Sometimes I wonder if my wife would recognize the man I become in those hotel rooms. Not the successful consultant who comes home with spreadsheets and business dinners, but someone softer. More vulnerable.
I've been seeing escorts regularly for about five years now. Not every week, not even every month. But enough that it's become a part of my private landscape. The routine is always similar: discreet texts, careful planning, selecting someone who feels more like a companion than just a transaction.
The guilt isn't constant, but it's always present. Like a low hum in the background of my life. I love my wife. We've been married 17 years. She's intelligent, kind, a wonderful mother to our children. But something fundamental has been missing for years. Passion. Real connection. Not just the mechanical routine of married sex.
With the women I see, there's an honesty that's paradoxical. They're paid to be with me, and yet the interactions feel more genuine than many of my professional or social interactions. We talk. We connect. Sometimes the conversation matters more than the physical intimacy.
I know how this sounds. I'm not trying to justify anything. Just trying to understand myself.