I would pay for sex.
I watched season one of The Girlfriend Experience and found myself drawn to how the main character compartmentalized her life (sort of, but stay with me). She had a real life. With a real career. Then she had clients. Clients who didn’t know her real name, her real cell phone number, or her real address. With every client, she was someone new; lighter than her dark, heavier impulses. A shiny companion with a sharp, curious mind. A fantasy.
After spending the day on a television binge, I needed fresh air and I wanted to see something.
I ended up at a restaurant, enjoying a solo seafood dinner and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. I sat at the bar, as I tend to when dining alone. I was there about 30 minutes before an older gentleman, Mike*, settled in the seat next to me and asked which game I was watching: Cavs vs. Magic, USC vs. Notre Dame, or *ichigan vs. Penn State.
“USC, Notre Dame,” I replied. “Though it’s not much of a game.”
Here’s what it took:
- An explanation of my lack of faith in the Cavs’ acquisitions of Wade, Rose, and Thomas.
- Deep hatred for *ichigan. Because, duh, Buckeyes.
- An informed opinion on the restaurant’s wine selection (all average, unimpressive wines).
I didn’t pay for another drink that night. I was peppered with compliments on how delightful, gorgeous, and impressive I was. And Mike demanded I take his number.
So this is how it happens, I thought, deleting the number when I left the restaurant.
I learned something that I suspected for a while: I can detach for pockets of time when I’m amused.
I can’t detach enough to sleep with men I’m not physically attracted to. Selling isn’t for me.
ME: “If I could afford to say ‘You, come be handsome and witty and fuck me for a few hours and disappear until I call you again,’ I would do it. I’d pick the same dude and be a regular customer. Treat it like a massage or an oil change. You know, maintenance.”
FRIEND: “Listen. I would pay for exactly this right now.”
Imagine. I could pick one tall enough, handsome enough, clever enough, endowed enough. Give him a fake name. Engage in whatever fantasy I want to play out that night. Then go home to my real name and real life, undisturbed by anyone else’s needs or desires; satisfied and anticipating my next appointment.
I get it.
Paying for it isn’t an act of desperation or loneliness.
You pay to avoid emotional concessions.
You pay for exactly what you want, exactly how you want it, only when you want it.
If I was a rich girl…
[*] Definitely not his real name.