Sex work is not particularly kind to a 55-year-old woman.

Sex work is acutely unrewarding in the time of coronavirus.

Lisa B, living and working out of an Etobicoke hotel, made $10,000 in January, $8,000 in February, $5,000 in March. But that was before she was kicked to the curb for nonpayment of rent, along with her two Shih Tzus, Cookie and Daisy.

She’s never strolled the streets.

In the weeks since, Lisa has borrowed money from family, used up the complimentary nights accumulated on her credit card points program, gratefully accepted “donations” from a few long-time johns and, on many a night, slept in the car. She couldn’t find a shelter that would allow her dogs.

Three days ago, she landed an Airbnb condo, a stock that has dwindled with property managers increasingly banning short-term rentals because of COVID-19.

While Lisa has continued to see a handful of regular customers, most of her commerce since the pandemic struck has been online — Face-Timing, virtual sex sessions and the like.

“I have to survive. But my business has virtually dried up.’’

Her specialty is role-playing — acting the fantasy mommy for men with that niche kink. Her age isn’t a drawback.

Lisa, who didn’t want her last name used to save her family from embarrassment, will gladly stay indoors, as health authorities and civic officials are strongly urging. But she has to bring strangers into her home to make money. There is no social safety net for prostitutes, at least not in Ontario. Unlike British Columbia, where sex workers are explicitly included in $500-per-month rent relief during the pandemic and a one-time $1,000 payment.

“We’re not considered essential workers,’’ says Lisa.

Although of course they are and have been since time immemorial. Even after the virus hit heights of public panic, Lisa had clients who came to her hotel suite directly upon landing at the airport. She tried screening, asking if they’d been to countries of vast contagion or had contact with someone who had. But she can hardly wear protective gear or ask it of her clients.

“What am I going to say, put on a mask?’’

Some sex seekers aren’t even willing to wear condoms — higher price, higher assumed risk.

The best Lisa can do — she has no COVID-19 symptoms — is scrub everything and change the sheets after every session.

Maybe there won’t be much sympathy for someone like Lisa, who’s been turning tricks — sans pimp — since getting fired from a waitressing job more than three decades ago. There’s not a great deal of respect for the profession and few workplace health and safety provisions.

Lisa had been paying between $60 and $100 a day just to run multiple ads on LeoList. That was part of her business overhead, which contributed to a sudden financial collapse.

“I was making really good money for someone of my age in the sex trade,’’ she says. Indeed, Lisa estimates that upwards of $200,000 went through her bank account over the past 18 months. But when she was evicted, the bank turned a deaf ear to her pleadings. “I begged the manager several times, over email and phone, for a relatively small loan so I could quarantine myself. My bank refused each time, despite the prime minister stating that the government was easing up on bank rules.

“I kept hearing stay at home, stay at home, but I had no home and I had to pay $150 per day for the hotel.’’

She’d been residing at the Etobicoke hotel for 17 months as a “low-key, low-maintenance guest,” during which she paid about $75,000 for the room, management quite aware of her prostitution activity.

“Location matters 100 per cent for my business,’’ Lisa explains, and she drew a significant chunk of her clientele from travellers, the hotel located close to Pearson.

She was careful to keep all (non-sex) receipts for tax writeoff purposes. “Just like a legitimate independent business, which I am.”

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In February, Lisa began to fall behind on the rent because there was far less money coming in. She was down to two or three clients a week.

“During February and March, I was literally giving them 70 to 80 per cent of my earnings, just to keep up with the bill,’’ she explained in an earlier email.

What she owed climbed to $1,500. But even as Lisa settled that debt, the day-to-day bill kept amassing. Then her car broke down. “My ignition switch broke and I drove with a screwdriver and duct tape because I prioritized the hotel.’’

A new manager was far less accommodating to her situation, even as the money went directly from a client’s pocket to the front desk. Lisa appealed to the former manager, who was now a regional executive for the hotel chain.

“Please let me stay,” she beseeched. “I will pay, I will catch up. But if you kick me out, you will put me out of business.

“He said, ‘You don’t give away your product without upfront payment, the hotel can’t either.’”

The hotel, she said, had only a 30 per cent occupancy by then, first week in March, and she’d been, until that point, a trustworthy guest. Could they not even comp her a few more nights, as a regular patron, till she could make alternate arrangements?

“I kept thinking that if I had a customer who paid me every single day for 522/523 days I would definitely be able to give him a few more freebies if it meant he would still keep coming back every day thereafter, even for half the money.’’

But a hotel isn’t a brothel, despite everyone’s awareness.

On March 10, the cops were pounding on her door. Lisa had no choice but to vacate, dragging away garbage bags full of her possessions. That night, she slept in the hotel parking lot.

She reached out for help on Twitter. A man met her at McDonald’s and handed over $100, expecting nothing in return. A client e-transferred another $100. The nearby Moxie’s Restaurant where she’d taken most of her meals gave $200.

Lisa cobbled together enough cash to secure a cheaper room at another hotel. Then she couch-surfed, crashed in the car as necessary.

It’s been a grasping, frantic few weeks. As an aggressive tweeter and sex trade activist, she was inundated by “scammers” who wanted her to partner in schemes to defraud government assistance programs — she declined — and even more than the usual pack of haters. “Lisa, you nasty slut, pandemic outside and still selling p----.’’

Some women, like Lisa — that’s all they’ve got.