I've Moved Up In Life

It's hard to start. Why does an obedient, fundamentally good young man in his 20's like myself all of a sudden find himself the customer of massage parlors and escort services in Vancouver?

The answer that I have, and that many others in this website have also provided, is rejection. Rejection, and its close associate, the loneliness that comes after it, leads many of us to believe that we are fundamentally unloveable. And for us, the prospect of trading some of our money for the affection and the satisfaction that an escort, or a masseuse, or a prostitute (you name it) can provide is not just about sex--it's more about safety, the feeling that all you have to do to keep this girl by your side is treat her right and pay her promptly.

Stick to that, and you will not be rejected. Simple. Straightforward. Safe.

Whether my rejection experiences are more or less acute than those suffered from others, I cannot tell. I have unfortunately only had one girlfriend in 24 years of my life, and it proved to be a harrowing experience, a few months' worth of happiness in exchange for years of suffering afterwards. In light of that, and of my horrible loneliness, I decided to visit a massage parlor in November of last year. Since then, I've moved up in life--from happy endings to BJ's to the full "service." I've been there, done that. Not that I am proud. But it's the unfortunate truth.

My latest experience was with an escort called A. She came from the same South American country I did, a tall, dark-haired girl with a great body. She says she's in town to "learn English," which I doubted, but who cares? For an hour and fifteen minutes, I had someone listen to me wholeheartedly, rub my back, provide me with the ersatz-girlfriend that I crave for but feel that I am unable to attract, and then at the end of it all she even asked for my phone number.

"You will call me again, right?" she asks.

I would like to say that I won't. But my hour with A. felt like water washing my wounds, easing the pain of my brutal loneliness, helping me feel accepted and valued again, a feeling that I haven't felt in many, many months.

Some people say that love is priceless. Well, to those people I say, for two-hundred and seventy Canadian dollars, something quite like it is there for the taking. At least until the hour is done.

I Can't Speak for the Rest

It was a week long bachelor party in Colombia for a good friend of mine. The planning took months discussion, most of which centered around the hookers and how much fun it would be. We finally managed to book flights and though a business contact rented 2 apartments. One of our biggest fears, would it be difficult or complicated to get a hold of girls, was alleviated when we got into our first taxi on the way from the airport. I expect that five 30 year old buddies traveling alone in Colombia was a dead giveaway and the driver asked quietly if we wanted coke or girls. We quickly asked for both and a 5 day ride of depravity began. We where soon on our way to what we understood to be a club of some sort to pick up girls which we understood to be prostitutes of some sort. Unfortunately our drivers had underestimated our purchasing power and we ended up in some horrible local whorehouse on the outskirts of the city. The place was damp and dark with bare cement floors and people in varied states of inebriation and fornication spread around the complex. It was a violent shock to most of us as we realised that the money we planned to spend on the trip made us omnipotent with regards to getting a hold of any working girl down there.

We managed to explain to the drivers that we wanted a more classy place and ended up in a brothel with a plexiglass covered shower and women all over the place (can't get more classy than that). The women attacked us as flies to shit as soon as we walked in the door and this time we didn't hesitate to each pick a girl for the night. The one I had picked has some sort of a problem and disappeared into the back rooms leaving me with little time to find another. Just as I was about to give up and select randomly a tall, black girl walked passed and caught my eye. After a quick discussion with the madam of the house and a payment of maybe 300 dollars total we piled into the cars and headed back for a unforgettable night.

As we arrived all our anxiety and inhibitions disappeared. We felt safe in the apartments and the girls where pros contracted for a full night. At first we chitchated and drank a bit before taking each of our girls to a private room or at least a private corner for some fun. After a while the scene dissolved into some sort of high-school orgy. Everyone got drunk and high and at one point a friend was pretending to interview me with a camera while I screwed my ebony princess on the couch. Another buddy took a girl on the balcony in full view of any neighbor and no one bothered with clothes for the rest of the night. At one point during the next morning a telephone repairman knocked on the door and we had to ask him to wait while we carried two naked and semiconscious girls into the bedroom. I can't image what went though his mind when he entered the living room.

The following days became more subdued and the reality of what we where doing began to sink in for some of us. We discovered that all the girls had admitted that they where mothers and that they lived in the brothel while making money to support their kids who I imagined lived somewhere else. I can't speak for the rest, but the guilt of my total lack of self-control on the trip hits me in the gut every time I think of it. I know I can't change the economic situation for these girls, but I'm morally disgusted by how much I enjoyed sex with the most sensual women I've ever met while at the same time she has no choice in the matter.