I Like Women

I'm 41 and divorced. I have had a few girlfriends since breaking up, but the combination of a demanding job and the fact I spend most weekends with my children means I am usually single.

I have a high sex drive - not freakish, but I like sex, and I like women. I started seeing working girls after I'd been single for 6 months, and have had the usual range of experiences - I even made friends with one of the girls.

A few weeks ago, I arranged to see a girl who advertised on a web site. Her online persona is very much the crazy cumslut porn queen - she wears exotic make-up, has huge silicon boobs, and in her blog wonders if she's a slut or a whore.

I visited the hotel where she was staying, expecting a full-on session of filthy porno sex - and I wasn't disappointed. Thing is, afterwards, we chatted for a bit - and she opened up to me, a total stranger who had paid her for sex - about her life. She showed me pictures of her cats, told me about her no-good ex husband, how she was hoping to move to a remote place and just have lots of animals. She told me about her boyfriend, and how her submissive bedroom persona was matched by a bossy and demanding real world attitude.

I fell a little bit in love with her - wanted to hold her and make her feel safe. Of course, I knew that to her I was just another nameless guy with a hard-on, so I suppressed the feeling.

I'm Faithful In Every Other Sense Of The Word

I don't know how I got interested in prostitutes, but as I get older, and my sex drive increases, I find they're more of a necessity and less of a lark. If I don't get some kind of release at least once a week (and masturbation doesn't do it for me nearly as well as someone else doing it), in a massage parlor or with a prostitute.

I'm happily married, but my wife and I don't have sex nearly as often as we used to before our daughter was born, and unfortunately, it's starting to wear on me. Not only that, but when we do end up having sex, I have to do all the work, get her all worked up and then get to humpin' at her command. It's fine and everything, but sometimes it's nice to have someone focus on me, and my sexual needs and wants, for a change.

It's not emotional betrayal but rather a physical one, but I strangely don't feel guilty after, probably because I'm faithful in every other sense of the word. I always, always, always wear a condom so I don't bring anything home, but I think I'm getting more turned on by the random nature of the hooker-john relationship and the sexual freedom prostitutes engender.

Every time I go to a brothel, it gets a little bit more fun, also. The freedom I enjoy, the challenge of finding a whore I connect well with and can enjoy the act with, rather than it just be someone who's there because she has to be. The last time I went, I got to have sex with an older (then me, she was about 38. I'm 31) Russian lady, who still occupies a warm place in my heart because she looked me in the eyes as I climaxed and genuinely seemed to be interested in my pleasure.

That's what turns me on.

I've Seen Every Kind Of Hooker Going

I've often heard women wonder why men with sexy wives or girlfriends would solicit prostitutes. The answer really is simple: Even Marilyn Monroe could get a little boring after a few years, and having sex with other women is fun. Just like skiing is fun, or eating chocolate cake, or playing a slot machine, or riding a roller coaster. If you get over the guilt of the lying first. Or like me, if you are in an open relationship. Sex with a working girl is easier than a bar or party hook up, and they won't want to have a real serious relationship with you like 90 % of the women I've slept with. Some guys can't keep em, I can't get rid of them.

I've seen every kind of hooker going--classy hotel incalls, quickies, all nighters, girls who are brilliant and totally together and are just doing it for a year long lark and extra cash, siliconed strippers who show up totally high and bore you with their coke rant, and others keep telling you they are about to graduate school and quit the biz, only to see their online ads for years to come. Mostly it's fine, sometimes a blessing, sometimes depressing a little, but I love the simplicity of it. You make a phone call, she comes over, within minutes she's naked, you're fucking her, and then you are done. Both of us know what the rules are, with no discussion beforehand or questions after. Hook ups and dating are never that clear.

I like Asian girls (have since I was a teen). I like their skin, their soft features, their hair. I ordered one over in the middle of the day a month ago. I was very horny, and only wanted a little talk before sex, but after fucking her, cumming on her face and helping her clean up, it's always a good time to get to know someone with the remaining part of the hour. She was straight off the boat. With Human Trafficking being the boogie man of the 21st century, I wanted to find out how she came to NYC and this line of work.

She told me that she was a PE teacher in China, and that she knew of women who had married American men, and it had worked out well for them. She joined an agency, and was chosen by a man. He met her in China, her English was not very good, but he took her back to rural Pennsylvania. Her English improved, but the relationship did not. The man and his family told her she talked too loud. ("I am teacher," she protested. "I have to have voice that the children can hear!") The husband refused to teach her to drive, so she was stranded when he was away, which was often. It was too far to walk to the grocery store. He changed his mind about children and wanted her to go on birth control. There was no physical abuse, but it sounds like the typical man who would want a mail order bride--a socially impaired creep who wants a domestic doll, not a real human, and thought Chinese girls would complain less than USA women.

Eventually, she told me, they divorced, but he denied her a green card and refused to pay for plane fare back to China. (This process is a little sketchy--her English not so good). She bussed it to NYC, and went looking for work. She ran out of money, had no place to sleep. A woman told her about this. "Where I come from this is the worst type of work. But what can I do? I know nobody. I need to make money. To go back to China." She began to sob, and we held each other. I tried to tell her that everything can still work out, and that she could still have a family and not work like this.

I gave her my number, told her if she needed help with English or anything, call me. "We don't have to have sex," I told her. "Friends."

She has not called me, but I hope everything works out for her.

I Was A Girl Who Had Gone To A Prostitute

If you've ever read The House of God by Samuel Shem--considered by many to be the definitive novel on the medical intern experience--there's a recurrent theme of the stress, long hours, emotional disconnectedness as causing a psychosexual regression in its main characters, the doctors. They play basketball, joke around and fuck like adolescent boys. Some retreat into asexuality. Many take their stresses out on their sexual mates and relationships, and each other.

Last year was my intern year. Believe me, the conditions have improved since that time but the medical profession's (in)ability to deal with their emotions remains similar. Myself included.

Stressed out of my brain about the heavily parental role we play when we look after our charges, many of whom are very sick and die, bullying from registrars you can't fight, the sexual tensions rife amongst lonely doctors stuck temporarily hours from home, I found myself sleeping with a teddy bear every night for the first time since I was eight. That coupled with some hometown disasters with an ex-girlfriend and a male ex-fuckbuddy of mine just made my sex drive shrivel into nothing while I found myself getting steadily more and more agitated.

I'm an unfortunate person in a way. Unlike (seemingly) most women I go a bit nuts if I don't have sex for a very extended period of time. Particularly if I don't have sex with another girl for longer than a year. I guess it eats into my self-esteem. There's a creative tension/starvation thing at work there and often I find myself snapping and exploding at people while being infatuated with the first person to show any signs of interest in me. And yes, there were a few rather disastrous situations at work involving other female co-workers/superiors and stressful unconsummated co-crushes. Usually this wouldn't be a problem, but stuck for the first time in a small town for my work week I had no opportunity to meet people outside work, girls especially.

In the midst of this I caught up with one of my good friends back in Melbourne, got very drunk, hit on her good female friend, got rejected, got angry and left. Got incredibly and inconsolably upset and cried for hours. And the only garbled sense that came from my mouth was what I'd iterated a few times--that I needed a girl, I needed one now, I just needed that. So that ex-fuckbuddy in fact said--and this was very good of him--that I should do the needful. I could afford it and he'd drop me off there.

I was too nervous to call to ask brothels in the phone book whether they had any girls who would do other girls so he called for me. First brothel had no one. I was almost shaking with nervousness, heart pumping furiously away. Second one--oh yes, they have someone? Great! We'll be there ASAP.

Walking in, I felt like there was no turning back from this. I thought to myself, I'm 24, young, female, attractive, and here I am needing a prostitute. What am I doing? I've become one of those people.

I stuttered that I wanted to sleep with a girl, and my friend said he was just along for moral support until I found someone I was happy with. The lady at the front just smiled, asked me to take a seat in the waiting room and she'd send girls in and I could choose.

I felt like a total idiot. What was I doing. Why. What was the protocol here? I walked into the lushly velvet waiting room and took a seat on the cushy sofa, sunk my head in my hands.

First girl came in--wild weird hair and too much makeup. Not my type at all. Second one, dark haired tall, medium build, short hair, an improvement but... not quite right. Third one, smiled, made eye contact. Her name was ________. She was tall, very curvaceously fleshy, Rubenesque and maybe not my usual type but she felt right. She held out her hand, I took it nervously, sweaty-palmed. Paid with my credit card with the extra charge for kissing and caressing as well as "servicing."

We went upstairs into a deluxe room complete with huge bed and spa pool. She said we needed to shower first so I clumsily undressed and she slipped her dress off and we got into the shower. She soaped my back and I cleaned myself efficiently. Dried myself off and we went to the bed and began.

It was all so automatic for me, I was so starved of sex. I kissed and touched and stroked and licked, she also did the same and began to pleasure me. When my hand reached down, however, I was surprised and disappointed that she wasn't obviously (physically) aroused, but my need for sex was such that I was more than happy to receive. She gave me a massage when I needed a break, said I felt tense, and we started talking.

She was a single mum of three, in her 30s, recently divorced. Had had a few flings with girls in the past but nothing since she had gotten married. And right now she was making ends meet. She said I seemed really, really nervous--had I done this before? I said no. She asked what brought me here--whether I was out or not. I said that I had been out for awhile, had had a few girlfriends but right now was going through a dry patch and just wasn't coping. I asked her a little bit about her job and she asked me a bit about mine. It was nice to talk and I started to relax a bit.

Afterwards we went to the spa, and more sex there, and she was more turned on, and then back to the bed. I slowly gained confidence. Really enjoyed myself but didn't orgasm. We did a few different things, and a couple of things I hadn't done before which was nice too. I liked that she knew what she was doing and that I could just relax and let myself go and not worry too much.

Time was called but she gave me an extra 15 minutes for free :). I got dressed hurriedly afterwards and my friend met me downstairs.

God damn I walked with a strut all the way home. I was finally sated, my mind clear. I could think again. Felt a bit dirty and a bit weird and a bit changed but... like I'd done the right thing anyway. I'd needed it and it was the right thing to do.

I told a few of my friends later--not many, just a couple of close ones. They were surprised but didn't react with any disgust or pity whatsoever--just interest. Interest especially because I was a girl who had gone to a prostitute, something which I imagine is not that common (but commoner than you would think). Interestingly enough they found my hitting on a married colleague far more reprehensible!

I went back to work almost a new person. Energetic, happy, relaxed and myself again, with emotional reserves recharged.

All in all it was a good experience for me and I do not regret it. In the country I live in things are easier also because brothel prostitution is perfectly legal and also much safer and so the attitudes are very different from a lot of places where it is banned. I think that it is a good alternative for when you are having problems getting sex and you don't want the complications of a pick up. I really admire the courage and the professionalism of prostitutes--who must have a potentially very difficult time.

I Had Also Done Many Things During Two Deployments I Never Wanted To Do

Where to begin.

I'm a mid-twenty-something, currently in the military. I have a stable girlfriend and several unstable yet available female friends. I am vastly overeducated for my job and am generally a well-respected person. I'm not too shabby in the looks department and am very seldom ridiculed. Generally being gone for a year at a time overseas is a terrible experience. Every time I've gone it's been a miserable series of events that makes suicide seem palatable. One day I decided to visit Toronto with some friends. After a complete failure at the bar scene I decided I could part with some money for some stress release. I had never bothered to resort to prostitution, but I had also done many things during two deployments I never wanted to do. After the concierge at the hotel was appalled by my request for female companionship, I hailed a cab and asked the best place to find a professional. He suggested the intersection of two streets named Church and College respectively. This was very comical to me, but I was eager to begin the adventure. Upon arriving I found a gaggle of women who were wearing what could only be described as whore uniforms. I decided on a young blond who seemed to fit the part. Negotiating the price during the cab ride back to the hotel, we eventually made our way to my room, finding many odd stares from hotel guests and the staff. This part was actually very exciting for some reason. In the room things began very fast, and while thrilling it was obvious she was doing her job, which in a way was more arousing. After a seemingly endless 35 minutes of nervous thrusting, I managed to complete my task, which seemed the most satisfactory part of the evening to her. Pleasantries were exchanged, and I handed over her garish clothing and sent her on her way. After a cigarette and some self soothe saying, I managed to convince myself somewhat that the money was well spent and that I had a "good time." I would possibly seek companionship in this manner again, but honestly it was a frightening act of depravity fueled by a complete loss of morals related to my murder for hire status in the military.