How did I get here?
I’ve been struggling with an injury lately. How it happened isn’t really important. Maybe it was a sports injury, maybe it was work-related. Maybe I threw my back out trying to lift up my massive gut to reach my dick. Whatever, it’s not important. The point is, I was undergoing a bit of physical therapy for my fat/dick- related injury. And as my massage therapist Helga was working through my corpulence to get to the root of my injury, I found myself fantasizing about her working through my corpulence to get to my root.
Now, I haven’t been to an AMP in a long time. The so-called ‘massage parlor’ where the massage was just a pretense for the happy ending. The rub n’ tug joint. But that’s often the first entry into the “hobby” most guys have. There seems to be a progression. From strip club to massage parlors to escorts.
I spent a lot of time exploring strip clubs. I remember one stretch of highway in my hometown where there were about a half a dozen strip clubs of varying degrees of class and quality. I would start at one end of the road with the dark, dank dive bar; the one with the pool table and the lackluster stripper with the Harley-Davidson tattoo across her chest. Then I’d move on to the one with the strobe lights and the glittery swing on stage. I’d end up at the far end of the spectrum at the Showgirls-esque club with featured “acts.”
True story: I saw a featured stripper there who had a whole ‘nautical’ act. She had props and costumes, all in a vague naval theme. Sailor cap, cutaway bellbottoms, anchors. Sexy anchors. She danced a set to songs like “Blue, Navy Blue” and “Sea Cruise.” Hot.
But eventually, as most guys do, I grew tired of the ‘look don’t touch’ aspect of the clubs and started looking for more. My hometown had lingerie modeling joints. You’d pay your door fee, go into a small room, “get comfortable,” and a ‘model’ would pose in scanty lingerie. Of course, for an additional tip she would, y’know… do things. From there, I progressed to cruising the boulevard for streetwalkers, always more afraid of them than they were of me.
Fast forward to the internet age and here I am, a grizzled veteran of the online hooker review boards.
What I am is what I am.
So what would lead an otherwise happily married man with 3 kids, a dog and a fish, a happy home in the suburbs and a minivan in the garage to go cruising for strippers and hookers?
Ask any “hobbyist” and you’ll hear a litany of excuses, usually centering around the failings of their wives. The conventional wisdom is that if they were getting it at home they wouldn’t need to look for it on the street. Well, sure, it’s not their fault, it’s their wives. Look, way back when, as I was driving up and down the streets at midnight, picking up scrawny girls for quickie handjobs in my car, I had a freaky, sexy, willing girlfriend waiting at home for me. And when I say freaky, I mean choking, slapping, swinging freaky. She was totally hot, totally willing and totally available. Yet I was fascinated by the world of sex out there.
I’m no saint, never claimed to be. Nice guy? I try. I have to try. Being an asshole is effortless. I’ve been fucking hookers of all stripes for years, with no end in sight. And it’s not, never has been, because of a failing on the part of my partner. It’s me.
This is what those guys slapping each other on the back about banging hookers won’t admit. They like fucking hookers. They would be fucking hookers if they were single. They would be fucking hookers if they were married to sex kittens. They would be fucking hookers if they were married to other hookers. The guys who spend hour after hour after hour online looking for hookers, flirting with hookers, making dates with hookers and writing reviews of fucking hookers… yeah, those guys re only doing it because the cold, distant, harpies they’re married to won’t blow them anymore. Right?
I don’t —we don’t– pay for pussy because the wife won’t pay attention. That’s just another deflection. Another way of placing blame with someone else. Another way of absolving ourselves of responsibility for our own actions. Hey, it’s not my fault I pay to get my dick sucked, it’s yours! Well, guess what? That’s bullshit. It’s my dick, and it’s entirely up to me who I stick it in.
Yeah, there are miserable, shrewish, frigid wives. There are wives who don’t like sex. There are wives who are emasculating bitches. And it’s still your choice to seek out strange pussy. You don’t do it because of the wife, the kids, the job. You do it because you like pussy, all kinds of pussy. The key indicator is that most of us “hobbyists” don’t just quietly, discreetly see the occasional paid companion to while away an hour or two of shared intimacy. The hardcore “hobbyist” has made the flirting, bantering, and jockeying for ‘position’ just as important as the actual in-out. You don’t spend hours chatting with hookers online because your wife won’t suck your dick. You don’t write dozens of goddam reviews highlighting your sexual prowess with hookers because your wife is too busy with the kids. And y’know what? Maybe if you didn’t spend hours chatting with hookers online your wife might be more willing to suck your dick for free.
Choke me in the shallow water, before I get too deep.