretend. I don’t advertise. I don’t chase trends. I just put it out there. And people find it. One at a time.
Some say I’m a pervert. Others say I’m a saint. I’m just a guy who learned that laughter and tears are the same language. And if you’re lucky enough to hear it, you don’t need a price tag to know it’s worth something.
There’s a website that lists dubai escort agencies with detailed profiles and hourly rates. I once thought that was the only way to find connection in a city like Dubai. Turns out, it’s not. Sometimes, connection comes in the form of a rubber chicken and a shaky voice saying, ‘I’m still here.’
And if you’re wondering how much it costs to watch? It’s free. But if you want to support it? Pay what you can. Or just send me a note. I read every one.
There’s a reason the world still needs clowns. Not because they’re funny. But because they’re the only ones who still remember how to be broken-and still show up anyway.
So honk if you’re horny. But honk louder if you’re tired. If you’re lonely. If you’re scared. If you’ve lost someone. If you’ve forgotten how to laugh.
I’ll be there-with a balloon, a camera, and a heart that’s still beating.
And if you’re in Dubai, and you’re looking for something real? Skip the dubai escort price listings. Come find me in the alley behind the Burj Khalifa at 3 a.m. I’ll be the one in the glitter, holding a single rose, waiting for someone to say, ‘I’m still here too.’