In the wake of Eliot Spitzer’s resignation, lots of people, media idiots included, are wondering why men seek out prostitutes. The simplest (and crudest) explanation is that it’s sex – it’s all about men’s biological imperative to seek out variety in sexual partners. By this line of reasoning, prostitutes represent safer alternatives to extramarital affairs, and so, they say, the big head prevails over the little one, momentarily.
When I first starting working as a prostitute, I thought much the same way. It only took about a month on the job for my perceptions to take an about-face. You see, I don’t think it’s about the sex. It’s about intimacy, of which sex plays a part, of course, but it’s hardly the whole story.
I have worked at different levels within the sex industry. First, I was available by the hour for a modest sum. After three months, when demand outstripped supply, and it became clear that I was doing something right, I near-doubled my rates, and insisted on a multiple-hour minimum, for which had enough takers to earn a commensurate amount for far less of my time. In both hooker capacities, the motivation of men who came to see me was the same: loneliness. They were trapped in marriages in which the romance had withered. It was rarely due to lack of interest on their part; many reported that their wives were simply not interested in having sex with them anymore, particularly after the arrival of hildren. Many said that their marriages felt more like business arrangements than contracts of the heart. They were unhappy, but they felt, either because the kids weren’t yet grown, or because they stood to lose 50% of their assets in the event of a divorce, that leaving wasn’t an option. Mistresses were too risky; prostitutes were much safer.
There are other motivations. Some clients are workaholics; they are married to their jobs, and haven’t the time to invest in a relationship and all of the late-night phone calls and flower deliveries modern romance requires. A much smaller percentage is socially phobic. Despite their brilliant intellectual capacity and stalwart character, these men have cripplingly low self-esteem, and don’t believe themselves to be capable of dating, in the conventional sense of the word.
The smallest percentage of all, in my experience, are players: men who are addicted to novelty, and see prostitutes because they just want to shove themselves into a brand-new warm hole. I think, out of hundreds, I can count that type on one hand. After all, if men were so driven by variety, I wouldn’t have had a 90% repeat clientele. Granted, I worked at a different end of the business than Ashley Alexandra Dupre, or any of the women that Emporers’s Club VIP employed. I am attractive, but hardly model material. I’m maybe an seven-and-a-half/eight out of a ten, on a good hair and skin day. It’s what lies between my ears that gave me a competitive edge, and yes, I know that my IQ is an anathema to a lot of men who seek out the services of prostitutes, who don’t want their whores to be literate enough to recognize who they are if they happen to be high-profile, or are intimidated by a broad with a brain. But I hardly ever met that sort of man, because once I went indie and called my own shots, I knew better how to deter him with my marketing methods, or how to sniff him out during the screening/vetting process.
What is this – like, six posts in less than twenty-four hours? Damn. I’m on roll. Amantadine, the medication I was given earlier today, is known to cause insomnia and agitation. Both of which I suffer from anyway. So…thanks, Amantadine. Um, I guess.