Why I’m Jealous of Prostitutes

The unexpected love triangle

Photo by Vidar Nordli-Mathisen on Unsplash

It was an unspoken tension between us. I would never be exactly what he wanted. My skin would never feel like a strangers. I could never be the unknown prostitute, with her new scent and different body. There was an excitement for my boyfriend there, which can’t be created after years of being together.

Over the years we had become old friends. We knew every inch of each other. The smell of his hair, his deodorant, the softness of his favourite stripy boxers were permanently stored in my memory. I still wish I could have kept a frisson of excitement for him. Preserved it forever. Wrapped it up in the goosebumps he deserved, and kept it for everytime we touched. But I couldn’t. I knew him too well.

He knew all of my lingerie

And he knew me. All my underwear had a familiar, less then exciting feel. There were no surprises. He taught me how to have sex, so I couldn’t shock him. He was my first. He gave me tips from porn films. I’d listen eagerly, desperately wanting to be the best. He was all I knew. And it would be that way forever.

Until forever evaporated into a broken promise. Forever drifted away as we grew up. Our time together became fictional. The memory was now the highlights of our journey together.

At the time, I did all I could. I was determined to become the woman he desired. Black stockings and garters looked good on me. New underwear every month freshened things up. I discovered magazines had essential tips for adventurous sex. I planned to surprise him.

But I was fighting a losing battle

Every woman looked sexier than me. They made wild noises on the porn shows we watched together. I ignored any stabs of jealousy. After all, we were friends, as well as lovers. I wanted to share his passions. We discussed sex clubs and brothels together in his bedroom in hushed excited tones, so his parents didn’t hear.

Except, I wasn’t excited. There was a sadness in my heart. I wanted to be the woman he discussed in hushed tones. I wanted to be his prostitute. But, how would I ever compete with their illicit skins and lustful moans? There was a nervous thrill surrounding prostitutes which I could never create.

The truth was, my prince charming wanted a prostitute

And who was I to stop him? We would be together forever. So, we had to try things. We had to be free and open to explore the world. Our relationship couldn’t hold us back. It must amplify life, not squash it. If he wanted to explore all sexual avenues, who was I to get in his way?

A human must be free. And his freedom was prostitution. So, I waited outside the brothel. We were on holiday. It was a balmy, gentle night. It was easy to wait in the early morning light. I got us both a drink in the bar. I sat on a metal chair and waited happily. He would need a drink after his adventure. I was determined to be relaxed about it.

I closed my eyes

Images danced in my mind. Soft skin on his, sultry sweet perfume, lips brushing against his neck, heavy breathing. I took a sip of my drink. I had to ignore my thoughts. I would try and relax. I closed my eyes again. Immediately I heard a helpless moan, increased breathing, his grunts of pleasure. My imagination was running wild.

I drank quickly. I drank his vodka too. It didn’t seem like he would be arriving anytime soon. He shouldn’t rush. It was a nice evening. I wanted desperately to be the carefree girlfriend I knew I could be. I closed my eyes again but the torment was still there. I saw nails digging into his back. Bodies hot against each other. Moans moulding into one.

I stood up abruptly.

I couldn’t cope with the images my mind was creating

It would be refreshing to go for a walk. I had finished both drinks now. I needed something to do. I would walk straight down the main street. It would be safe and well lit. I would keep walking until I got to the beach. I would take my heels off and feel the sand beneath my feet. I would look at the sea and feel the ocean spray on my face. I would feel better. I was sure of it.

I walked fast. It felt good to have a plan.

“Tilly?”

I looked up. There he was. He had rushed to catch up with me. I stared at him. Was I disappointed he had interrupted my plan? I didn’t know. Had he slept with a prostitute? I didn’t care. All I knew is I wanted to sleep. I wanted to crawl into a warm bed and sleep for hours. I was exhausted. We would talk in the morning.

Years later, and I still wonder if every man has an underlying interest in prostitutes. Was I unlucky in my first relationship, or was he just more honest?

Procon tells us 18% of men from the USA have used prostitutes and 8% in the UK have too. A lot of men say the reason is purely functional — they find it challenging to have sex with women or they have no sex in their current relationship. Other men say they feel lonely and are looking for affection.

“I want my ideal prostitute not to behave like one,” An interviewee in The Guardian said, “to role-play to be a pretend girlfriend, a casual date, not business-like or mechanical. To a third person it looks like we’re in love.”

This domestic fantasy isn’t the wild passionate obsession I had expected. It seems, overall, men are seeking sexual satisfaction and love. But, for the individual it’s often different. My ex-boyfriend, for example, didn’t fit into the statistics. He was seeking a sexual fantasy that no one could fulfil. Not even the prostitutes he desired could give him the wild Hollywood moment he imagined.

I never fully understood his reasoning, and neither did he, “It’s just something cool that every man should do.” His only explanation wasn’t profound. But it was all I had. What was the real reason behind his desire? And why couldn’t we simply role-play prostitution?

I would never find out

A broken relationship happens for a reason. Some can be repaired. Other’s die. The wick sinks into the wax, and can’t be retrieved. The flame ran blue for a long time before we split up. Weak and flickering, it should have been put out years before we ended things for good.

I was never enough, but it wasn’t because of prostitutes. I simply wasn’t the right person for him. The excitement I longed to give to someone, would happen in time. I would find the man for me.

One person’s opinion wasn’t the holy grail of my destined romances. His viewpoint had to be tossed aside lightly before it damaged my confidence.

It was something to be breezily ignored

I sought other opinions instead. Opinions which made me feel loved and proud of who I was. I found strong support and wonderful praise from close friends. I let my broken heart heal.

I focused on my positive qualities. I forgot about prostitutes. I put the black stockings and garters in the bin. I reminded myself I was enough. And I would always be enough. Just not for him.

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Exploring sex, life & mental health | P.S I Love You | Mind Cafe | Learn how to go from $0 to $1000 in three months on Medium https://pages.matildaswinney.com/

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