I’ve paid for sex with women. While this isn’t a point of pride, I’ll admit having done it frequently. Chastise me if you wish, but this is what guys who can’t find a willing partner end up doing. We can live in celibacy, or we can pay. I’ve come to terms with my decision to pay. My most shameful moments haven’t involved opening my wallet. Instead, I’ve winced at some of what my hired sex partners have said to me. These moments have stayed with me longer than the stigma of paying has.
Many of my encounters have been wonderful. I struggle to sufficiently emphasize how important some of these encounters have been for me. Other encounters have been memorable, but for the wrong reasons. The difference between positive and negative encounters often has hinged on just a few words. A quip comment here or there has had more impact than whatever happened physically. I’ve had escorts who have known exactly what to say to make their client (me) feel wonderful. I’ve had others make brutally discouraging comments, whether out of spite or carelessness. I suppose I’ve brought these on myself each time, but hearing the truth from them has been grating.
Early in my days of patronizing, I recall being with a truly dazzling young woman at a spa. I could see her genuine beauty beneath the layers of face paint. While she delicately tugged me, I asked her if she ever sincerely got excited doing her job. Was it ever enjoyable, or was it always an unsavory chore? She responded by asking me if I would do it. I took her literally, looking at her while she held me in her hand. I said no. What I meant was I wouldn’t do it for guys, which only was because I wasn’t into guys. I would’ve done it for women, if any market for that existed. By the time I added this, I realized I’d asked and said too much. I’d lost her. She later mentioned the specials available in the hot tub, which included as much contact as I would like. I asked about price. She smirked and said the specials weren’t available that night and I’d have to come back for those. She added that she wouldn’t want to do that with me anyway.
Years later, I was with an escort whose attractiveness intimidated me. I was paying much more to be with her than I usually paid. She worked at an in-call place, which essentially was a classy brothel. After we took care of payment, she asked what I wanted to do with my session. Not expecting to be asked, I rather bluntly said I wanted to have sex. I suppose my tone sounded too formal for her liking. She covered herself slightly and asked if I was a cop. Cowering and apologetic, I said no. The damage was done, though. That one moment soured the mood for the rest of the session. I ended up having clumsy, strained sex with a gorgeous escort. Poor me.
My first experience with outcall was strained as well. I was excited to have someone come to my place. For an hour before she arrived, I paced, cleaned, and did sets of push-ups. When she arrived, I was surprised by how tall she was. She stood five or six inches taller than me. I actually wondered if she (or the guy waiting in the car) would rob me. Perhaps I was unfairly judgmental, but her appearance made me wonder this, too. For as refined as that in-call model was, this woman was rough-hewn and had an air of danger about her. I got over my concerns when she got undressed. When we started, I said I wanted her on all fours. Maybe this was a mistake, because I struggled somewhat to position myself behind her. When I finally managed to find the best angle, I slid inside and came after maybe twenty pumps. She looked up and said, “Oh, already? Talk about tension relief!” I figured she had encountered this often enough to be used to it. I’m glad she didn’t laugh. My guess is she was happy to only have to work for a few minutes. I felt too ashamed to try again.
There were other indelibly disappointing experiences. A masseuse complained about her drug dealer boyfriend while she massaged me. Another one went on about clients with small equipment while lying to me about how mine was fine. Still, there were those others who really helped me feel right. They also were the liars, but I appreciated their lies. They told me I had stamina, that I was a fun lay, and that they’d been thinking about me since my last session. They made me feel wanted even when I knew they were lying. I got to have a few tender (but expensive) moments I still relish. I’m grateful for the good and bad. At least someone touched me.