I Found A Trailer On The Outskirts Of Town

Both my marriages were mistakes in a way, especially the first one. Right out of college, I really had no clue what I needed or wanted, or what I had a right to expect from marriage. Every time she criticized me, the only response I knew was to resolve to cut that part of my personality out of the relationship. It didn't take long for me to become a resentful shell in the marriage, just playing the role she seemed to expect me to play. For her part, she only seemed to want sex when she was drunk, and she was never willing to confide in me what turned her on sexually, saying, "If I have to tell you, it spoils it."

So it's no surprise that I was deeply sexually frustrated and didn't know how to correct that within the marriage. I missed getting the judgmental gene that has most of polite society looking down their noses at sex workers, so somehow (I don't remember how; this was back in the mid 1970s) I found a trailer on the outskirts of town where I could buy some time with a woman.

She was lovely and had the softest skin I've ever touched. I had a lot of difficulty getting hard, though, and then a lot of difficulty climaxing. I asked for a change of position three or four times, and she got exasperated and said, "This is the last time." In spite of the buzz kill, though, her beauty and the fact that the money made up for my shortcomings allowed me to climax, and the pattern was set. This was the way I could count on to give me uncomplicated sexual release with a partner for the rest of my life.

I can't afford it very often now, because I've figured out that the ones who charge $250 an hour are the ones who offer the closest thing to a real girlfriend experience, and that makes it all so much better that it's worth having to wait a lot longer between appointments. I get to pretend she really likes me and that she enjoys what I do for her enough to want to see me again for that, not just the money. Between appointments I sometimes recall my favorite sessions, and embellish them with even more of what I really want, especially the precise words she could say at just the right time to be the perfect turn-on.

I want to tell you about the most memorable of the girls. She called herself [redacted], and she worked at a massage parlor in [redacted] called [redacted]. I don't think I'm giving any useful information away; this was back in the 1970s. She was gorgeous and she did layouts for the men's magazines; I have a copy of [redacted] from that era with a pictorial of hers in it. I wish I had found videos she was in, but it was hard enough getting her to tell me which [redacted] issue I needed to look for. Anyway, she was over 6 feet tall, and since I'm 6'5", that was a big advantage. She had long blonde hair and a figure like Sophia Loren's, enhanced to about F-cup tits. But her surgery was new enough that there was no scar tissue, and they looked and felt natural.

Her body was literally my ideal fantasy. I didn't know enough about where my sexual hot buttons were to ask for precisely what would have turned me on the most, but I can do that now in my maturbatory reveries. On her own she managed to show me a couple of moves that made me cum instantly. I was able to connect with her three times over a period of a year or two before she vanished, and I've always wondered what happened to her. Conversation with her was very difficult; I think there were drugs involved, but I couldn't be certain. She may have just been reluctant to be at all personally revealing with me.

I've been lucky and, as far as I know, none of the women I have dated or married has found out about my extracurricular activity. I wish I could combine the two worlds somehow, or at least make real relationships more satisfying. But it's so much easier when the only thing the woman really expects from me is money.

I'm Kind Of An Oddball Guy

I've paid for sex three times.

Once I was new to the West Coast and with no friends and I made eye contact with a pretty junkie walking down my street. We started talking and she asked me for money, so I proposed a trade. She was up for it so we walked to the atm and in the street she let me feel her breasts for a few minutes. It was a letdown, but I felt slightly thrilled. She was hot but sort of gross.

Several years later, I came home from a family visit late one night and was feeling energetic so I went to rent some pornos. As I was leaving the store I picked up a free magazine of ads for escorts, and when I got home I called one. She told me it would cost $300 on the phone and I agreed. When she got to my apartment she took the money down to her companion waiting in the car. Then she came back and wouldn't have sex with me! I was pissed. She was conning me. She finally did a strip tease while I masturbated, then left. I felt totally pissed and sad/ashamed hateful of myself and her. I basically resolved never to deal with prostitutes again because that was so shitty. It also made me somewhat misogynistic in a way.

A few years later I was driving on a rural highway and saw a sexy hitchhiker. I had this weird feeling so I turned around and picked her up. We drove for a while and talked, she was cool. When we got to my turnoff she said she needed to go another twenty miles and she would give me money if I would drive her the rest of the way. Instead I suggested that she give me a hand job instead and I would drive her. She said ok but only a handjob which was fine with me. That was a fairly pleasant experience overall even though it seemed kind of scandalous to me at the time.

The first and third weren't really formal prostitutes, but it was prostitution right, so I include them.

As for why, I'm kind of a oddball guy, I don't go to bars, and I am introverted, somewhat shy. My family of origin was dysfunctional and abusive, and touching and intimacy were never something I saw nice examples of until basically my twenties. I have had a number of serious girlfriends, but I tend to go a few years between them with practically zero hookups in between. Like most guys, I get very horny, and want someone to hold and touch. I don't feel like it's a desperate desire to avoid loneliness. It mostly feels like out of boredom and desire for physical stimulation and release.

I don't feel any regret or guilt consciously about these acts, though I wouldn't want people to know either.

It is sort of sad, but I do think paying/trading for sex has been around forever and serves a function.

I think it would be better if it was legal and not as marginalized where abuse and violence enter into it.

I don't think humans have figured out a functional form of sexual relationships. Traditional gender roles seem useless and non-productive, and these are generally mirrored in sexual roles and representation. Of course, that is true in prostitution as well, but to me it seems fairly rational and straightforward, which is more respectful of the participants than the unconscious charade psychodrama that usually constitutes regular romantic sex.

I Am A Gentleman

At about the age of 50, I made a fabulous discovery. I'd married young and had only been with my wife to that point. That marriage eventually dissolved, and so did another one, and now I'm on number three. Until recently, I had been sexually involved only with my wives. That isn't to say I was entirely happy about that. I went through a lot of years wondering what it would be like to make love with different women. Not fuck. Actually make love to. But as others have noted many times, affairs are tar pits.

Then I found out that at my age, with some disposable income, and with an in-built respect for womankind, I was a valuable commodity. Interesting women actually wanted to have sex with me. And good sex. Sex with someone who is skilled, experienced, and eager to please. After a lot of education thanks to boards and helpful sites, I went to my first session and never looked back. I'm choosy about who I see. She has to be known in the local community, well-regarded, and with good reviews. My involvement is a hobby, not an emotional imperative. The ladies I patronize are largely smart and compassionate, known to provide good service. With such ladies, there is no such thing as a bad time, although some are better than others. There is admittedly little emotional involvement, but that's fine. It's entertainment, not networking. It's my own little bit of performance art, a play entirely for my benefit. I am not a john, you see. I am a client. I am, in the parlance, a gentleman.

My wife does not know, and perhaps would not care overly much if she did. She has had health problems that limit her sexual involvement. In fact, she has benefited from my secret little life. I learn a great deal from providers, and I bring that home to practice when I can. Much of what providers can teach does not require gymnastics.

There are many who would maintain that my philandering disqualifies me from claiming to be a good person, and definitely from being a good husband. Frankly, I don't care what they believe. I have a hobby that is infinitely more interesting to me than travel or theme parks. The ladies I prefer can hold conversations and appreciate the occasional session just to stroke their bodies. They do not judge. They do not become angry at requests. They treat the experience as an encounter between equals. There is no power struggle. There is no drama. There is privacy, and usually conviviality. What we do behind closed doors remains there.

And the best part is that my hobby enables me to grow in confidence. It continues to teach me about human nature. It has introduced me to like-minded people who support one another in the shadow community we share. It is not dismal nor depressing. It is not a sad place at all. It is a place of exhilaration, negotiation, and keen fun. It is the purest form of commerce that I know, and the most instructive. I may give it up some day; I don't do it often now. But I know it has been good for me.

I Am Deathly Afraid Of Intimacy

In the simplest terms, I got into girls because ... I lost *the* girl.

I lost her, and I cried every day.

I missed her, but what's more, deep down inside, I felt like I really had *lost* her.

I started seeing girls I guess to soften, to dampen the pain, to somehow recreate that intimacy.  (Which, of course, as you well know, never happens.)

What's odd is, there was one time I met a girl, who, upon us talking (I talked to lots of these girls, heard their stories), told me she was doing this to prove to the world that she was a good lover.  I knew from the way she talked about a broken-up relationship that she somehow felt she wasn't a good lover with her man, and this was her way of proving to the universe (i.e. herself), that she was good, adept.

I still ask myself what was I doing going to those girls.  It was to deaden the pain of losing the one I cared for the most.

It was a loss that still shatters me inside.  It still hurts.

I guess we reach for many vices, many addictions -- alcohol, drugs -- to kill the pain.  To not let ourselves feel it.

I guess I'm tired of feeling it, the pain.  But my head is inexorably screwed up, and I see there is a component to my body that is addicted to this stuff.  All at the expense of intimacy.

I guess intimacy is what I miss most.  I am deathly afraid of intimacy because I loved her so much and I lost her, that putting myself out there -- putting my heart out there again -- terrifies me.

It sounds silly to write it as words.  It sounds superficial, somehow.  Like it doesn't mean much.  But the pain, it's hard to write about, hard to articulate as words.

It's more a feeling, a terror, a place my brain doesn't want to go.

But I have to admit, I miss her.  I miss *that* -- that joy, that closeness we had.  I miss it more than anything.  I miss it more than the world.

I have to admit to myself that this is an addiction.  The last time I cuddled with a woman, I can't remember when.  I miss it.  I miss having a family.  I miss having love.  I try to remember what that's like.  For some reason I have problems thinking.  There's a part of my brain that is unable to process this.  This is definitely a cognitive problem, related to the addiction.

But I know I got into it as a way to escape the pain.  I just wish the pain was not there anymore.

I hate my family.  Because I once reached out to them for help and they turned me away.  What are you supposed to do, when you need help, and ask for it, and are told no?  That hurts as much as the addiction.

I guess I am stuck in blame, but the alternative, to take full responsibility for my life, means to be completely alone.  And "alone" is what gets me reaching for it again.  I've thought of a twelve-step group, a group to talk about these issues, perhaps this is what I need.

Moreover I just need friends.

I want my life back.

I Wanted To Kill Myself

I have the usual sob story: usual beatings from my dad, his psychological torture, absence of the most beneficial parenting, severe neglect, first generation immigrant experience, raped by my cousin at age 12, social ostracism, extremely repressive Christian environment and the list goes on. Consequently, I grew up being alone, which perpetuates that state, and recently I live with an anxiety disorder that is sometimes debilitating.

By age 29, I became extremely frustrated about my virginity, and decided to finally to visit an SP. I was in Amsterdam. At first, in the oversized Jacuzzi, she caressed my body with hers. This was the first time I touched a woman in a sexual manner. I felt like a human being, and almost cried. We moved on to the bed, but she laughed at me. She positioned her body so that it was difficult for me to have intercourse and eventually she told me to stop when I began to do it with feeling. Another SP had to take over to finish me, but fortunately she was comforting though lacked engagement. After it was over, she counseled me. (She and the other woman were Dutch, and as expected their English was perfect.) One of the advices she gave me was how it does not feel good without love. I wish I could find love, but I know that is not possible for me. That night I felt disgusted, angry and hated myself for seeing an SP. I wanted to kill myself. I went completely against my own moral convictions and support of feminism. The experience was not pleasurable at all, but rather very nerve racking and riddled with guilt throughout the whole act. It was something to simply do it and get it out of the way, so that I would be just like other non-virgin men.

I had two more days left in Amsterdam, so I decided to give it one more try and visited another agency. She was Belgian. She spoke with a French accent, so I had a difficult time comprehending her. Still, she was more comforting and psychologically put me at ease right away. She was affectionate, pretty and even erotic. She gave me a massage, which really put me at ease physically, and when we were doing it she appeared to be enjoying it as well. Of course, she was acting, but I appreciated her effort for a loser like me. I finally felt good, had that “afterglow,” mood of calm and strangely felt free. I ruminated if the moment of orgasm was the only possible authentic state of freedom. She explained something to me that lingered while taking a walk after visiting her, which was that visiting an independent SP or reputable agency was a good and healthy thing, as long as I do not over indulge, because sex is a necessary human experience.

Perhaps, I was becoming a corrupt scum, or I was becoming desensitized to seeing an SP. Unfortunately, this feeling of bliss was temporary as all experiences of authenticity are temporary, and I visited SP’s occasionally since then to seek respite from the severe feeling of loneliness. Having discovered what it feels like to be with someone, even with simulated intimacy, I began to long for it more and more. Still, even though the guilt and self-hate is not to the degree that it was when I first started seeing SPs, it continues and sometimes erupts with weight.

I am now 40 years of age, and I have never been with any woman, other than SP’s, because I have always been rejected. However, I also have not tried to initiate even a conversation with most women because of my debilitating anxiety, so I seek the comfort of intimacy with independent SP's to deal with the misery. I realize now that, as a human being, we all need to be touched to at least survive and live on, but once my mom dies I have no reason to live. I have no close or trust worthy friends, and so the loneliness is intense. I am damaged-goods, so even if someone would want me I can’t allow my baggage to affect her life in a negative manner. Therefore, I am not allowed a conventional relationship.