Perhaps one of the most demoralizing things about doing this is the number of wedding rings that get removed to stand lonely on my nightstand. One man called himself Lucifer, and paid me eighty dollars for a half hour of oral sex - giving, not receiving. He was obese, with two chins and eyebrows that curved in a way that did make him look other-worldly. I was repulsed by him, couldn’t touch him, but even now I can’t help but be a little turned on by the way I quietly just placed myself on the bed, slid off my jeans and pushed his head down. The oral was okay, he flicked my clit fast and hard as most men do, I came faster than I wanted to. When he was moaning into my pussy, though, and grabbing my hands so I could run them through his hair - that was good, and the memory of this older gentleman, aware of his physical presence and desperately wanting what was on his tongue to be on his dick, humping the bed in arousal at my young teenage pussy… It is better than how I felt when getting it done.
I could see he had been turned down before, even when paying girls for their time. Afterwards he suggested hopefully that we could meet again, and this time, perhaps, I would have sex with him? “I have to be discrete,” he said, and then wiggled his eyebrows and motioned to his wedding ring like we were in this together, “Married.”
I told a friend a few days ago that all men are cheaters and liars. I had just added the army officer I’m fucking (and this is unpaid) as a friend, with a fake facebook account. He had a girlfriend, she was not pretty but not ugly. They seemed happy, too, someone had even tagged them on a picture of mickey and mini mouse hugging - ”the cutest couple,” it said. This was not a guy I was emotional about, but it was still funny. “You really can’t trust men,” I wrote to her. She had just gone through a breakup and I knew she would appreciate the comment. “Yeah, I was about to hook up with a lawyer,” she typed. “I added him with this account, turns out he was dating a girl down the street.”
Cheating, it seems to me, is inevitable. My friend says that maybe as a prostitute I have just been exposed to the worst and most unfaithful demographic. I still don’t know. I’m imagining, now, my hypothetical marriage, and my hypothetical spouse breathing in the scent of someone much younger. I am nowhere in their mind, and they resent me for my age and my body. I think I’m becoming a realist: more casual about sex, more cynical about love. I know we can’t be attracted to one person our whole lives, and that relationships survive infidelity. Dan Savage always talks about this on his podcast - he says that people cope with these issues, whether the attraction is acted upon or not, by telling ourselves necessary lies. I guess that could work.
Except: I know what goes on behind the scenes, and if it ever happened to me, I can picture every moment with an unwelcome clarity. I wonder whether at that point such knowledge would break my heart, or worse, whether I’ll ever trust someone enough to let it get broken.