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 about her love/hate relationship with her surgically enhanced chest, including the warning her sister gave her before her final – and biggest – boob job.
And she reveals that after saving up enough money, she has finally made the life-changing decision to have them reduced.
Alcohol is an addictive drug, and if you drink a lot, you’ll get addicted. It only became a problem in my forties, when I was Samantha, at the height of my career. I don’t know why: Was it the job? Was it unresolved trauma and pain? Was it just building up for a very long time?
Whatever the reason, it was a problem. And it wasn’t just the booze, it was what came with it – cocaine, passing out, black-outs, bruises, risky decisions, dark thoughts. I was poisoning my body very slowly. I was trying to die. Part of me was already dead.
I couldn’t stop by myself. Not many people can. Willpower wasn’t and isn’t enough. I reluctantly, yet desperately, found the rooms of a 12-step recovery program, and as I am writing this, I haven’t had alcohol for nearly five years; drugs for almost three years.
Mail+ columnist Amanda Goff opens up in her memoir, Misfit, about one of her most profound regrets: having very large breast implants
For her final breast op, Amanda hit the legal limit for how much silicone you can legally have
That could all turn to s*** in an hour, tonight, tomorrow, who knows? This program is one day at a time. I am close to five years alcohol free right here, right now. And now is all we have, isn’t it?
Some days I love being sober, others I really resent it. Sobriety kicked off the unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach about being Samantha. I couldn’t numb the way I was feeling anymore. Sobriety changed my life in the way nothing else has.
In early sobriety, everything was clear, sparkly, confronting.
It’s not so much the looks from men; it’s the looks from women. I can see it in their disapproving glances. I am not one of them. I don’t look like I could be one of their friends. I feel it.
My hair suddenly looked too bleached blonde; my lips too filled. My hair is darker now, I had my lips dissolved. I want smaller boobs now, having been under the knife, was it four or five times? I can’t remember. Maybe even six. I now have 1050cc under my chest muscle. If you don’t know how big that is, let me assure you they are huge.
The biggest you can legally go in Australia.
And I hate them and love them, depending what day it is, and how I feel about myself, whether I’m high or low, manic or depressed.
My surgeon Dr Pouria Moradi did a brilliant job, don’t get me wrong. My boobs give me power. I always joke I could probably get away with murder being blonde and big boobed.
I got away with a lot. I see men’s eyes go straight to my chest; I watch as they try not to look, but I always catch them taking a glance. Of course they’re going to look. I made them big so they would look. Samantha did, anyway. It used to make me feel powerful. It still does.
Amanda has always been used to men staring – but over time she became sensitive to the judgmental looks of other women
‘I can see it in their disapproving glances. I am not one of them. I don’t look like I could be one of their friends. I feel it,’ Amanda writes
Men say they prefer the natural look. Let me tell you from experience: what men say and what they actually mean are two very different things. Men are basic. They are visual.
They like boobs. They stare. I know men have chatted me up purely based on the size of my breasts. They are mesmerised by breasts, absolutely mesmerised. I feel like I have magic power over them, really I do. Don’t believe men who say they don’t like big fake boobs – they do. Doesn’t mean they want their wife to have them, but they can’t help but look at other women.
And yes, I admit it. Part of me worries that if I get them taken out, no man will ever look at me again. Hardly very feminist of me, but that’s the truth. Most women secretly want to be desired by someone. Everyone does.
I made a career out of being sexual, desirable. Could I really take my implants out? Go back to being flat – and now, with age, floppy? Where would my power come from then?
My surgeon doesn’t think I’d cope. Even my friend Tab who is surgery-free (and Botox-free) doesn’t think it’s a good idea. ‘Just get smaller ones,’ she says.
Maybe, maybe.
But still, as Amanda, I am self-conscious about them, painfully so. I feel awkward at the beach in the summer. I won’t wear low-cut tops. Pilates is my passion now; I’ve toned up.
My enormous boobs look alien on my slender body. I am self-conscious in activewear. It’s not so much the looks from men; it’s the looks from women. I can see it in their disapproving glances. I am not one of them. I don’t look like I could be one of their friends. I feel it. I don’t want to be in your gang anyway, lady …
If only they knew what I was really like. I envy their acceptance of their bodies. I envy their small, natural boobs, with their message loud and clear: I am who I am. Oh, to be that confident; to have that much self-esteem. I feel like I have butchered my body for the validation of men.
My sister warned me against getting my final boob job.
The bigger my boobs got, the more validated I felt, and it was like a drug, a hit. And now this. Ridiculously big. I’m not saying all women with huge breasts look stupid. I am talking about me
After giving up Samantha, it took Amanda a while to save up enough money to get her breasts reduced
You will be wearing your insecurity outside for everyone to see, she said, with love.
I scoffed then. Now, I wish I’d listened.
The first boob job was for me. I wanted to look good in clothes and feel good naked. Then I became Samantha.
I had money to spare, I got greedy. I noticed how lustfully men stared, so I wanted bigger, then bigger. It was the addict in me. If I got bigger, my life would be perfect. If I had one more drink, I would be happier. If I had more money, that dress, those shoes… you get it.
I had the biggest boobs, I had lots of money, a nice car and designer clothes, and I still wanted to kill myself, so if you think it works, it doesn’t. Nothing fills that hole in the soul; a sports car didn’t fix it, being desired by men didn’t fix it, alcohol didn’t fix it, and neither did the size of my tits.
The bigger my boobs got, the more validated I felt, and it was like a drug, a hit. And now this. Ridiculously big. I’m not saying all women with huge breasts look stupid. I am talking about me. I have a petite frame. My breasts are a constant reminder of my past, of being sexualised.
But slowly, slowly. I need to save money to have them reduced. I’m not making the big bucks anymore, so that will take time. I am resentful of not having as much disposable income. One huge disadvantage of not being Samantha anymore.
They say the best thing about getting sober is your feelings come back, and the worst thing about it is that your feelings come back.
Sometimes the clarity you get is unbearably painful. F*** me – was I really that bad? Sharing in meetings, listening to others, realising a few hard-hitting truths gave me the answer: yes, Amanda, it was really that bad. You were a f***ing mess.
The way I see it, I’ve given up drinking, l’ve given up drugs, and now I’ve given up Samantha.
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.
