I kept the dirty secrets of famous men for years. Then I was sexually assaulted by a celebrity everyone loves. It was the last straw: AMANDA GOFF’s most raw confession yet

Amanda Goff, a successful journalist and author, was 38 years old when she became Samantha X, Australia’s most famous escort. 

Years later, a bipolar diagnosis changed everything: she retired from sex work, walked away from her old identity, and went in search of Amanda. 

In her new memoir, Misfit, she writes as herself for the very first time, delving into her mental health diagnosis, addiction issues and her changed view of men.

The experiences I have had and continue to have with men as Amanda have made me lose all respect for (most) men. I never really wanted to be the angry feminist. The word ‘patriarchy’ is bandied around so much that it irritates me. 

Things aren’t that bad… being a woman is so powerful… use your femininity more… men love us… stop being so bloody angry, it’s embarrassing. 

I prided myself on being kind, loving and respectful towards men. I’ve always stuck up for them. 

But I have become cynical. I don’t trust them anymore, I don’t want them in my home anymore because I am nervous around them, and I am finding it hard to even like them. I’ve lost respect for them.

But men haven’t changed. I have. I am drawing a very thick, bold line in the sand. I’ve had enough. 

That will anger men. I am no longer ‘on their side’. They will call me horrible names and vilify me. Not all men!

No, not all men, just the ones who have abused me, and there have been plenty. Those men have tarred you all with the same dirty brush.

Don’t blame me; blame them.

That will upset them, and when their ego has taken a knock the vitriol comes out. Hell hath no fury like a man who has been humiliated by a woman.

But it upsets me more. It really does.

Did I get it wrong the whole time as Samantha?

I need to be careful here. I can’t identify the men who have abused me as Amanda. I say men plural because, as you know by now, there have been many. 

Some are in the public eye, pride themselves on being happily married; they’re on the front covers of magazines with their loving partners, portray themselves as good and loyal family men – men who have forced me to touch their penis or locked me in their office so they couldn’t escape. 

I read an interview with one of these men recently, written by a journalist I know.

What a f***ing joke. 

My stomach lurched. I felt angry, nauseated. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. I probably hate myself more for ‘letting it happen’. 

Samantha was my saviour for a decade – where the hell was she when I needed her?

Usually I wouldn’t say anything, I wouldn’t give men away. I would protect their dirty secrets. I would keep it to myself. But I am sick of protecting these predators now. 

We say in recovery our secrets make us sick. These men make me sick. I don’t owe this creep anything. I don’t owe any of them anything. I’m coming after you. I’m warning other women.

‘Eugh, not this awful man,’ I texted my journalist friend.

‘Oh no, another one? What happened?’ they fired back immediately. 

I paused before I typed. Was this really such a good idea? What if it gets out?

F*** him, Amanda. You don’t owe men anything.

Like I said, I’ve had enough. 

I told my friend about the time he invited me to see his new office. He knew I was leaving sex work and needed a place to write. ‘I think you will love this space,’ he said.

‘Come and have a look. It would be great to work with you.’

Excited, grateful and with a feeling of hope for my future, I’d turned up to have a look round. ‘Great to see you, Amanda!’ 

He beamed and invited me into his office, closing the door behind me.

We exchanged pleasantries; he was hungover after his Christmas party; I had just had surgery. ‘New boobs!’ I grinned.

He walked towards me. ‘Touch this,’ he said, grabbing his erection. 

‘What?’

‘Come on, you’re so hot. Make me c**.’ 

‘Really? Stop, seriously. Someone will walk in,’ I laughed nervously. 

‘No, they won’t.’ He unzipped his pants and grabbed my hand. I froze.

I won’t say too much more but I sat in my car for half an hour afterwards and cried. How stupid of me to believe I had a future as Amanda. How stupid was I to think he was genuinely interested in helping me succeed?

How on earth had I got it so wrong? What was I doing so wrong? Why did I bring it out in men? It was all my fault. 

Other men are far more subtle, far more manipulative. I was introduced to a powerful businessman, recently married, who creeped his way into my life. 

He went from offering me a huge business opportunity to asking himself over to my home late at night, just ‘being in the area’. Once he even rang my buzzer, having got my address from an email. (I pretended I wasn’t in when he texted to say he was outside.)

He would quietly ask on our business calls if I had sex these days, if I still enjoyed lovemaking, whether my breasts hurt my back, how his wife didn’t understand him. Cliché after cliché. 

‘I have urges, Amanda, I have strong urges.’ Was he talking to me or himself? ‘My wife is always sick, she has depression, she barely even talks to me. A woman with your experience, Amanda, you know what it’s like for us guys. I just feel you can understand me can’t you?’

It was hugely disappointing. There is always an agenda. You might have thought those days were over for women. They’re not and they never will be. 

I managed to detach myself, which meant the end of any business arrangement for me, but I don’t care. I blocked his number. I won’t ever see him again. 

My safety and well-being are more important. I want to protect myself in a little cocoon with my secure steel gates around my heart, around my body and around my home. 

This is an edited extract from Misfit: The Unravelling of Samantha X by Amanda Goff, published by Echo on 4 March 2025 priced at $34.99.