The ripples from a landmark court sentence in Australia are stretching far beyond the wood-panelled walls of the local courthouse: when a client doesn’t cough up the agreed fee for sexual services, it’s now not just a dodgy deal — it can be prosecuted as sexual assault. This seismic shift in consent law interpretation is shaking up how the justice system treats non-payment of sex workers’ services, forcing a public reckoning with what genuine consent means in a world where cash and consent can be shockingly intertwined, and placing survivors of exploitative behaviour front and centre of legal protections in NSW and beyond.
This isn’t some hypothetical legal theory tossed around in law school lecture halls. In one of the first convictions under the Crimes Act reforms in New South Wales, Harjeet Saini was found guilty after repeatedly booking sex workers, promising payment that never landed, and refusing to pay for services rendered — conduct now treated by prosecutors as sexual assault under the state’s updated consent regime. The case, brought by freelance sex worker and trans woman Natasha Ambrose, has been hailed by advocates as a watershed moment that “game-changes” how the legal system recognises fraud and deceit as vitiating consent.
Up until recently, if a client stiffed a sex worker, it was usually dealt with as a civil dispute — a matter of contracts and small-claims courts rather than criminal justice. That left many workers stuck between a rock and a hard place, chasing payment while facing a legal system that historically hasn’t taken their safety or rights very seriously. Scarlet Alliance, the national peak sex worker organisation, has for decades campaigned for equal legal protections, safety and justice for people in the industry — in a country where sex work is decriminalised in some states, like NSW and Victoria, yet still lives in a patchwork of laws and social stigma.
What’s different now is how “consent” is legally understood. The reforms to the Crimes Act 1900 in NSW, part of a broader suite of consent law updates introduced in recent years, recognise that consent must be free, informed and genuine — and that tricking someone into sex by, say, promising payment that never comes, invalidates that consent. This “fraudulent inducement” concept puts agency and autonomy at the forefront of legal culpability — a crucial shift from older frameworks that focused narrowly on the absence of a “no”.
The implications are massive. Australian states like Victoria have previously applied similar logic in affirmative consent laws, ruling that non-payment and other deceptions can indeed constitute sexual assault. Rachel Payne, a Victorian MP, noted that such cases of clients trying to wiggle out of payment are “all too common” — and that the law needs to catch up to the lived reality of workers on the ground.
But it’s not all smooth sailing. Ambrose’s case also highlighted worrying gaps in frontline police understanding. Lawyers supporting sex workers reported that many officers initially dismissed reports as civil matters precisely because of outdated attitudes toward the industry. Only after repeated advocacy — and, at times, educating officers about the very laws they’re meant to enforce — did cases begin to be taken seriously.
Beyond the legal mechanics, cultural context matters. Australia’s broader conversation about sexual autonomy and the rights of marginalised communities has been shifting in recent years, influenced by campaigns like #LetHerSpeak and efforts to modernise sexual consent frameworks nationally. These movements have aimed to dismantle rape myths and broaden understanding of what genuine consent looks like, even as statistics show that only a small fraction of reported sexual assaults result in convictions.
Those who grew up in Australia learned about “having a go” and mateship, but that laid-back stereotype doesn’t fly when someone is being duplicitous or exploitative. The nuance in the law now reflects that sexual autonomy isn’t something to be bargained away, joked about, or brushed off when someone tries to wriggle out of their obligations. And for sex workers — an often marginalised workforce still battling stigma, discrimination, and unsafe conditions — these changes represent more than just legal jargon: they signal respect, recognition, and a right to safety on par with any other worker.
As the nation watches how these cases unfold and how police and courts adapt, one thing is clear: the dialogue around consent and payment is expanding. What was once ignored or trivialised is now being treated with the seriousness it deserves — and that, for many, couldn’t come soon enough.
Spicy Auntie here, heels off, brain on, temper lightly simmering. Let’s get one thing straight before some bloke in the back mutters “technicality”: if you agree to pay for sex and then decide to do a runner, you didn’t just nick someone’s time or services — you violated their consent. Full stop. No philosophical wankery required.
For years, clients who didn’t pay prostitutes hid behind a convenient fog of respectability. “It’s a civil matter.” “It’s just a business dispute.” “She should’ve known better.” Funny how the law suddenly got very delicate when the worker was a sex worker. But consent is not a vibes-based arrangement. It’s conditional. And in this case, the condition was payment. No cash, no consent. Simple maths, even for men who failed Year 9.
What really fries Auntie’s nerves is the performative shock now rippling through certain corners of Australia. “Sexual assault? That’s a bit much, isn’t it?” No, darlings. What’s a bit much is thinking you can access someone’s body through deception and then cry foul when the law calls it what it is. If you lied about wearing a condom, we already understand that consent collapses. If you lie about who you are, the same. Payment is no different. Sex workers are not vending machines that malfunction when you forget to insert coins.
And let’s talk about respectability politics. These cases make people uncomfortable because they force an honest admission: prostitutes are not outside the moral universe. Their consent counts exactly as much as anyone else’s. That discomfort isn’t about legal complexity — it’s about lingering stigma. Some still believe that once money enters the room, consent becomes flexible, negotiable, or somehow less sacred. Auntie calls bullshit. Consent doesn’t become cheaper just because it’s invoiced.
The real scandal here isn’t that clients are being charged. It’s how long it took. Sex workers have been saying this for decades, while police shrugged, courts squinted, and society looked the other way. Now the law is finally catching up to what workers already knew: deception is violence when it removes choice.
So here’s Auntie’s message to clients tempted to play clever games: if you can’t afford the service, jog on. If you lie to get sex, that’s sexual assault. And if this makes you nervous, good. That’s what accountability feels like.