Friday night, two-screens. In bed, double-fisting fantasy. Strawberry Shortcake’s Berry Bitty Adventures plays on my laptop while I window-shop for a man on my phone. Oh, to be the teeniest-tiniest, fruitiest, cutiest girl in the whole wide world, resting her head on a warm hunk’s chest beneath the shade of a strawberry leaf, I pine as I scroll past Jack Rabbit, Carlos, and Joe. No, I’m not on Tinder or Hinge or Bumble or Feeld—I’m either banned from or bored of those. I’m foraging for a gigolo—male escort, sex worker, prostitute, hooker, whatever you want to call him. I’m looking for a man who’s “just right,” as declared by Goldilocks and the Three Bears, but in looks, price, and vibes in place of “porridge,” “beds,” and “chairs.” I’ve been edging to the idea of hiring a male companion since 2018, when I was a sugar baby in college. Twenty-two, intrigued by masculinity, dumb with old men’s money, and ready to do anything for the bit, I was convinced it would be charity—a direct and hilarious approach to giving back to my sex work community. Sadomasochistic mutual aid. The perverted philanthropist in me died, however, just a few hours after I had switched my SeekingArrangement profile from “Sugar Baby” to “Sugar Mommy,” and was swarmed by private messages like, “What are you doing here? I’ll fuck you for free.” I spat it out and closed my barely legal Sugar Mommy account once the bit got bitter.
Then, the motivation for paying for a man was life experience. Vengeance through benevolence. Another wild story to add to my stack. Now, at twenty-nine, tucked in bed with a nesting dachshund between my legs—the closest companion I have to a husband—and my goodnight-girl cartoon on to self-soothe, I scan for a man in earnest. More sad and sweet than sexy or funny. I’m healing from many things, like all the time. ‘Tis life! I hate it here (2026). I miss having a boyfriend. I miss having a crush. I miss high school, when boys would at least pretend to like me to get in my pants. I turn to the catalogs of mixed-bag man-bods when I’ve had it up to here! with what’s being offered to me on the dating apps and in my DMs. For the love of sex, acquire some swag! Open a door, ask me a question, order a car, make me laugh, pump my gas. I’m at the point where I’d rather pay a [professional] man to roleplay having an interest in me than go on a very real, dumbdumb horny date with a man who has any actual interest in me. Little Miss Picky. Little Miss Unimpressed.
The last man I had sex with was a dummy. Chosen because, “good enough,” like a dented dolly from the thrift store. Hot enough with yankable thick brown hair, a short boxed beard, bad tattoos, and a cocky little-fucker attitude—just how I like ‘em. Extra points for having a cool ex-girlfriend. I’d gathered from his old Instagram posts that she was beautiful, weird, and successful, and that they were still friendly with one another. Green flag. Her association vouched for him.
About a month before we boned, he took me on a date to a sardined, trendy bathhouse in [redacted]. A good concept for a date, I’ll give him that, and that’s just so like, wow!, these days. He showed up to the bathhouse high on a “microdose” of mushrooms, which may have spiritually moved him to be forthright with me when I asked, “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” In the room-temperature bath, he confessed to a shameful past and I promised not to tell. In the salt pool, he confessed to me, a retired sex worker, that he “used to be addicted to hiring” and has “always felt a connection to sex workers,” despite never having sold any hole himself. No. I have a way of either comforting or intimidating people—I can’t tell which—so much so that they’re eager to share their shit with me. It’s probably because I share so much of my own shit that it makes people feel special, like I’m letting them in on some big shit secret. But what they don’t realize is that they’re not special—I just have OCD. They also don’t pick up on that I—despite my devilish delight—am judging them. “Testing them,” my therapist once noted. It’s a quality that makes me feel a little evil, but also safe and smarter than most people. Early in the date, I concluded that he was neither my future husband nor boyfriend, but could maybe serve as a low-stakes meat puppet to try sex with after a year and a half of not having any.
A few weeks later, I drove back to [redacted] to finish two final sessions of a trauma therapy program I’d been in for the past year—I had gotten too “well” and made too much progress to keep working with them (boo!)—and to help my friend and client, a big-tittied OnlyFans creator and comedian, film lewd-barely-nude content for her page. Sex work money, good. Sex work, bad (for me). So “management” was a natural next step for my haggard sex brain.
On the pullout couch in our hotel room, I itched for body. Touch-starved and lowkey horny, I texted my ex—we were together in college. Not to bootycall (I wish), don’t worry; he doesn’t even live here (in this shit country) anymore. I demanded that he send me thirst traps of his big arms and pretty boy smile, and then bitched and moaned like a whiny teenage loser a fat paragraph about how I hadn’t been fucked in over a year, modern man’s failures to seduce me, having to end the only good therapy, and how much I missed him drooling next to and soaked inside of me.
He was someone I could rely on to gift me intimacy. We had pep talks bro-to-bro, digitally: every kind of intimacy shared but the physical, because of our distance, history, and his new live-in girlfriend.
“Why isn’t there a charity for poor traumatized women?” I continued after his marble-flexed biceps burst through the blue bubble.
“You’re not poor, you’re an artist,” he texted back. “A traumatized artist.”
His dismissal to reduce me to my womanhood and paycheck fucked me. Sweetly but jealously, I pictured him with another woman. A European escort with brown hair, beauty marks, and a thick ass in some satin-stained bed of some red light district. Many times, he’s confided in me that in the past four years since he’s seen me last, he’s hired women who look similar to me to act like me. “Like a bitchy, bratty girlfriend.” He calls them Madison. I bet he fucks me/them real hard. I don’t judge him. That’s love! It’s romantic! I know he knows I take it all: the flattery, the shank—he’s awfully smart like that. Twins! Our pandrogeny. Sometimes, I question if the love he shares with/for me/us is true, if not at all embellished. I wonder if he’s afraid of me. Maybe he (sometimes) wants to keep me happy so I don’t fuck with him and email his girlfriend, or post on Instagram or a “Are We Dating The Same Guy?” Facebook page, or write a book about us. Maybe it’s pity or guilt that makes him respond to me. Maybe he just wants to keep me around as an option for if we’re ever in the same country, both of us looking for a sad, perfect fuck. Maybe we have a trauma bond. Or maybe! He still loves me. The truth is, I try not to care about the truth. It aches so throb. The edge goes crazy. What a lucky motherfucker to have loved me in love with him.
While my friend took a bath, I opened up an escort site and found a twinky looking man 18 miles away. Not my typical “type” but handsome, well dressed, and seemingly approachable. Heterosexual: women and couples only. That’s important to me, I’ve noticed. A testament to my internalized homophobia and, therefore, misogyny, methinks! Daddy issues? Duh. Should I have forced myself to buy a bi-guy? No. This was about objectification. Fantasy. I was playing gluttony. His name: Thomas. I imagined a session with Thomas, imagining Thomas as my ex while texting my ex. How could I emulate our dirty familiarity with a stranger in an hour?
I texted him, “Hi Thomas! Do you provide just snuggles?”
He replied, “Absolutely! Snuggling, head rubs, massages wherever you need it the most.”
“Lovely :) I’m really just looking for someone to pretend that they’re in love with me lol more of a companion/friend than a sexual arrangement. Snuggle buddy, etc.”
“Companionship is necessary in this world. I would be glad to help. Do you have any other questions or concerns?”
I questioned (to myself) if I should send him a selfie to prove that I am hot and desperate, but having been on the other side of the GoogleVoice line, I decided against it. No. If we were to meet, I’d want to be a stinky hot mess; my truest, most insane self as I was when I was in love, and I would want him [to pretend] to not give a damn, but to give me kisses, a bath, a scrub, a shave, a towel, a hair brushing, a braid, a snack, some pjs, and a hug instead. Dear god, I am a sexy child. Maybe after all that, I’d want to fuck.
Unfortunately—subconsciously—the timing didn’t work out; I did inquire at midnight. I texted an old friend with benefits, a horny but honest airhead male model I used to watch movies and have sex with when I lived in [redacted]. We hadn’t spoken in years. He pissed me off for some reason I couldn’t remember. I didn’t care. He’s one of those men that all the girls he fucks falls in love with just because he’s decent; like my ex. I get it. They’re both aries. Hm. Both were popular and got laid in high school. They’re kinder to women because they don’t have anything to prove. I wanted to experience a man I already knew or could control—but not a submissive man. Been there, dommed that. I knew this guy would buy me breakfast in the morning and let me stay late into the next day to watch Toy Story with his memory foam cowboy hat on. But it was close to 1 AM. And he was down, but down for bed. Typical. I hate a sleeping man.
Fine. I texted bathhouse butthead. He was game, the “game” being me. I told him to order me an Uber to his place in [redacted] (triggered!) once I realized that he wasn’t going to offer me one himself. I explained on the bumpy way, that I might just want to cuddle and kiss. “That’s okay,” he assured me. He rang me into his apartment building—a tall black box—and I poo-pooed him for not greeting me at the door like a man with manners, as I walked up his three flights of stairs (alone) and knocked on the door.
Our foreplay was a shared glass of milk with Oreos, jokes, “favorite animals,” “favorite colors,” a sticky peach, “biggest fears,” cannodling, and tongues, before I proposed, “Let’s go to the bedroom.” He knew I hadn’t been “to bed” with someone in a long time, because I told him so. I also told him about my therapy program. Once I label a man as bad PR, I couldn’t care less about his perception of me, like yeah, I am this crazy and hot, buddy.
I tested my sex. The goal of the night was to see how I’d fuck all healed like. What’s it like to fuck neurotypically? Great! Not the sex—that was mediocre at best—but cerebrally cummy. Good for my head. My head is phenomenal. Ask anyone; I love to give it, love to make ‘em squirm. Dance, monkey, dance! A real power bottom feeder, I am. Dick in mouth, I asked myself, “Do you really want to slob on this man’s knob or are you just doing it because you’re bored?” He gave me nothing. Not a peep! Not a pump! The internal monologue continued as I sipped and shucked the damn thing, until I realized that yes, I was bored, and, more profoundly, that I never wanted to give my best sex or head to an undeserving man ever again. I dropped the dick from my mouth and laid on my back, all flabby and lousy like an old dog. “I am not your porn star, I am not your wife,” I thought while he fucked me, out-of-breath in missionary, his sweat shedding from his brow into my open mouth. “I am being bad at sex. I am safe,” I said in my head as he rolled me over to prone bone. How empowering for this whore in recovery, giving [bare]back the bare minimum! After a few prone bone cock clogs, he came, rolled over to his side of the bed, and scrolled on his phone. Of course I didn’t cum. I hadn’t planned on it. Very early the next morning, I Ubered myself home. I texted my ex that I had gotten laid and of my dick-in-mouth revelation.
“Ahhh lovely! Don’t even think about it. Who cares what they act like? It’s masturbation essentially. Dehumanize them for a change. Do what you want and stop feeling bad about it,” he said. Ok :)
My therapist was equally as proud.
“No task is too tall” for Strawberry Shortcake and her berry bitty friends, but I can’t decide on a guy to pay to pretend to be my [ex] boyfriend. I’ve been especially into the idea since my bad-sex-test on that dummy a year and eight months ago. If I had more money and less responsibility, I would’ve done it—booked a boytoy—already, but the bratty-baby part of me believes that I deserve this service as charity! Cmon, gimme! Donate to $spoilthiscutie! I don’t know how much more yearning, daydreaming, close-friend story venting, and complaining I can take! I’ll go into [more] credit card debt before I commit a sexually-frustrated murder-suicide. I am horny, yes! But I am disciplined! Only feral during menstruation and I will NOT have period sex with anyone other than my imaginary boyfriend; I don’t have time to deal with a random man falling in love with me right now! I have too much to write and two dogs to take care of! And even if I wanted to fuck, who and what I would unlock my belt for doesn’t seem to be available. Gone are the days of objectifying men on their own terms. Goodbye, men for sex positivity! I don’t want to dine or dance with a boorish dunce, nevermind beg for a crumb of his cum. I need a professional. He will give me what I want, because he has to; it’s his job. I can have my dick and eat his too if I want to when I want to—two if I want to!—and I can make it taste just right.
I find two men I’m visually attracted to on a male escort agency’s website. “Giacomo” is Italian and “Danny” is Ukrainian. Both foreign. That tracks for me. Their reviews are excellent: five stars.
Giacomo is basically my age. He has wavy brown hair, a Rolex, and a wardrobe from ALLSAINTS. He does well. Good for him. His body is slimmer than my usual pick, but he’s 6’2 and has abs. We look like we could be related.
Giacomo is great. He went above and beyond to provide an experience that was asked of him. Listens to what is needed and engages appropriately. Looks better in person as compared to his pictures here. — Him&Her
As a busy executive, I came to this site looking for a companion to make me feel seen and heard - to have a human connection. G exceeded my expectations. He listens, he adapts, he engages, and he makes you feel special, never rushed.
I have seen G now several times over the past several months (on dates, overnights, and cross-country trips). Sure - he is gorgeous (I mean !) - but I value most his presence and his willingness to try new things with me. He has yet to tell me “no” to a new experience we design together, even when it may be something as foreign to him as pole yoga. We have a constant laugh track to our time together, and he leaves me feeling happy, satisfied, and energized.
He is a consummate professional who strives to meet your needs and respect your boundaries. Don’t hesitate. Don’t look any further. He is the best choice you can make. — S
Danny is in his late-thirties and that brings me pause, like how bizarre, paying an older man? He should be paying me? I realize that that’s me thinking like a woman and a whore again. He’s the closest I can find to my “type” in looks and age, so why should his rate stop me? He is thick and built with big arms; probably on testosterone. 5’10. A little short but that’s not new; I’m a big girl (but a short guy) at 5’9. My favorite photo of him is the most casual, the least “sexy”: he’s in a button down and dress pants. One hand holds a cocktail while the other is slipped into his pant-pocket. He smiles.
I don’t usually write reviews — but Danny is not the kind of man you keep a secret. From the very beginning, he treated me not as another client but as a woman who deserved full attention, respect, and admiration.
The moment he walked in, I immediately understood why so many speak so highly of him. He carries himself with the confidence of a gentleman, the body of an athlete, and the presence of a man who knows exactly how to make a woman feel seen, appreciated, and deeply feminine.
Danny anticipates your needs before you express them — from small gestures, like offering a drink and adjusting the lighting to flatter the atmosphere, to knowing exactly when to speak and when to simply hold you in strong, reassuring arms. Conversations with him feel intimate and intelligent. His energy is magnetic — calm, grounded, masculine, and safe.
I left our time together with a softness in my body, a glow in my face, and a feeling I honestly thought I had outgrown years ago — the thrill of being desired, adored, and deeply cared for.
Ladies — whether you are craving romance, emotional connection, luxury companionship, or simply a reminder of what genuine male attention feels like — do yourself the favor and experience Danny at least once.
Trust me — he is not just a man you meet. He is an experience you feel. — Suzy
Suzy sells me but also makes me sad. “A reminder of what genuine male attention feels like.” Jesus Christ. I wonder how old she is and if she’s a widow or divorcee or lonely wife or just another femcel like me. I imagine what a review from a john would look like on my old escort profile:
Smart slut. Good tits. Tight pussy. Sweet but crazy. Kind of mean sometimes. Looks like my mom! — John
Get me out of here! I’m getting out of here (where I live) and to the area code of both Giacomo and Danny in April or May. Mmm, yes, spring! I will force myself to invest in an hour or two with one of them. Who? I’m not sure yet. Whoever makes me blush on text. Whoever’s cheapest. Both if I win the lottery. I am going to [pay to] have doors held open for me! I am going to [pay to] have him “pay the bill!” We are going to watch a movie and play Disney Princess Monopoly together like a goddamn happy family! He is going to hold me or not hold me! I am going to ask him so many cute and stupid questions! I am going to do my little dance! I am going to break or not break my celibacy! I am going to fold so safe and in control.
I message them both to scope the vibe:
Hi :) My name’s Madison. I saw your five-star reviews on [redacted] and had to reach out! I plan on being in [redacted] for an event in either late April or early May, and would love to discuss the potentiality of getting together if you’re interested.
I’m a 29 year old writer and artist. Very busy and tired of the men that reach out to me, so I thought I’d try something new! I’ve never done this before. I’m not even sure if I’d want to have sex! I’m mainly looking for a masculine, nice man to play boyfriend with me: take me out, maybe watch a movie? Would love to know your rates and what you’d need from me!
