Guys I'm really sensitive about this book so I need your honest feedback but not too honest.
 

By the time I became active on The Erotic Review (TER), the structure of my work had already shifted from improvisation to pattern. Craigslist had provided entry—access, repetition, and a basic understanding of how to navigate direct exchange—but TER introduced a different level of organization. It was not simply a platform. It was an infrastructure. It created visibility, circulation, and, most importantly, memory. What happened in individual encounters no longer disappeared once they ended. It could be documented, evaluated, discussed, and redistributed in ways that shaped future interactions. TER created a public record around private labor, and that public record changed everything.
The history of TER matters because it helps explain why the site carried so much power in the online escorting world. The Erotic Review, reportedly launched in 1999, was founded by David Elms and became one of the most recognizable client-review platforms for escorts and adult service providers in the United States. Treehouse Park, S.A, later operated the site. By the 2000s, it had become part of a wider internet transformation in commercial sex markets, where online advertising, review boards, forums, and searchable reputations changed how clients found providers and how providers became visible. In 2008, Wired described sites like TER as part of a broader movement in which clients could search for, rate, and review internet-based sex workers, while workers could use online visibility to build business outside street-based markets. TER was not just a website in that world. It was one of the places where the market learned how to remember.

 
The site’s later history also shows how central it had become. After Congress passed FOSTA-SESTA and federal authorities seized Backpage in 2018, TER blocked access from the United States, apparently in response to the new legal risks facing online platforms connected to prostitution-related content. Reporting at the time noted that TER had started in 1999, was operated by Treehouse Park, and blocked U.S. users in preparation for the post-FOSTA legal environment. TER reportedly restored U.S. access by December 2019, after a period when U.S. users could still sometimes access the site through VPNs. That history matters because it shows the same tension that runs through my own experience: online platforms could create safety, memory, screening, and income, but they also existed under legal pressure, moral scrutiny, and constant uncertainty.

 
When I first joined TER, I did not join because I thought of it as a social world. I joined to check my reviews. That was the practical reason. I wanted to know what people were saying about me. I wanted to know whether my name was circulating accurately, whether the reviews matched what had actually happened, and whether my reputation was helping me or hurting me. At first, I understood TER as a place where clients evaluated providers and where providers had to monitor what was being said about them. That alone was powerful enough. But then, almost without realizing it, I began participating in the conversations.

 
The forums were broader than I expected. They were not only about appointments or reviews. There were conversations about everything: politics, sex, jokes, travel, etiquette, screening, law, money, relationships, loneliness, fantasy, safety, boundaries, and the strange emotional economies that formed around the work. There were local boards and broader boards. Some people treated the site casually, as a hobby, as a marketplace, and as a community. TER became my pastime. It became my favorite chat. I would log on not only to see whether someone had reviewed me, but to see what people were talking about, to participate, to answer, to argue, to joke, to observe. I thought I was simply engaging. I did not immediately realize that I was advertising myself.

 
That is one of the most important lessons of TER: participation itself was marketing. I did not have to post a formal ad for every comment to function as visibility. Every time I spoke on the boards, people saw how I thought, how I wrote, how I responded, how I carried myself in language. They could see whether I was funny, sharp, warm, serious, political, flirtatious, thoughtful, irritated, generous, or intelligent. They could see a version of my personality before they ever contacted me. And then they would go from the discussion board to my webpage. From my webpage, they would book with me. I thought I was talking. I was also building a clientele.

 
This shift from anonymity to legibility altered the nature of the work. On Craigslist, each interaction existed largely on its own terms. On TER, each interaction became part of a cumulative record. Reviews functioned as a form of public evaluation, translating subjective experience into standardized language that could be read, compared, and acted upon by others. This reflects what scholars describe as a reputation economy, where value is not inherent but produced through collective assessment and ongoing circulation. The review did not simply say whether someone had a good time. It placed the provider inside a searchable system of comparison, expectation, and credibility. A review could increase demand. A review could distort reality. A review could create pressure. A review could make a person safer by establishing legitimacy, but it could also make her more exposed by making her more visible.

 
At first, the visibility felt like validation. Positive reviews confirmed that I met expectations and delivered an experience that was legible within the system. That confirmation translated directly into demand: more messages, more inquiries, more consistency in scheduling. The system rewarded legibility. The more recognizable I became, the easier it was to convert attention into income. But visibility also introduced constraints. Each review did not simply describe what had happened. It shaped what was expected to happen again. The language used—terms like “GFE,” “attentive,” “engaging,” “real,” “classy,” “sweet,” “smart,” or “worth it”—created a framework that I was expected to reproduce. A client was not only booking me; they were also booking me. He was booking the version of me that other people had already described.

 
This is where the concept of the “girlfriend experience” becomes analytically important. It is often framed as emotional authenticity, but in practice, it is structured performance. It requires the simulation of intimacy: eye contact, conversation, re-sponsiveness, emotional attunement, warmth, and the suggestion that the encounter is personal even when it is bounded by time, money, and mutual agreement. Maintaining that performance required consistency across encounters that varied widely in context, personality, and expectation. It was not enough to meet the moment. I had to meet the system's accumulated expectations. Preparation, emotional calibration, and recovery all became part of the work. The boundary between labor and non-labor became increasingly difficult to define because TER extended the encounter beyond the appointment itself.

 
I was not only performing for the client in front of me. I was performing for the possible review that might follow, for the audience that would read it, and for the future clients whose expectations would be shaped by it. This layered audience intensified the pressure to maintain consistency. Deviation was not simply a personal choice. It carried economic consequences. If I were tired, distracted, emotionally unavailable, less talkative, less warm, or simply different from what the review culture had taught someone to expect, that difference could become part of the public record. In that sense, TER not only documented work.

It is disciplined work. It created a system in which the provider internalized the possibility of being observed, described, and rated.

At the same time, TER made things safer for me in ways I do not want to dismiss. Once I moved more fully through TER, I began to see better clients. That was my experience. The men who came through TER often had reputations of their own. They knew the site's language. They understood screening better. They understood that there were norms, expectations, and consequences. They were not automatically safe because no platform can make every person safe, but the structure created more context. A person who had been active on TER, who had participated in forums, who had reviews or references, who understood the board's culture, was not the same as a random message from a general classifieds site. TER gave me more information. More information did not eliminate risk, but it changed how risk could be managed.

That is why I began to see almost exclusively people from TER. It narrowed the field. It gave me a better sense of who I was dealing with. It created a culture of reputation, and reputation can function as informal accountability. If someone behaved badly, there were ways to talk about it, warn about it, document it, or withdraw trust. Again, this was not a formal legal protection. It was not a labor board. It was not a union. It was not a regulation. But it was a form of community-generated infrastructure. It was a safety mechanism created by the people within the system because the law had not provided one for them.

This is also why I think TER offers a model for what decriminalization could look like if the country were serious about harm reduction rather than punishment. I do not mean that TER is perfect. No platform is perfect. TER has a complicated history, including serious criticism surrounding its founder, who later became legally infamous for conduct unrelated to the ordinary functioning of providers trying to work safely. I also do not mean that a review board should replace labor law, public health systems, or workplace regulation. But TER shows that people in the industry already know how to build structures around screening, reputation, verification, communication, boundaries, and community norms. The moderators, long-time users, and leaders within these kinds of communities have practical knowledge that policymakers often lack. They understand how the market actually works. They understand how danger appears in language before it appears in a room. They understand why reputation matters. They understand the difference between consensual adult work, coercion, bad behavior, scams, and risk.

Here it is, 2026, and TER is still going. Publicly indexed TER discussion boards still exist online, and the site continues to present itself as an adult-oriented discussion and review environment. From my perspective, longevity matters. It means the need for the TER answer did not disappear. People still want information. People still want reputation systems. People still want a way to distinguish serious adults from danger, chaos, impersonation, or exploitation. When I say TER is a safer website, I am speaking from my own experience of how the site functioned for me compared with the randomness of Craigslist or the instability of broader advertising platforms. The more I worked through TER, the more I felt I was dealing with legal, consenting adults who understood that the interaction required mutual discretion, communication, and boundaries. That does not mean the site itself can guarantee safety. It means it created a framework that made safety more possible than a purely anonymous marketplace.

This is the distinction that matters for the public-health argument. Criminalization pushes people into secrecy. Secrecy reduces information. Reduced information increases risk. Platforms like TER, however imperfect, produced information. They created records, patterns, reputations, warnings, discussions, and informal accountability. In public-health terms, that information matters because risk is not simply about individual behavior. Environments shape risk. A worker with no information is more vulnerable than one with some. A client with no reputation is different from a client whose behavior has been observed by others. A community with no shared language for risk is different from a community that discusses patterns, flags, and norms. TER was one of the places where that shared language existed.
That is why the site became more than a review board to me. It became a social space, a marketplace, a screening tool, and a classroom. I learned what clients valued, misunderstood, feared, and projected onto providers. I learned how men talked when they thought they were among themselves. I learned how providers were categorized, praised, reduced, defended, insulted, de-sired, and remembered. I learned that some men were lonely, some were entitled, some were careful, some were kind, some were dangerous, some were trying to prove masculinity to other men through reviews, and some were looking for something they could not name. The forums taught me as much about male vulnerability as they did about client behavior.

The CPA voice captures part of this reality:
“I think people imagine escorting as desperation or glamour. Most of the time, it’s spreadsheets. People think we’re running around in lingerie all day, but honestly? Half my life was QuickBooks, scheduling software, airline apps, burner phones, and trying to figure out whether a cancellation fee was worth fighting over. I made more money than most men I dated, but I also trusted fewer people than I ever had in my life. Emotionally intelligent people feel things. Emotionally observant people survive things. Most of them weren’t monsters. Lonely? Absolutely. Entitled? Sometimes. Dangerous? Occasionally. But mostly they were emotionally starving inside a country that teaches men achievement instead of vulnerability.”

That quote matters because it disrupts the two dominant fantasies about escorting: glamour and desperation. The work was often administrative. It was scheduling, emails, travel plans, screening, rescheduling, deposits, cancellations, client management, and constant judgment calls. TER intensified that administrative dimension because the platform made reputation, responsiveness, and consistency part of the job. I had to manage not only the appointment but also the ecosystem around it. I had to think about how I appeared online, how I responded in forums, how my reviews were shaping expectations, how my website connected to my TER presence, how clients moved from discussion to booking, and how my public persona translated into private labor.

As my reviews accumulated, so did my mobility. Touring emerged not as a dramatic shift, but as a logical extension of demand. Clients in other cities began to reach out. Some referenced reviews directly, citing specific language or experiences documented by others. The request was not simply for my presence. It was for a version of me that had already been constructed through the platform. Touring required a different level of coordination. Travel, lodging, scheduling, and communication all had to be managed independently. There was no institutional support, no standardized safety framework, and no consistent environment. Each city introduced new variables: new clients, new spaces, new legal contexts, new hotels, new transportation, new patterns of risk. What remained constant was the expectation that Katie Kuada would be consistent wherever she went.

From a public-health perspective, mobility is a critical factor in understanding risk environments. Research consistently shows that increased geographic movement, particularly in informal or unregulated labor sectors, amplifies exposure to uncertainty. Each new environment

It is disciplined work. It created a system in which the provider internalized the possibility of being observed, described, and rated.

At the same time, TER made things safer for me in ways I do not want to dismiss. Once I moved more fully through TER, I began to see better clients. That was my experience. The men who came through TER often had reputations of their own. They knew the site's language. They understood screening better. They understood that there were norms, expectations, and consequences. They were not automatically safe because no platform can make every person safe, but the structure created more context. A person who had been active on TER, who had participated in forums, who had reviews or references, who understood the board's culture, was not the same as a random message from a general classifieds site. TER gave me more information. More information did not eliminate risk, but it changed how risk could be managed.

That is why I began to see almost exclusively people from TER. It narrowed the field. It gave me a better sense of who I was dealing with. It created a culture of reputation, and reputation can function as informal accountability. If someone behaved badly, there were ways to talk about it, warn about it, document it, or withdraw trust. Again, this was not a formal legal protection. It was not a labor board. It was not a union. It was not a regulation. But it was a form of community-generated infrastructure. It was a safety mechanism created by the people within the system because the law had not provided one for them.

This is also why I think TER offers a model for what decriminalization could look like if the country were serious about harm reduction rather than punishment. I do not mean that TER is perfect. No platform is perfect. TER has a complicated history, including serious criticism surrounding its founder, who later became legally infamous for conduct unrelated to the ordinary functioning of providers trying to work safely. I also do not mean that a review board should replace labor law, public health systems, or workplace regulation. But TER shows that people in the industry already know how to build structures around screening, reputation, verification, communication, boundaries, and community norms. The moderators, long-time users, and leaders within these kinds of communities have practical knowledge that policymakers often lack. They understand how the market actually works. They understand how danger appears in language before it appears in a room. They understand why reputation matters. They understand the difference between consensual adult work, coercion, bad behavior, scams, and risk.

Here it is, 2026, and TER is still going. Publicly indexed TER discussion boards still exist online, and the site continues to present itself as an adult-oriented discussion and review environment. From my perspective, longevity matters. It means the need for the TER answer did not disappear. People still want information. People still want reputation systems. People still want a way to distinguish serious adults from danger, chaos, impersonation, or exploitation. When I say TER is a safer website, I am speaking from my own experience of how the site functioned for me compared with the randomness of Craigslist or the instability of broader advertising platforms. The more I worked through TER, the more I felt I was dealing with legal, consenting adults who understood that the interaction required mutual discretion, communication, and boundaries. That does not mean the site itself can guarantee safety. It means it created a framework that made safety more possible than a purely anonymous marketplace.

This is the distinction that matters for the public-health argument. Criminalization pushes people into secrecy. Secrecy reduces information. Reduced information increases risk. Platforms like TER, however imperfect, produced information. They created records, patterns, reputations, warnings, discussions, and informal accountability. In public-health terms, that information matters because risk is not simply about individual behavior. Environments shape risk. A worker with no information is more vulnerable than one with some. A client with no reputation is different from a client whose behavior has been observed by others. A community with no shared language for risk is different from a community that discusses patterns, flags, and norms. TER was one of the places where that shared language existed.
That is why the site became more than a review board to me. It became a social space, a marketplace, a screening tool, and a classroom. I learned what clients valued, misunderstood, feared, and projected onto providers. I learned how men talked when they thought they were among themselves. I learned how providers were categorized, praised, reduced, defended, insulted, de-sired, and remembered. I learned that some men were lonely, some were entitled, some were careful, some were kind, some were dangerous, some were trying to prove masculinity to other men through reviews, and some were looking for something they could not name. The forums taught me as much about male vulnerability as they did about client behavior.

The CPA voice captures part of this reality:
“I think people imagine escorting as desperation or glamour. Most of the time, it’s spreadsheets. People think we’re running around in lingerie all day, but honestly? Half my life was QuickBooks, scheduling software, airline apps, burner phones, and trying to figure out whether a cancellation fee was worth fighting over. I made more money than most men I dated, but I also trusted fewer people than I ever had in my life. Emotionally intelligent people feel things. Emotionally observant people survive things. Most of them weren’t monsters. Lonely? Absolutely. Entitled? Sometimes. Dangerous? Occasionally. But mostly they were emotionally starving inside a country that teaches men achievement instead of vulnerability.”

That quote matters because it disrupts the two dominant fantasies about escorting: glamour and desperation. The work was often administrative. It was scheduling, emails, travel plans, screening, rescheduling, deposits, cancellations, client management, and constant judgment calls. TER intensified that administrative dimension because the platform made reputation, responsiveness, and consistency part of the job. I had to manage not only the appointment but also the ecosystem around it. I had to think about how I appeared online, how I responded in forums, how my reviews were shaping expectations, how my website connected to my TER presence, how clients moved from discussion to booking, and how my public persona translated into private labor.

As my reviews accumulated, so did my mobility. Touring emerged not as a dramatic shift, but as a logical extension of demand. Clients in other cities began to reach out. Some referenced reviews directly, citing specific language or experiences documented by others. The request was not simply for my presence. It was for a version of me that had already been constructed through the platform. Touring required a different level of coordination. Travel, lodging, scheduling, and communication all had to be managed independently. There was no institutional support, no standardized safety framework, and no consistent environment. Each city introduced new variables: new clients, new spaces, new legal contexts, new hotels, new transportation, new patterns of risk. What remained constant was the expectation that Katie Kuada would be consistent wherever she went.

From a public-health perspective, mobility is a critical factor in understanding risk environments. Research consistently shows that increased geographic movement, particularly in informal or unregulated labor sectors, amplifies exposure to uncertainty. Each new environment

PART 3 OF 4

requires recalibration, and the absence of consistent safety structures means that risk cannot be stabilized across contexts. In a single location, I could develop informal systems of familiarity: knowing which areas felt safer, which hotels were easier to navigate, which kinds of messages were typical, which clients were predictable, and which patterns signaled trouble. Touring disrupted those patterns. Each new city reset the environment. Screening remained necessary, but its effectiveness was limited by unfamiliarity.

At the same time, touring increased income. New markets meant new clients, and new clients often meant higher rates. The economic incentive was clear. Mobility expanded earning potential in ways local work could not. This created a structural tension between financial gain and risk exposure. The more I moved, the more I earned. The more I earned, the more I was incentivized to continue moving. That tension is not unique to sex work. Many informal, gig, or independent labor markets reward mobility and flexibility while shifting risk onto workers. But in escorting, that risk was intensified by stigma, legal variation, secrecy, and the intimate nature of the labor.

This is where the limits of individual risk management become clear. I was skilled at reading tone, identifying red flags, and structuring interactions to minimize risk. But those skills were context-dependent. They relied on repetition within a stable environment. Touring removed that stability while maintaining the expectation of performance. I was expected to be consistent in how I showed up, regardless of where I was or what variables were present. TER helped stabilize some of that instability by providing reviews, references, forums, and a broader network of reputation. But TER could not replace structural protection. It could reduce uncertainty. It could not eliminate it.

At the same time, the platform amplified surveillance. TER did not simply facilitate connection. It enabled ongoing evaluation. Clients documented details such as appearance, demeanor, behavior, perceived authenticity, communication style, and whether the encounter met expectations. This created a feedback loop where identity was continuously constructed and reconstructed through external observation. Michel Foucault’s concept of surveillance is relevant here, not in the sense of institutional discipline alone, but as a distributed system in which individuals internalize the possibility of being observed and adjust their behavior accordingly. I was not only Katie in the appointment. I was Katie under the shadow of the review that might follow.

The health implications of this structure became more visible over time. Emotional labor intensified under conditions of constant evaluation. The need to remain present, responsive, and engaging across interactions created cumulative strain. There was limited space for recovery between encounters, particularly when traveling. Fatigue did not always present as exhaustion. It often appeared as emotional flattening: a reduced capacity to fully engage or fully disengage. This aligns with research on burnout and cumulative stress, which shows that prolonged exposure to high-demand environments without adequate recovery leads to gradual psychological depletion rather than an acute breakdown.
Alcohol continued to play a role in managing this strain. In unfamiliar environments, it functioned as both a facilitator and a buffer. It helped bridge the gap between presence and distance, making it easier to engage while maintaining a sense of detachment. But its use also increased vulnerability, particularly in new settings where variables were less predictable. The same mechanism that reduced anxiety could also reduce precision in risk assessment. This is one of the quiet contradictions of coping inside unsupported labor: the thing that helps the worker continue can also increase exposure.

TER also highlighted the limitations of partial legality and inconsistent legal frameworks. In Rhode Island, indoor work existed within a legal gray zone during the years before recriminalization. While not fully criminalized in the same way as street-based prostitution, it was not regulated or meaningfully protected. When I traveled, that ambiguity shifted depending on jurisdiction. Some locations were more restrictive, others less so, but none provided a comprehensive safety framework. The legal variability did not eliminate the work. It fragmented the conditions under which it occurred. Touring amplified this fragmentation. It exposed me to multiple regulatory contexts while maintaining the expectation that I would manage risk effectively across them.

This fragmentation is central to the public-health argument. Risk is not simply a function of individual behavior. It is produced through the interaction between individuals and the environments they move through. When those environments lack consistent regulation, risk becomes uneven and difficult to manage collectively. A platform like TER partially addressed this by creating reputational infrastructure, but reputation infrastructure is not the same as labor infrastructure. It can help workers make better decisions, but it cannot provide health care, legal protection, labor rights, regulated workspaces, financial legitimacy, or formal recourse when something goes wrong.

This is why I believe people connected to TER—moderators, longtime providers, longtime clients, and community leaders—would have important expertise to offer in any serious discussion about decriminalization. Not because the website should become the government. Not because reviews alone should define safety. But because the people who built and maintained these informal systems understand the practical details that policymakers often miss. They know how screening works in real life. They know how anonymity can both protect and endanger. They know how reputation affects behavior. They know the difference between a new user, a dangerous user, a careless user, and a misunderstood user. They know that safety requires information, and that criminalization destroys it by forcing everyone to hide.

A serious decriminalization model would need to learn from these informal systems while also correcting their weaknesses. TER shows the value of shared knowledge, but it also shows the problem of relying on clients to narrate workers’ value. It shows the usefulness of reviews, but also the danger of surveillance. It shows the safety benefits of community, but also the absence of formal accountability. It shows how adults can build norms around consensual exchange, but also how those norms remain fragile when they are not backed by law, labor protection, health infrastructure, and worker-led governance. In that sense, TER is not a perfect model. It is evidence of what people created because the state failed to create something better.

At the time, I was not framing my experience in these terms. I was responding to what worked. TER worked on visibility and demand. TER helped me find better clientele. TER worked as a pastime, a chat space, a reputation system, and a route to my website. But it also intensified exposure: to surveillance, to expectation, to review culture, to mobility, to the pressure of consistency, and to the emotional strain of being publicly legible in a stigmatized market. I was moving through a network that rewarded visibility and mobility while leaving safety and health as individual responsibilities. The more successful I became within that network, the more responsibilities I took on.

And still, I cannot tell the story honestly without saying that TER made my work safer than it would have been otherwise. Not absolutely safe. Not structurally protected. Not free from stigma, surveillance, or risk. But safer in the practical sense that information

PART 4 OF 4

makes people safer. Reviews, forums, references, discussion threads, and reputation systems gave me tools I did not have on Craigslist. They helped me move from randomness to pattern, from anonymity to legibility, from broad exposure to a narrower client base. They helped me become high-end. They helped me tour. They helped me understand the market. They helped clients find me through my words as much as through my photographs. They turned conversation into advertising before I understood that was what was happening.

By the time I understood TER’s role in my life, I was no longer simply checking reviews. I was participating in a system that had become part of my business model, my safety practice, my social life, and my intellectual education about men, markets, law, and reputation. It was my favorite chat, but it was also a marketplace. It was a pastime, but it was also a promotion. It was community, but it was also surveillance. It was safer than total anonymity, but it was not protection. That complexity is what makes TER important to this manuscript. It shows how people build systems of survival inside conditions that refuse to recognize them as workers, professionals, or full participants in public policy.

Footnotes for Chapter 23

1. Rachel Botsman, Who Can You Trust? How Technology Brought Us Together and Why It Might Drive Us Apart (New York: PublicAffairs, 2017); Regina Lynn, “Johns Help Each Other Find the Right ‘Internet Sex Provider,’” Wired, March 19, 2008.
2. Elizabeth Bernstein, Temporarily Yours: Intimacy, Authenticity, and the Commerce of Sex (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007).
3. Tim Rhodes, “The ‘Risk Environment’: A Framework for Understanding and Reducing Drug-Related Harm,” International Journal of Drug Policy 13, no. 2 (2002): 85–94.
4. Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison (New York: Vintage, 1977).
5. Christina Maslach and Michael P. Leiter, The Truth About Burnout (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass, 1997).
6. Jon Brodkin, “‘Erotic Review’ Blocks US Internet Users to Prepare for Government Crackdown,” Ars Technica, April 9, 2018, https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2018/04/erotic-review-blocks-us-internet-users-to-prepare-for-government-crackdown/.
7. Regina Lynn, “Johns Help Each Other Find the Right ‘Internet Sex Pro-vider,’” Wired, March 19, 2008, https://www.wired.com/2008/03/johns-help-each-other-find-the-right-internet-sex-provider/.
8. Ray Stern, “TheEroticReview.com Founder, David Elms, Pleads Guilty to Trying to Hire Hit Man,” Phoenix New Times, February 10, 2010, https://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/news/theeroticreviewcom-founder-david-elms-pleads-guilty-to-trying-to-hire-hit-man-6663949/.
9. National Center on Sexual Exploitation, “Online Sexual Exploitation Creeping Back into U.S. Due to Lack of FOSTA-SESTA Enforcement,” December 2019, https://endsexualexploitation.org/articles/online-sexual-exploitation-creeping-back-into-u-s-due-to-lack-of-fosta-sesta-enforcement/.
10. The Erotic Review, “Erotic Humor Discussion Board,” accessed May 13, 2026, https://www.theeroticreview.com/discussion_boards/messageList.asp?boardID=22.
11. THEEROTICREVIEW.COM trademark/service description records describe the site’s services as adult-entertainment chat rooms and adult-oriented humor and photography provided via a global computer network; see THEEROTICREVIEW.COM trademark records, accessed May 13, 2026.
12. Jon Brodkin, “‘Erotic Review’ Blocks US Internet Users”; National Center on Sexual Exploitation, “Online Sexual Exploitation Creeping Back into U.S.”

The "Men Were Not Monsters." It begins with a quote from this board, but it's not attributed to anyone. And then the chapter about the education that I received from hobbyists, I would like to post that here, but umm, I'm only posting it if you guys are gonna read it and reply with your thoughts! And this is really my love letter to you guys as I sit here reading it... Thank you for this life!

I'm just speaking for myself...some liked War and Peace, me... I like Mad
But you do you..free world

Thank you for your honesty!!! It's long, so I could make it "academic". And A LOT of research went into it. Now that it's at the publisher, I'm kinda just trying to refigure out what to do with my days... I'm an empty nester kinda now!  

 
Next book is gonna be on nursing/medical education/training hospitals, but I'm not jumping right into it.... You're lucky you're Lucky!

 
Kiss,
K

OK I’ve never heard of you and I don’t think a book about The Erotic Review is a very good idea -for TER, for the TER community, for you, or your publisher - in this post -FOSTA world but your narrative did draw me in for Parts 1 and 2. Better make sure you understand the Communications Decency Act, the scope of FOSTA criminal liability, and the scope of FOSTA civil liability, however,  before you go forward with this. And have you thought of the consequences that will arise when artificial intelligence penetrates these forums?

            But the writing was impressive. “They understand how danger appears in language before it appears in the room.” Not sure I would give them that much credit but that sentence alone raised your narrative WAY above the usual “Happy Hooker” efforts I have seen. For better or worse, you have put a lot of thought and effort into this and you may be the first scholar-escort – but I would say Bravo.

Messaging you