At the time of my breast cancer diagnosis, I asked my medical team, “Can I still have sex?”

I was told that most people lost their libido and often didn’t feel like sex because of the treatment. I was relieved that my diagnosis wasn’t terminal, but it sounded like a death sentence for my sex life.

I felt like I’d only just discovered sex, and now it was being taken away from me.

Images: Kira Puru

I grew up on a hobby farm in northern Victoria. My teen years were a time of limited sexual experimentation due to the strict boundaries of being raised by my conservative Catholic Italian family and the small-town mentality of country living.

It wasn’t until my mid to late 30s that I really started to unpack and process all the shame and taboo I had associated with sex.

In 2014, now based in Naarm/Melbourne, I left an equally restrictive 15-year relationship. I pursued an independent life working as an artist manager and raising my two daughters.

I discovered tantra, and dipped my toe back into the world of dating that had changed so much since I was last single. My artist management business was thriving, I travelled the world, discovering me and loving life.

Then, in 2021, came an unpleasant surprise.

While juggling all that comes with being a single mum and raising two daughters, I neglected to have a lump checked that I had discovered months earlier.

The lump turned out to be stage 3 breast cancer, requiring a long journey of treatment during the pandemic, including a mastectomy, chemotherapy, radiation, oophorectomy and 10 years of hormone therapy.

I was determined to continue dating, and hopefully having sex, during treatment.

Just when I’d thought the online dating world couldn’t get any worse, it was time to jump in again – but this time with one boob and no hair.

When you’re trying to date with cancer, the dating pool is much smaller. I didn’t mind that – it sort of weeded out the crap sooner, but it was still hard.

Sometimes I had to stop and ask myself why I was doing it. I think, if I’m being honest, I was worried that I was running out of time. Not of life but of sex. I knew I wasn’t going to die from this, but I wanted to have as much sex as I could, while I still could.

I still wanted to have sex now, but what if things changed as I progressed into the new stages of my treatment? My libido was higher than it had ever been – in fact, it was out of control. All I could think of was sex.

Fatigue definitely had an impact on when I could have sex, but it didn’t stop me from having sex like I was told it would.

At the peak of chemo I’d fall asleep straight after dinner but then lie awake for hours after midnight. I needed a lover – ideally one I could wake up during the night.

My fatigue wasn’t as bad once I finished the doxorubicin, which is referred to as the “Red Devil”, chunk of the chemo. It’s called that because the liquid injected into you is bright red in colour, but also because of the side effects – it made me feel so sick. It’s the strongest chemo you can have.

I often found it confronting that the nurses needed to wear full PPE to protect themselves from something that was literally being injected into my veins.

Even though I was tired during this time, I was still up for sex; I just had to be creative in working around the fatigue.

When I look back on this time, I wonder if my desperation to have sex was so heightened because of the possibility that each time could be my last.

I was experiencing levels of stress beyond anything I’d ever known. Sex became my vehicle for releasing stress. Sexual healing, I guess.

Regardless of how much I wanted sex, I wasn’t having anywhere near as much as I wanted. I was masturbating two to three times a day yet craving intimacy with someone other than myself.

People found me and my condition confronting and that created a barrier that felt impossible to break through.

At one point, I thought about not telling the people I dated that I was being treated for cancer, which would have been hard to get around once I took my top off or my wig slid off.

All of this was taking up so much energy – something I didn’t have a lot of.

Image: Kira Puru

Dating was hard enough before cancer.

Now there was all the drama of when to tell someone, how to tell someone (online or in person) and then waiting for their awkward reply or maybe no reply at all. Or they would keep talking for a while and then unmatch me, hoping I wouldn’t notice; that one happened all the time.

There was so much rejection and ghosting. I would try to explain, “Just because I had cancer, doesn’t mean I can’t or don’t want to have sex.”

It made me wonder why there wasn’t more awareness that someone who has a chronic health condition or a disability might still have desires and needs for intimacy.

It made me think of those who still wanted to have sex while being treated for cancer, but couldn’t be bothered dealing with all of this, or those who weren’t comfortable with telling dates about their cancer.

I was surprised at how many people I knew were also being treated for breast cancer at the time – a work colleague, my boss’s mum, a teacher from my high school, a friend I knew through music.

Some of the women I spoke to shared their fears of partners or potential partners rejecting them because of their scars or not having a breast. If they had some or all of this going on – yet still wanted to fuck – did they just go without?

I felt so sad thinking that after everything women in my situation had gone through, they lost this too.

I wished I could pay someone to manage all the back and forth messaging and arranging. It was exhausting and boring.

I wished I had a dating assistant to manage, coordinate, and follow up on my behalf.

Just when I was ready to throw all my dating apps (and phone) in the bin, I had a thought – of course, you pay someone. Not for the admin, but for the sex. The perfect solution.

Paying for sex made so much sense. It meant I was pretty much guaranteed to get laid properly, with a professional.

I didn’t know where to find a sex worker or escort.

The idea of a brothel was hot but, given I was trying to stay away from supermarket crowds to avoid Covid-19 due to my compromised immunity, I doubted a brothel would be the safest option for me.

I started looking at websites. It felt like being at a fancy all-you-can-eat buffet and not knowing what to have.

I could have whatever I wanted now. It was so exciting – especially the thought of having sex with someone who knew what they were doing.

Going through the whole dating rigmarole and then finally getting into bed with someone only to have an unsatisfying experience was almost as disappointing as not having sex at all.

The other bonus of booking a sex worker was that I didn’t have to say one word about cancer if I didn’t want to and the thought of that was so good.

I started to tell some friends and mums at school about my idea. Everyone thought it was so fun. We all agreed that more women should pay for sex.

After all, we pay for professionals to do our hair, our teeth, our osteo – why wouldn’t we treat ourselves to a good, occasional roll-around?

I felt like I had my whole support crew cheering for me.

I had no idea how much it would cost and if there was a minimum booking.

I’d been thinking about it, and I decided I wanted my booking to be with a woman. I’d been on lots of dates with women before and had fooled around but never actually had sex with a woman.

I was intrigued to see if I would feel thrown out of my depth by an experience that was completely new to me.

Through a friend of a friend, I booked in with a sex worker named Penny.

I told Penny it was my first time with a sex worker and a woman. She was awesome about everything and gave me the option to jump on the phone beforehand if I had any questions. She wanted to make sure I was comfortable and could enjoy the experience.

I was relieved when I found out I’d be able to kiss Penny. I knew that no kissing (like in Pretty Woman) would have been hard for me to enjoy. Having said that, no kissing during chemo treatment is probably a good thing.

The day that Penny was coming over started out as such a fun day. I went for a walk, got myself a coffee – it felt a little like it was my birthday.

I felt particularly nauseous that day. The tamoxifen medication often made me nauseous. Imagine if I threw up on her. No way, that wasn’t going to happen.

I found myself getting ready for Penny like an actual date. I had the same level of excitement.

The booking was bringing me as much joy as a date but without the stress of worrying if she was going to cancel or how she might react to my scars. It was so nice.

About an hour before Penny was due to arrive, I had a freak out and started getting really nervous.

I thought about cancelling but there had been so much build up – I really didn’t want to cancel. And I couldn’t afford to cancel.

I realised that I was just nervous and that was normal and fine. Plus the new Zoladex injections, to turn off the estrogen in my body, were playing a bit of havoc with me. I had started to get a lot of joint pain.

I worried this might mean I couldn’t get into all the fun positions that had been playing out in my head. As if. Of course I could. I was just trying to find an excuse to get out of this.

I was also really self-conscious about my swollen feet and hands – but not my one boob. Truth be told, my implant and scars have always felt hot. I think it’s the strong/primal feeling I get when I look at them that makes me feel fierce and goddess-like. There’s nothing about them that makes me feel ashamed.

Image: Kira Puru

I called my friend Tania up in the Northern Rivers. If anyone could snap me out of this mood, it would be her.

When I told her that Penny would be arriving in half an hour, she replied, “Oh my god. Just before you called, I was trying to book accommodation for my next shoot in Darwin and guess what is on my screen right now? Fanny Bay. It’s a sign.”

We laughed so much. I knew she would snap me out of my freak out. She had the perfect energy for this situation.

Tania was horrified that I had only booked Penny for half an hour, but that was all I could afford. I explained that it would have to be enough.

Next thing I knew, Tania had transferred me money for an extra half hour. The two of us couldn’t stop laughing and screaming.

What a legend. I was totally ready for this now.

When Penny arrived, I went straight into verbal diarrhoea. She could tell I was nervous and suggested we just hang and chat for a bit.

She also told me that I didn’t need another shower if I’d had one in the morning, but I insisted. I needed to get away from her for five minutes to pull myself together. She was so hot and lovely, and I was so flustered.

In the bathroom, I took my clothes off in record time. The clock was ticking on my booking. I jumped in the shower and took deep breaths, in and out, reminding myself this was fun.

There aren’t many things cancer gives you, but it gave me this and I was so lucky to be having this experience. I was about to be touched and caressed, and have a beautiful sexually intimate experience with a hot woman. There was no need to be scared.

When I came out of the shower, Penny was sitting on the bed. I wasn’t quite sure where to sit. She wriggled back to make room for me.

We chatted a bit, but it felt like the chatting was making it worse. And then she asked me if she could kiss me. Of course, I agreed.

We made out on my bed with our bodies pressed up against each other. The kiss was great but it did feel a bit forced, and that was okay. It was a good reminder that this was a service.

Each time she touched me or kissed me in a new place, she asked me for permission. I did the same to her.

It was so much hotter than I ever expected, and a beautiful and respectful experience, all at the same time.

Penny knew what she was doing.

I don’t know if it was because I was having sex with a woman or simply because she was so damn good at her job, but my orgasms were incredible and up there with the best I’ve ever had. I was so happy I had done this and not cancelled it.

Penny told me that, other than when couples booked her, I was her first cis-woman private booking. We spoke about how wild it was that more women didn’t treat themselves to a professional sexual experience.

She loved that I had told all the school mums and said that it was those types of conversations that would normalise sex work and remove the stigma around it.

Everybody needs a Penny experience, and I am so grateful I was able to have one.

I couldn’t help but wonder: what if people going through treatment don’t actually lose their libido, but instead lose the energy and patience for dealing with other people’s reactions to their situation?

Paying for sex was such an awesome experience for me – not just physically, but also emotionally and psychologically. Imagine if medical professionals could include sessions with a sex worker as part of your treatment plan or, even better, if they were subsidised by the government!

I’ll never get sick of sharing this story or other stories about sex, dating and treatment.

Given this topic is still taboo in so many circles, I’ve loved how much happiness and laughter it’s brought me and others.

This goes beyond bringing awareness to people with cancer still having a desire or need for intimacy – this is about celebrating life, bodies and sex!

Patrice Capogreco’s book FK With Cancer will be released on 14 February 2024. Pre-order now.

This article first appeared in Archer Magazine #19, the PLEASURE issue.

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