I tried dating recently, even had the worlds fastest relationship. As soon as we hit bed, the whole thing came down like a house of cards. Now, to avoid anything like that again, I pay for a man by the month. There. That is the subscription. Not software. Not a meditation app. A person. Who he is does not matter. Nobody knows him, he’s not from around here, you wouldn’t know or even clock him if he walked past you in Tesco. He is a professional. I sought one out on purpose so I would not have to fall in love, then hit with disappointment and then spend six weeks teaching him how I work.
I was tired. Tired of the hundred-man scavenger hunt. Tired of finding someone half decent and then having to explain that I want it once a month, not a joint account and a personality transplant. Tired of waking up next to a stranger who thought stamina meant finishing twice and then snoring while I made toast. A pro already knows the job. I already know the price. The rest of my life can stay noisy. This bit does not have to.
It’s the new fad in the city. They call it a sexscription. I think it is just adult women doing the maths. If you are a woman who is done auditioning, this is why it works for me. I can’t have children, so what’s the damn point of trying anything more. Men run when they find out just how baron I am, and I’m sick of the disappointment, and they make me feel worthless.
No Damage
You stop collecting damage. Dating for sex is an expensive way to get your hopes kicked in. Apps train you to treat your body like a waiting room. A booked professional is not going to ghost you because his ex texted. He is going to show up because that is the work, And he’ll make you forget that ex.
No Dating Interviews
You stop interviewing amateurs. Most men who say they are good are describing enthusiasm. Enthusiasm is not a skill. Skill is why I pay. I would rather hand over money than another Tuesday night to a man who needs a map and a pep talk.
Once a month
You get the once a month without the campaign. I do not want a boyfriend calendar. I want a date in the book and a room that is already sorted. Explaining that to civilians turns into a debate about my wounds. Explaining that to a pro turns into a time.
Less wired
Your nervous system comes down. I am less wired. That is not a joke. I used to scan every message for the moment it went sour. Now the arrangement is the arrangement. My head is quieter the rest of the month because this part is not hunting me.
My terms
You set the terms because you are the client. That sentence makes people itchy. Good. I have spent years writing about women swallowing whatever they are given. Paying does not make me a victim of capitalism in a hotel. It makes me the person who can say what I want without wrapping it in a joke so he does not run.
No commitment
You do not have to pretend it is a relationship. No, what are we? No meeting his sister only for to hate me anyway. No performing softness so he does not think you are cold. The feeling can be real in the room and finished when you leave. That is not emptiness. That is boundaries with a receipt.
Less waste
You waste less of your actual life. The hours I used to spend decoding a late reply now go to work, to the Coven, to sitting on the floor painting my nails and not wondering if I am too much. The subscription costs money. The old way cost months.
No amateurs
It is cleaner than dragging civilians into a role they did not apply for. I like men. I also like not turning a nice enough bloke into a project because I need a particular thing once every four weeks. Let the professional do the professional bit. Let everyone else be people.
Safety
Safety is not guaranteed anywhere. I know that. I still trust a screened, repeated arrangement more than a man I met on an app who swears he is different. Familiar is safer than romantic. Familiar is the point.
No politics
You keep your friendships and your politics from having to host your sex life. I can fight with the internet about everything else and still have one corner that does not need a committee. Nobody has to approve it. Nobody has to understand it. It works.
Secrecy
These guys are processionals, they won’t even confirm your existence when people come snooping. You get proper laid once a month, and no one can judge you, nobody can gossip about you, your sex life exists only in your life.
That’s ten reasons…
That is ten. I could keep going. The real one underneath all of them is this. I have an empty bag in some parts of my life and I know it. I cannot buy a child. I cannot buy a feeling that stays. I can buy competence and time and the end of a particular kind of disappointment. That is not the same as being full. It is better than lying on my back hoping the next civilian has read a book.
People will say I am lonely. Sometimes I am. People will say I am objectifying him. He priced himself. I paid. We both walked in with our eyes open. People will say a feminist should not do this. A feminist can want good sex without turning it into unpaid emotional labour for a man who thinks aftercare is a glass of tap water.
I negotiated this for ages. I arrived too early the first night and paced a Travelodge like an idiot. I was nervous and I was sure. Both things can sit on the same bed. It has been worth it so far because I leave lighter than I used to. Not healed. Not crowned. Just not buzzing with the old hunt.
If you want the fairytale, this is not your article. If you want a boyfriend, go and get one. If you want what I wanted, which was one reliable, skilled, no-theatre night in a month and my heart left out of the invoice, a professional is not a moral collapse. It is a decision.
I am happier. I am getting what I need. The fuss stayed outside the door. That is why I have the package. Not because I own a man. Because I got tired of renting hope from people who were never going to deliver it.
