Paying for Sex: Is it Different for Women?

On the day I booked a male escort, Citibank wiped off billions off its value and the Dow Jones plummeted to new lows. Guilt almost claimed me but another priority snatched it back.
I hadn’t slept with anyone in six years.

This wounded my self-esteem and almost cost my job; working to create a fine home and enjoy the creature comfort can be empty without physical fun outside of my thrice-weekly spin class.
In the pursuit of a nicer lifestyle, single women do it rough. I was one of the women who forgot play; I worked so hard, afforded many other small luxuries and didn’t stop to think that I could afford to pay for sex. It’s not done or it’s not discussed among women.
My line of work contains pressure and clients with more money than sense. There is the ex male model with more money than sense. He thinks that I should pay to speak to him. I manage his investment portfolio, an impressive collection of shares bequeathed by a New York matron. There are the modelizers. I still don’t get that word. It’s not a word. I have another word for them: new-age satyr. They chase the gazelle-like nymphs, only because other women – like me – wouldn’t tolerate their boyish tantrums.
I had no reason to think about male prostitutes. Even when Wall Street shook, I still had a well paying job. I had rainy day savings and I had a pair of devoted parents who’d support me in any emergency. When the stocks began to plunge, I became anxious and began relieving my anxiety on Fifth. In one week, I visited Saks four times. Everything I purchased brought minor satisfaction; I didn’t have time to socialize or date to parade my Babouska purse and matching heels. To be horribly blunt; I could alphabetize my wardrobe by prestige designer, but couldn’t attract a man or a fleshy penis. Men earning less couldn’t cope. Men earning more sought women who wouldn’t ask questions, who were younger, perkier and several IQ points short of common sense.
Many of my wealthy clients are women. In fact, many married socialites secretly invest money; if they don’t like the Bvlgari collier their husbands give them to soften guilt, they sell and invest the proceeds. It’s their rainy day money. Helen*, one of my more down to earth clients, didn’t mind being married to a wealthy man. She turned a blind eye to many things but developed an enviable pragmatism. Helen prefers face-to-face advice. This is done in advance. I take a day out of my personal leave and meet her at a discreet restaurant of her choice, away from the money end of town in the hope that she’ll mix in; blending in when you’re prêt-à-porter meets haute couture is hard.
The word sex fell into my plate at a trattoria.
“You’re not getting any cock,” Helen said, playing with her tortellini.
Stunned, I was uncertain if my professional status prevented me discussing my drab personal life.
I resorted to the pathetic staple, “I don’t have time.”
Helen chuckled. Her casual chuckle rose like a menacing tidal wave.
“You can buy three boys with your Nancy Gonzalez purse.”

“For an hour?”

She pushed her plate aside with two manicured fingers, “I pay for the discretion. It’s fun and every one I choose can be a Vogue poster boy.”

I couldn’t kid myself; most women in similar marriages had alternative arrangements. Helen, like me, most likely amassed a collection of sex toys and toys work just fine but the fun offered by another naked body is more intimate.

Helen took her organizer out and fished out a card. She slid it across the table. “Service with a smile.”
Speechless, I picked up the card, turned it over and read “By Appointment” followed by a cell phone number.
“Is that it? No name?”
She shook her head, “Word of mouth only.”
“Not one nickname?”
“He’ll introduce himself when he meets you.”
I shook my head in an effort to minimize my surprise.
The card remained in my planner for two weeks. No, it didn’t fall out by chance. A half bottle of Jack Daniels egged me on after five horrible dates that asked far too many questions to seem interested. I didn’t believe it one bit. After creating an online dating profile, I still clicked to check out better options; I wanted quality sex, not a quick fumbling fuck.
It was time to call the professional.
One of the common indicators of loneliness is having a nice home and no one to share it with; my working hours prevented me having a mammalian pet. I settled for one pretty Siamese fighting fish that lived.
When I called the mysterious professional to arrange an appointment, an older woman answered the phone in a professional manner, as though she worked for an attorney. She did mention By Appointment, and I continued yapping. She politely interrupted and directed me to a web address after getting my credit card details, explaining the processes to access the questionnaire. Questionnaire? Did I call the correct number? As the web page confirmed, not only did I dial the correct number, I stumbled onto a detailed virtual sexual interview. She reminded me to answer as honestly as I could.
Helen didn’t mention this part of the deal.
The questions began in a straightforward manner, not unlike a magazine quiz. When I pressed ‘Next’ I arrived at the sex/fantasy section. I responded to questions about my sexual experience to date, the activities I am accustomed to and what I am willing to try or what boundaries I was willing to explore. Boundaries? The quest to find a sexual playmate was difficult enough; boundaries were bonuses.
In the fantasy portion, I was asked about the type of partner I preferred. It began with appearance, continued on to sexual expertise – I ticked ‘virtuoso’ – and went further, describing personality types. The final page requested a few fantasies I had. When was the last time I had a fantasy? At night, I’d fall asleep watching Leno. When the first stage of indigestion began on the market, fantasy wasn’t a priority. I’d think about sex in its primal form: fucking.
When I discussed my ideal fuck, my fingers trembled. The rough and smooth, I knew I had to be playing a game with myself. Without proofreading my fantasy, I hit enter. After I received confirmation, the page dissolved. Like it hadn’t existed. I didn’t have the energy to consider the technical why-how.

The indecision over what to wear was nothing compared to the arrival.
The doorman called, I accepted my visit and waited. When my paid visitor arrived, I still had trouble integrating his occupation. There were no telltale signs that women like me paid him by the hour. He too received a shock; he usually serviced women much older than me.
He reminded me of my Tuscany fling. This reminder also reminded me of my last vacation; money may sweeten deals, open doors and give access to the finest things – I’ve always had a weakness for shoes. Money doesn’t eliminate stress.
After introducing himself (we didn’t have the cash up front issue as I paid with my charge card before his arrival), I realized that I had on a pair of ordinary pants and a blouse, both of which were more appropriate for a day at work. This minor detail didn’t register or he overlooked it. Perhaps he felt sorry for me – an overworked and underfucked professional. Getting to the hairy details, things he did to justify payment included:

• Undressing me with confidence and the air of a grand seducer. There are many books published offering men advice on talking the talk but it can be frightfully disappointing to get to the intimate part of the relationship to find that they can’t hold out.

• An impeccable command of the English – and at my previous request – and French language; he didn’t spit out the usual assortment that I could watch on an adult DVD.

• His knowledge of female surface anatomy made the remainder possible – he could find my G-Spot blindfolded

Although I didn’t ask him about his sexual history or a nice round number of women he’d serviced, his touch – everything from the pressure to technique – explained it all. From my head to my midriff (breasts included), from the junction of my inner thigh to the backs of my knees, he knew how to give and where to give it. And he provided is own condoms. Not that I am frugal with condoms, but it made it all the more smoother for me not to worry myself over all the details. Position wise, his patience outweighed every man I’ve dated in the recent past. The intercourse segment of the session was not unlike a mini Kama Sutra session; it is his job to keep himself supple and as much as it pains me to mention it, many men I’ve known, know or have dated overlooked their health and fitness as a fundamental part of their sexual output.

I make it seem easy, but I certainly paid for the session. Dental dams and cunnilingus may not be exciting for the receiver but he made up for it with his manual stimulation. The foreplay exceeded an hour and I needed it to reach a high state of arousal so I could freely enjoy the penetration. In selecting a professional for a single session, I wasn’t required to be on any good behavior bond. He didn’t blanch at me talking dirtier than a crack whore. I didn’t worry about him not calling me for the next step in the relationship after talking like an insatiable nympho. To women like my client Helen, outlaying a few thousand dollars for a mind altering fuck is as necessary as a monthly day spa.

Would I do it again?

I’ve done it again. I book him on a monthly basis and I am not certain if this will change. High quality can be highly addictive. Cultivating expensive taste can be dangerous.

While it may irk many to think that I invested more in a day of sex, I’d like to point out that many males in my profession don’t blink about outlaying a week’s salary on procuring a sex professional.

© 2009 Justine Keeler

Justine Keeler* works as a financial adviser. On a good day, she can be found at the Carnegie deli testing her cholesterol tolerance.