It happens two, three times a month. Always the same, always with that same look of discovery, like the guy thinks he just invented something. He books it, he shows up, he comes back. Comes back again. Then one random day, still naked, with that lazy post-nut voice of someone who thinks he just had an epiphany, he drops: “I think I’m falling in love with you.”
And I have to decide, right then, whether I’m gonna be nice or honest. Because the two of them hardly ever fit in the same room.
None of them think they’re a client. That’s the funniest part. They all think they’re the exception — that with me it’s different, that something real happened, that I laughed in a way I don’t laugh with the others. Sweetheart, I laugh like that with everyone. It’s my job to laugh like that. You’re paying exactly for that.
He didn’t fall in love with me.
He fell in love with being looked at.
Think about what he actually bought: one hour of absolute attention. Nobody on their phone. Nobody saying “not now, I’m tired.” Nobody telling him to get his shit together or pay the bills, to be something he’s not. A full hour of being the only interesting thing in the goddamn room.
When was the last time anyone gave him that shit for free? Never.
So his brain does the laziest math possible: if they treated me like that, it must mean I’m special. It never even crosses his mind that this has a name, a price, and an end time — and that he already knew all three when he texted asking if I had an opening on Thursday.
And the part that really fucks with their heads: it wasn’t an act.
Seriously. It wasn’t.
The attention was real. The horniness was real, most of the time — I’m not made of stone and some of these clients are hot as fuck. The aftercare was real too. I didn’t fake a damn thing, because faking is exhausting and I already work too much to waste energy on bad theater.
What he doesn’t get is that being good at your job is the job. The baker doesn’t hate you because her bread tastes good. The masseur isn’t in love with you because his hands hit the right spot on your back. I’m good at this. That’s literally why you came back. His mistake wasn’t feeling something. Feeling is human, I feel shit too. The mistake was deciding it was about him, when it was about skill.
Then comes the savior complex, and that’s the part I hate the most:
“You’re too good for this.”
Too good for what, baby? For the work I chose, that pays my rent, that gave me flexible hours and financial independence at twenty-three? Too good for the job I do better than you probably do yours?
He’s got this fantasy that he needs to believe he pulled me out of some dark place. Because then he stops being just another name in my Thursday book and becomes the “Man Who Changed a Life.” It’s a promotion for him. He doesn’t actually want to save me — he wants a better role in a story where his part was already written the second the first Pix hit my account.
And there’s a quiet cruelty in it they never see: for him to feel like a hero, I have to be a victim. He needs my life to be fucked. He’s literally hoping things go bad for me so he can love me in his twisted little way.
Then the jealousy kicks in, and that part’s almost funny.
A couple weeks in and the questions start. How many others. If I like it. If it’s the same with them. If I actually come or if I’m just faking it for him. Notice the absurdity: the guy starts hating the exact thing that brought him to me in the first place. He wants exclusivity from a woman he only met because she doesn’t give exclusivity to anyone. It’s like buying a concert ticket and getting pissed there are other people in the crowd.
And it’s not real romantic jealousy. That kind hurts and fades. This is different — it’s the jealousy of someone who needs to be the exception. Wounded pride wearing a romance costume.
The final request always comes gift-wrapped.
Quit working. Just be with me. Prove it was real.
Strip the pretty paper off and what’s left is: do for free what you used to charge for. Only then can he be absolutely sure he was special. He wants a receipt. Love that needs proof isn’t love.
And the cost of that receipt is me giving up the one thing I’ll never negotiate — the part of me that decides. Who gets in, who doesn’t, how much it costs, when it ends. So I say no. He gets hurt, disappears for two weeks, then comes back. Always comes back. Some come apologizing, some pretend nothing happened, a couple come back angry — those I block and never think about again.
I’m not a victim in this story and I don’t want to be. I’m good. I know exactly what I’m selling, I know what it costs, and I sleep like a rock.
I’m not a villain either. I never tricked anyone. I never lied about what this was, never faked feelings, never led anyone on with promises I wasn’t going to keep. The contract was written in big bold letters from the first “hey, you got time today?”
He’s the one who chose not to read it. He’s the one who thought pussy and affection came in the same package just because, in his head, they’d never come separate. And when I charged for the hour and didn’t charge for love, he decided the love must’ve been thrown in for free.
It wasn’t, baby.
It never was.
You paid for the hour.
The falling in love was on you.