Letter from a sex worker to a wife
I don’t know you, but I know that it’s possible that your husband will cheat on you with a sex worker. I say that because I am one, and I am not short on clients.
But not your husband, you say, not him! Other husbands, sure, but your relationship, your sex life, is different. You had a threesome with your college room mate ten years ago. You get a sitter and head to Vegas every August. You have that special thing with Law and Order marathons. You have a great marriage!
Let me ask you: When was the last time you had sex three times in a week? When was the last time he complained about that? Don’t you think that maybe it’s possible that he’s instead taken the problem out of your hands, which is to say into mine?
The good news is that if your husband is seeing me, it’s because he wants to stay married. He is choosing to get some ersatz affection in the least messy way possible. Imagine if instead of me it was the babysitter, your neighbour, your best friend. I could go on, list, but you get the idea.
I’m a professional. I am discreet, but more than that I am discrete: My time, attention, and sexuality are measured in hours, beyond which he is yours. And importantly, I don’t love your husband and never will. It’s quite unlikely that I feel more than favourite-barista level affection for him.
I will never be a threat to your marriage because when I’m off the clock I don’t want anything to do with either of you. I will never go out to dinner with him or call you in the middle of the night or bring up divorce. You won’t find out from me. And if you find out from him, he’s either stupid or angry with you.
Yes, some clients trip and fall in feelings, but it’s a shallow puddle since they know that what we’re doing is fake. You don’t think your plumber adores toilets, do you?
Men know that my affection for them is conditional on their affection for giving me money. He’s not visualizing having The Talk with you and the kids and then running away to my hotel room and lovingly moaning my made-up name. I am outside of life. I’m an employee. As much as he might sexually fixate on me, his emotions will not get deeply invested in what we do together.
If things threaten to get “complicated,” as the kids say, on his end, there’s a fail-safe: I cost money.
In my experience, men generally spend only what they can afford on sex. If your husband needs it every two weeks, and can sneak $1,000 out of the monthly household budget, he sees someone who charges what I do. Even if he wants more, he can’t pull an extra grand out of thin air. The kind of roller coaster that ends in, “Baby, I have something to tell you,” requires acceleration, which requires recklessness.
Whatever he thinks he feels, he’ll forget in two weeks like any other craving. What about disease? Despite what you see in the movies, most sex workers these days are probably healthier and more safety-conscious than your average amorous secretary. Remember what I said about my extremely limited affection for him? That includes his epidemiological profile. And there are also no love-child concerns. The chance of me carrying a work-related baby is roughly 0 percent of Absolutely Not with a standard deviation of You Have Got to Be Kidding Me.
Maybe you still don’t want him sleeping with me. I’ll ask again: When was the last time you had sex three times in a week?
I’m not saying it’s your job to keep him happy. I am saying maybe you don’t want to sleep with him that often. You’re busy, or stressed out, or he doesn’t do it for you any more. I get it; he almost certainly doesn’t do it for me.
That’s the point. I am the secret ingredient in a lot of healthy marriages, because when he’s seeing me, both of you are getting the amount of sex you want. As long as you leave his cellphone alone, you might make it to your 50th anniversary. You’re welcome.