My family would disown me if they knew. Every Sunday at the gurdwara, surrounded by aunties discussing arranged marriage prospects, I smile and nod. Inside, I'm burning with secrets.
The pressure to marry a nice Punjabi girl is constant. My parents have been showing me profiles for years. Beautiful women from good families, all vetted and approved. But they don't know me. Not really.
Sarah was my first escort. I found her online, hands shaking while I made the booking. I was 35 and had never been with a woman. Not properly. My cultural expectations, my family's expectations, had kept me locked down tight.
That first encounter was more than sex. It was freedom. Someone seeing me as a complete person, not just a potential husband or dutiful son. She was professional, kind. We talked as much as we touched. I felt human in a way I hadn't before.
Now I see escorts regularly. Not just for physical release, but for connection. For understanding. The shame is enormous. But the loneliness of my controlled life is worse.
I know what I'm doing isn't what my community expects. But I'm surviving. Somehow.