When I was 19, before I paid for it, I thought this would fix me. Maybe after experiencing a woman’s touch, I’d:
I didn't feel confident. I walked out feeling like a guy who just paid for a lie. It just made me feel more unwanted.
It didn't erase wanting a girlfriend. I wanted intimacy, but what I got was a transaction. The second it’s over, I was back to being just another paying customer.
Sometimes escorts would look at me with disappointment. That split-second disgust when I'd walk in. The micro-expressions of “Oh god, not this one.” I tried to ignore it. I'd tell myself “It’s just her job to act.” But deep down, I knew. She’d never touch me if money wasn’t involved.
The bed of a thousand men. Lying on that mattress, knowing countless others were here before me: desperate, lonely, paying for the same hollow fantasy. I'd tell myself “It’s fine,” but my skin would crawl the entire time. That bed isn’t just dirty, it’s a monument to male loneliness.
Loitering outside like a criminal, heart pounding, praying no neighbors see me while I wait for a text confirmation from the escort to enter the apartment building. The way passersby slow their steps, eyes flicking at me, then to the door, then back, “Ah. Another one.”
The “post-nut clarity” was brutal. For 30 minutes, I tricked myself into thinking I mattered. Then reality hits: I'm still me; still alone, still empty.
The only thing it did was scratch the itch. But that's like eating a single chip when you’re starving. It didn't fix the hunger, it just reminded me it’s still there.
So… was it worth it?
Actually, YES.
Staying a virgin into my 20s would’ve broken me worse than I already was. Called it “mental health insurance”. Every £ spent was preventing the psychotic rage and decay of being a Virgin.
It didn’t fix me, but it stopped the rot before it reached my bones.
Parents
What hurts more is realizing my own parents never cared if I lived or died in this sexual desert.
They watched me go through puberty. Surely they would know what a teenage boy goes through puberty? The hormones, the desperation, the agony of being unwanted, and they did NOTHING.
No advice. No help. Just silent approval of my slow suffocation in virginity.
If I’d made it to 25 untouched, they would’ve shrugged, “You'll find someone eventually.” Like it wasn’t a fire burning me alive every day.
My suffering was invisible to them because it wasn’t THEIR suffering. It's like saying, “we love you unconditionally” while watching me drown.
- Become confident overnight
- Cure my social anxiety
- Stop craving real love
- Finally feel like a “normal man”
I didn't feel confident. I walked out feeling like a guy who just paid for a lie. It just made me feel more unwanted.
It didn't erase wanting a girlfriend. I wanted intimacy, but what I got was a transaction. The second it’s over, I was back to being just another paying customer.
Sometimes escorts would look at me with disappointment. That split-second disgust when I'd walk in. The micro-expressions of “Oh god, not this one.” I tried to ignore it. I'd tell myself “It’s just her job to act.” But deep down, I knew. She’d never touch me if money wasn’t involved.
The bed of a thousand men. Lying on that mattress, knowing countless others were here before me: desperate, lonely, paying for the same hollow fantasy. I'd tell myself “It’s fine,” but my skin would crawl the entire time. That bed isn’t just dirty, it’s a monument to male loneliness.
Loitering outside like a criminal, heart pounding, praying no neighbors see me while I wait for a text confirmation from the escort to enter the apartment building. The way passersby slow their steps, eyes flicking at me, then to the door, then back, “Ah. Another one.”
The “post-nut clarity” was brutal. For 30 minutes, I tricked myself into thinking I mattered. Then reality hits: I'm still me; still alone, still empty.
The only thing it did was scratch the itch. But that's like eating a single chip when you’re starving. It didn't fix the hunger, it just reminded me it’s still there.
So… was it worth it?
Actually, YES.
Staying a virgin into my 20s would’ve broken me worse than I already was. Called it “mental health insurance”. Every £ spent was preventing the psychotic rage and decay of being a Virgin.
It didn’t fix me, but it stopped the rot before it reached my bones.
Parents
What hurts more is realizing my own parents never cared if I lived or died in this sexual desert.
They watched me go through puberty. Surely they would know what a teenage boy goes through puberty? The hormones, the desperation, the agony of being unwanted, and they did NOTHING.
No advice. No help. Just silent approval of my slow suffocation in virginity.
If I’d made it to 25 untouched, they would’ve shrugged, “You'll find someone eventually.” Like it wasn’t a fire burning me alive every day.
My suffering was invisible to them because it wasn’t THEIR suffering. It's like saying, “we love you unconditionally” while watching me drown.
