Why Tipping Companions Will Buy You Nothing: On Generosity, Kant, and the German railway

A close friend of mine recently sought my advice as he prepared to meet a companion for the first time. He wanted to know how to ensure the experience was enjoyable for both him and his guest. I was genuinely pleased he turned to me—it felt exciting, like watching someone step into a new world with trust in your guidance. “Ask me anything,” I told him. “I’ll share whatever you need to know.”

His first question was about tipping: should he tip? And if so, how much?

I explained that while tipping isn’t expected, it’s always appreciated. I also suggested he bring a small gift instead or as an addition —nothing extravagant, just something thoughtful. “It’s the gesture that matters,” I said.

He hesitated. “If it doesn’t have to be much, why bother at all?”

Without thinking, I replied, “Generosity. It’s a way of showing that you’re generous.”

But even as I said it—cue Carrie Bradshaw voice—I couldn’t help but wonder: what does generosity really mean in the world of high-end escorting? Was I just reinforcing the tired old stereotype that women in this line of work are only in it for the money—cash, diamonds, handbags, actual gold? And by answering so quickly, so comfortably, had I just bought into that story myself?

But then again, why are we so quick to assume there’s anything wrong with common stereotypes, when most of the time they do have at least a toe in reality? Think of common tropes about ‘sensitive women,’ ‘loud Americans,’ ‘romantic French people,’ ‘extravagant gays,’ or ‘punctual Germans.’ Chances are you’ve met a few of these types before. So have I. But I struggle to see that as necessarily a problem. While reductive by nature, stereotypes often reflect a grain of truth.

But sometimes reality throws us a curveball. Consider the stereotype of German punctuality, for example. How do we reconcile that with, say, the German Railroad? How can we marry the idea that Germans are famously punctual with the abomination that is Deutsche Bahn? The problem isn’t the stereotype—it’s the expectation we attach to it. That’s what makes it hard to accept anything that doesn’t fit neatly into the box. And before you know it, we’re just... disappointed.

Ok, I’ve derailed a bit—sorry, really—let me get back on track. But all this to say: many of us, yes, worship Plutus, or whichever god of wealth and money you like. And honestly, I don’t see an immediate problem with recognizing this. A lot of us are dealing with a pretty heavy scarcity complex (Angelica’s fictional memoir paints a poignant picture of this). It’s pretty much a fact that sex workers, as a whole, want and desire money. It’s our job, after all. And sometimes it’s even a little bit of a turn-on. But material compensation isn’t the kind of generosity I was talking about to my friend and prospective perfect client. Just like we don’t pay the check at a restaurant because we’re feeling “generous,” paying our rate, while appreciated, is not an act of generosity. So, what can generosity mean within the context of paid companionship?

Oh, I’m so glad you asked. Let’s take this to the… realm of moral philosophy?

In ethics, there’s a distinction between morally neutral actions, acts we do out of duty, and supererogatory acts. Immanuel Kant, famous for his ideas about universal moral laws, maxims, and duties, didn’t have much room for supererogatory acts in his philosophy. For Kant, an action has moral worth only if it’s done out of duty. A supererogatory act, on the other hand, is one that’s good but not morally required. So in Kant’s world, generosity—doing something above and beyond what’s required—would likely be seen as “doing too much,” or showing off (I won’t bore you with the scholarly debates—interpretation is everything, after all). But then again: homebody Kant probably wouldn’t make the most thrilling client. There’d be no joie de vivre there.

For me, generosity is supererogatory: it’s doing something, giving something, that you don’t technically have to, but you want to anyway. In a world that’s constantly transactional, a world that dehumanizes us by turning us all into consumers rather than citizens, gift-giving is an antidote. Sure, sex work is transactional, just like going to a restaurant, getting a massage, or doing a yoga class. The conditions are clear, and paying for our time acknowledges that what we do is work in a capitalist system. But generosity I think is different. It shows that you understand that human experience can’t be fully compensated for. It’s a soft refusal to let capitalism define the terms of the interaction.

Under our current system, everything is a transaction: time for money, effort for stars, care for tips. But human experiences? Those aren’t easily billed. You can’t exactly invoice patience, or slap a price tag on dignity. So when you go beyond the bare minimum—by tipping, bringing a thoughtful gift, taking her to her favorite restaurant, ordering her the extra serving of chu-toro nigiri, having the champagne she loves on ice, sending her to the spa, or offering a separate hotel room so she can actually get some sleep—you’re piercing the illusion that this is all just about checks and balances.

It’s a way of saying: “I see you. I see that your role cannot possibly contain all that you are.” Sure, we might be in the same script, but we don’t have to follow it word for word. You’re not just fulfilling a function. You actually exist, and I am responding to that.

In this context, generosity—this supererogatory action—is humanizing. It restores an asymmetry that is at the heart of real relationships. It acknowledges that not everything should balance out. A little extra creates space—for the unexpected, for real connection, for grace. It says: you are more than just a role, more than just a stereotype.

And in a world that trains us to only give as much as we’ll get—or as much as we feel “indebted” to—generosity becomes radical. It insists that value isn’t always reciprocal, that what’s human can’t be fully priced.

In Dutch, there’s this verb that’s almost untranslatable: gunnen. To “gun” something to someone is like wanting them to have something—without any agenda. My father always used to say that sometimes you just have to gun someone something. Whether he was selling something at a flea market for far below its market value on King’s Day, or giving something away with no strings attached, he’d always say this. No ulterior motive, just the joy of giving for the sake of giving.

At first glance, it may seem like using money and gifts—the most capitalist of tools—to push back against capitalism is a contradiction. But I don’t see it that way. It’s about how they is given, why, and with what awareness. It’s about this gunnen. It’s not a transaction, nor a ‘fair exchange’ on the free market.

In the companion-client relationship, the dynamic is shaped by both certain power relations and pre-scripted roles. The client has money as their most obvious currency, but they also have attentiveness and real care to give. Companions may offer something less easily defined that exceeds any demand on a menu of services may: attention to detail, holding space, remembering your favorite piece of art, presence. When they show up, it’s unmistakable.

So both sides give, but in different ways. And when both understand that the interaction holds more than what’s on paper—when the client gives materially with heart, and the provider gives emotionally with integrity—something transcends the transactional.

Generosity is the gift that doesn’t take. It’s the gift that escapes the logic of debt and exchange. And in those moments when we feel generous, we might just remember that no human act is fully compensable. And even (or perhaps: especially!) in structured exchanges like paid companionship, we have the chance to humanize each other beyond the roles we’ve been assigned.

So the next time you’re wondering whether you should go that extra mile, or make that sweet gesture, or add a little tip, do it knowing that it will not buy you anything – and that that’s exactly the point.