I don’t know what it says about me that I officially lost interest in a man when he said the hooker-client relationship was too impersonal: “There’s no love there, no little notes on your car windshield.”
So…your degree is not in rocket science, is it? That’s the POINT — professional fucking and no ridiculous feelings. Not all of us enjoy romance via vehicular litter.
Prostitution could really benefit from being rebranded as “sex therapy.”
Talk about an un*tap*ped market. My therapist was $75 a session. If I’d spent that 45 minutes pressing against another human and climaxing, rather than all that goddamn talking, I wouldn’t have stopped going.
(It’s a joke — therapy is lovely.)
I would be the world’s greatest Girlfriend Experience prostitute.
I’ve been combing through everything I’ve ever written, updating my resume and cover letter, and preparing to send it all to prospective employers. I am so mentally exhausted from “selling myself.” I don’t know how prostitutes do it. I haven’t even had to fuck anyone, merely blow them verbally, and I am BEAT. Kudos, ladies.
Gagging on my toothbrush this morning actually reminded me that I have limited prospects in prostitution as a fallback career. I’m going to have to find a job more suited to my shallow-throated skill set. Or, you know…just be an small-dick-only prostitute. But I have a feeling that’s an untapped (heh) market for a reason — no dude is gonna go to the small-dick-exclusive whorehouse. Worst niche ever.
Smug Singleton 