Monday, April 28, 2008

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.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

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.

Monday, April 21, 2008

I've Moved Up In Life

It's hard to start. Why does an obedient, fundamentally good young man in his 20's like myself all of a sudden find himself the customer of massage parlors and escort services in Vancouver?

The answer that I have, and that many others in this website have also provided, is rejection. Rejection, and its close associate, the loneliness that comes after it, leads many of us to believe that we are fundamentally unloveable. And for us, the prospect of trading some of our money for the affection and the satisfaction that an escort, or a masseuse, or a prostitute (you name it) can provide is not just about sex--it's more about safety, the feeling that all you have to do to keep this girl by your side is treat her right and pay her promptly.

Stick to that, and you will not be rejected. Simple. Straightforward. Safe.

Whether my rejection experiences are more or less acute than those suffered from others, I cannot tell. I have unfortunately only had one girlfriend in 24 years of my life, and it proved to be a harrowing experience, a few months' worth of happiness in exchange for years of suffering afterwards. In light of that, and of my horrible loneliness, I decided to visit a massage parlor in November of last year. Since then, I've moved up in life--from happy endings to BJ's to the full "service." I've been there, done that. Not that I am proud. But it's the unfortunate truth.

My latest experience was with an escort called A. She came from the same South American country I did, a tall, dark-haired girl with a great body. She says she's in town to "learn English," which I doubted, but who cares? For an hour and fifteen minutes, I had someone listen to me wholeheartedly, rub my back, provide me with the ersatz-girlfriend that I crave for but feel that I am unable to attract, and then at the end of it all she even asked for my phone number.

"You will call me again, right?" she asks.

I would like to say that I won't. But my hour with A. felt like water washing my wounds, easing the pain of my brutal loneliness, helping me feel accepted and valued again, a feeling that I haven't felt in many, many months.

Some people say that love is priceless. Well, to those people I say, for two-hundred and seventy Canadian dollars, something quite like it is there for the taking. At least until the hour is done.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

I Am Very Reclusive

First, I am very reclusive and considered eccentric and odd by the few people I know. I don't drink or do drugs, I don't go out to bars and clubs, and never have. I grew up being picked on, insulted, beat up, laughed at by girls when I started asking them out, and was even made a fool at my high school prom by not only being stood up, but it being the focus of most everyone's entertainment while there, because of my condition, and other similar cruel behaviors from others, as I was diagnosed with a condition at the age of five that had gotten much worse as I got older (now managed with new drugs, and it's a genetic problem, not a virus or disease). Kids are brutal, and even grownups fear what they did not know. It leads you to avoid people, be alone, hide from them. Mix that with moving a lot as a kid, where you are always the "new kid in school," and it's hard. It's frustrating.

But about ten years ago, I was out on the West Coast and was out with some coworkers for lunch. They asked why I was not married with kids. Well, I gave them the long story about how I was kicked out of four different schools by teachers and school nurses who had no understanding of my condition, how kids picked on me for having to get special tutoring, as I would miss two days of school every week for doctor visits, and how it just made me develop into one who keeps to myself.

There was a woman there who overheard all this, and she asked me if she could ask me something in private. She asked about my condition. She understood it because she also had the same problem. She said we could arrange something. I was appalled, at first; however, she set some ground rules we both could live with. She was looking for a little help to make ends meet, and I could use some good company as a friend, as well as in the bed.

Simply put, twice a month during my year-long stay on the West Coast I had a guaranteed date. Someone to talk to, someone who wasn't afraid of sexual relations with me, someone who taught me a lot mentally and physically about women. Someone who was more than just a quick lay. She was also a friend. So, every time I was in town, I'd let her know, and we'd hook up. She was willing to do anything I wanted, as long as I helped her with her financial situation. It worked well for the short time I was there. And it felt great to go out with someone who was attractive, one of the beautiful people. Someone who never complained, didn't mooch off of me, didn't get fat, and was always willing. It was great. I'd happily do it again.

In fact, I think I am going to tonight.

Friday, April 11, 2008

I Went Whoring on Good Friday

First of all English is not my mother tongue. I rate my English as fairly good, but it's not up to this kind of subjects. So, I may say funny things and, above all, write things meaning something different.

To write things to be ashamed of, curling toes.

Like when I went whoring on Good Friday. She was a petite East-European 25ish, fragile appearance, ill colour. A semblance of perfect victim.

She spoke French slowly, a little faltering. She dressed black imitation leather lingerie. I guess she was high - they must take something to makes them think that they are not there, that it's not them. I was drunk.

Price was low. I paid 50 € for a blow-job and to fuck her doggy style.

While she was giving head, I was sitting on the bed smoking. She had to rush to hand me some ashtray, she was afraid I could set the bed on fire.

Then she turned of the 4 paws, she moaned preparing for penetration. I could not find a comfortable position and I turned her on her back, in the missionary position.

She was ashamed to look at me or disgusted. Or maybe it was my breath. She kept on moaning, hoping in a quicker ejaculation. Her skin was covered with face powder, and released some sweet scent, like all whores. The neck tendon, a reflection on the skin and the suffering expression on her pale face, made me feel like I wanted to slobber on her. I can't recall if I called her names, Probably not.

I enjoyed seeing my cock penetrating in the middle of her thighs, I looked good in the mirror while I was riding her. But I couldn't find myself disgusting and couldn't get really excited.

After it was done, she tried to socialize, asked me if I enjoyed it, if I was OK and if I used to work out. She tried to wipe the sperm of my dick with a Kleenex, but thinking that it would have made her feel comfortable I turned my back and wore my pants.

I came out in the street with a smile. A bottle of Pouilly Fuissé had designed that grin on my face a couple of hours before. I had been experiencing a feeling of self-contentment since I finished watching Apocalypse Now (redux), kneeling in front of the television, with my arms wide open, ready for the Eucharist.

I guess it says a lot about myself and sex. Whores are handy sometimes, I enjoy seeing they fake they enjoy it, knowing they don't like me.

As far as I am concerned, sex is only a way of abusing people, of abusing myself.

This has only increased while growing older, while loosing sexual power. Not that violence really turns me on. Quite the opposite, lately I find myself fantasizing about tall androgynous women, overpowering me (though I guess it's not the exact masochistic fantasy)... and that's why I wrote this message to you (is that you in the picture?).

I realise that it may sound scary. Sorry, it was not my intention.

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

I Couldn't Shut the Fuck Up

I'm 31 years old and married. I lead a very vanilla life, but I've been intrigued by sex since I was six and my same-aged next door neighbor asked me to pull down my pants so she could see up close the difference between me and her.

I met my wife as a freshman in college, and we were married sometime later. I've had one relationship in my life, and while it's not boring or empty of sex, I was tempted by the ads in the back of the weekly arts paper in my town. My first appointment was nerve-wracking. Here I was, walking into a "spa" with the intention of exchanging money for sex. I was nervous, I was excited, I was anxious, I was sweaty. And I couldn't shut the fuck up. Apparently, my chattiness scared off the five-four, freckly brunette who I picked out of a lineup of blondes. I paid $60 for a naked "body rub" and walked out with an erection. Two weeks later, I tried my luck again at a "body rub" establishment. Again, after running my yap too long, I scared off the girl (a large-breasted blonde who I would later learn went to high school with me). $40 later, I left frustrated. I returned a week later, this time only speaking when spoken to. I received a back rub with a long, slow, enjoyable hand-job and a promise that more would be available in the future. Our visits became more frequent and elevated to full-on intercourse on a massage table.

I've had sessions with roughly 25 different providers and had intercourse with about half. Some provided the "girlfriend experience." Others provided a quick fuck. Some couldn't even speak English (the Korean spas in D.C. are repugnant, but I've been twice). Mostly, there were a series of half-hearted hand-jobs. I have found few girls who "are into the work." Most aren't, and you can usually tell when you say hello. Each time, when presented with a girl who would rather be watching TV than fuck me, I could have walked away, making an excuse about leaving my wallet in the car or the lights on. But, I never have. Why?

It could be the self-destructive nature of the visit. Giving over $100, $120, $250 of my hard-earned non-profit salary for disinterested hand-jobs, blow-jobs full of teeth, or a quick fuck is the pinnacle of self-hate. The 60 to 90 seconds of orgasm is the only part that feels good. The rest--withdrawing the money from an ATM, handing it to someone else, pumping a drug-addicted, Marlboro-reeking twentysomething who couldn't be more disinterested in me, the walk of shame, the residual condom smell, the distraction of regret, the three or four days of beating up on myself, sneaking in the shower so my wife doesn't smell the rubber, smoke, hairspray, or cheesy perfume--is hell.

But, I keep doing it. Sometimes I go once a week. Sometimes it's once a month. Other times it's longer. But, I always relapse... and that's what it feels like: a relapse. As I type this, I'm thinking about the new large-breasted blonde at the body rub joint near my office, and our session last week, and I want to visit her right now. Except I can't. I just called, and she's home sick today.

Saturday, April 5, 2008

I Have a Physical Disability

I have a physical disability known as Cerebral Palsy and am in an electric wheelchair. I have always struggled in my own existence, largely because I rely on a lot of people to assist me with the most basic tasks, such as dressing, showering, getting in and out of bed, and other basic things that many people take for granted. Although I am verbal, and highly intelligent, having acquired two university degrees at the age of 24, people do tend to judge a book by its cover when it comes to things such as dating and sex.

My entire life I have been trapped inside a body that I hate. It never does what I want it to. It always conspires against me. Although I am confident in my intellectual ability, I do not have a very strong self-image. This is largely because every girl I have asked out on a date has rejected me. Some were even cruel enough to say, "Why would I ever go out with a cripple like you?" Even now, I still have not yet had a girlfriend.

A few years back, I was hanging out with a few other disabled guys who were less physically able than I was. They mentioned that they regularly used a pro because it was the only way they could get the release they craved the most. Most of these guys couldn’t lift their heads up on their own, let alone have the ability to please a woman the way they wanted to. They would go to a brothel and get a hand-job once every few weeks. One of them described his first time with a pro in a way that will stick with me for the rest of my life; he said that "It was the first time I felt like a real man."

Sometime later, I fell in love for the first time. After pursuing her for several months, I was rejected once more, but this time was much harder to swallow than the others that came before her. After several weeks of feeling sorry for myself, I decided to do something about it. Remembering the words of my friends, I decided I would visit a brothel. However, unlike my friends, I knew I wanted more than a hand-job. I wanted to lose my virginity.

I searched through the phone book, found a brothel I wanted and asked about the processes involved. I soon discovered that like most things in my life, this could not be a total secret. If I wanted to have sex, I would need somebody to help me shower before and after, as well as to lift me onto the bed. This would put most of my other disabled friends off immediately, but it did not deter me in the slightest. Without a moment's hesitation, I asked my older brother if he could help me. Although he was initially stunned, he reluctantly agreed.

On the night we turned up at the brothel, we were two completely different men. I was excited, nervously anticipating what would await me. My brother, in contrast, was absolutely petrified, afraid that someone he might know would walk in. After a short while, some girls made their way out and introduced themselves. I picked one and we followed her into the room. She stepped out while my brother helped me get organized. I told him to go for a walk, and I’d give him a call when I was ready.

The whole experience was everything I hoped it would be. She started by giving me a massage, which eased my muscles that are normally tight and non-compliant. As she completed the massage, my body felt like it could do anything I wanted, something I had never felt before. She went down on me, and we had sex. She made me feel safe and confident in myself. For that portion of time, having sex with her (even if I had to pay for it) made up for a lifetime of rejection.

It was the most enjoyable experience I have ever had in my life. I would put it down to two things. For once I had gained control over my body, and it felt like I was in control of my life. The worst thing about having a physical disability is the lack of control I have in life. Everything is very clinical, get up at this time, eat at this time, have a shower at this time, and go to bed at this time. I have no control over these things. This time, I got to do things on my own terms. Second, it was the first time I felt like I was being treated like a sexual being with desires and needs that were important. All my life I have been viewed as an asexual being whose desires should be avoided or neglected. The trip to the brothel taught me not to be afraid of my sexuality and not to push it into the background.

I am now a regular customer, although not as regular as I’d like to be. This is mostly because my brother has moved overseas, and it is hard to find people who will willingly accompany me. However, each time I go, I no longer feel like a cripple. I feel whole.

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

I Met This Girl

I'm 30 years old. I've had sex with a professional 4 times - all of the times were with the same girl. Worked my butt off in school to get into an Ivy League college. There I met a girl and fell madly in love with her - she was 2 years ahead of me in college. I worked like a demon, graduated a year early so I could set up a life with her. Within a week of graduating and leaving all my friends behind I found out she had been cheating on me with her boss who had a daughter my age.

She told me that her boss was better in bed than I was - I never got over that I think. In the 8 years since graduation I've met a number of attractive, intelligent women who seem to have liked me. The Ivy League pedigree and large salaries helped I'm sure. But I figured I'd disappoint in bed so I never pursued them. Over the years I got very used to being alone - thought I had made my peace with it.

But last year some friends dragged me to a strip club for the first time. It was fun at first - beautiful, friendly women who paid so much attention to me. It did wonders for my confidence. I still couldn't date normal women though - now they seemed so pallid and listless.

And then I met this girl - I won't name her. She's 24, blonde and exquisite - so beautiful it hurts me to look at her sometimes. When she touches me anywhere, sometimes my muscles cramp up because I can't believe someone so beautiful is really by my side. Her skin glows in light, and when she smiles people around her look instinctively because she touches something in them. I didn't think it was possible for people to look so good.

She told me she dropped out of high school - but after umpteen years in college and grad school all over the world, I have met very few people who could keep up a conversation with her. She discusses philosophy, science, music, literature with effortless ease. Every time I talk to her she surprises me with her insight. Did I mention how beautiful she is?

I spend 5,000 dollars a night to see her - I used to have a great job. I quit recently and started my own company which is also doing well - but the cash adds up. Every time I see her I think it'll be the last time but nothing I do gets her out of my head. She thinks I'm a nice guy but I'm just a john to her - to me, she's everything I've ever wanted or could want in another person.

My friends and family keep trying to set me up - women hand me their numbers at bars - but they fail so miserably in comparison to her.

I guess it will never work out but I can't think of anyone else I would rather be with.