My Elusive Drug


I am addicted to sex. I probably have been since I discovered my father’s porn collection at 13. Even now I have been inspired to confess this by my lover- a married siren with a sadistic streak. I have found the time to write whilst waiting in for a sex toy to be delivered that I shall shortly be begging her to fuck me with.

So yes. I am addicted to sex. I have consumed pornography pretty much every day of my working life. It has cost me at least one job and, in part, a doomed marriage. It has driven to me to greater and greater heights of depravity that could only realistically be satisfied by buying in the expertise- sub-contracting if you like.

So I was (and maybe still am) addicted to paying for sex.

Even if you disregard all the porn magazines and movies, I have spent around 10% of my net salary as an adult paying women for sex (and a couple of men for good measure). There have been hundreds. I doubt I have ever been on a major trip to a city in the UK or abroad without seeking to pay for sex, and very often succeeding. I developed a sixth sense for finding it wherever I went. I even left my wife to go shopping so I could find a stranger to fuck behind her back, using part of our holiday spending money.

I don’t need your judgement or pity- I’m not especially proud of it but I’m definitely not ashamed of it either. It’s a legitimate point of interest, a basic human need, it has added frisson and danger and colour to my life that other people will have missed or not even knew existed. I am richer for it, perversely. I know it’s an addiction, but largely a welcome one- if at times a curse.

I first tried this just before I was married; I could feel it lurking there and needed it out of my system before the wedding. I didn’t realise then that this just breeds more lust, rather than satisfies your hunger for good. She was a tired old Pro in Shepherd’s Market in the days when you could still find streetwalkers in London. It was tawdry and over quickly but the seeds were sown.

Working in Soho didn’t help- as a horny teenager I was regularly stopped on each street corner and dazzled by the bright neon diyarbakır escort lights and velvety underground promise of the shop doorways. I could envisage the lingerie and perfume and cleavage waiting just inside each door at the top of the stairs and the allure was often too strong.

The compulsion to do this ebbed and flowed during my life according to whether my heart and cock were in a good place or not. When the marriage went well, when the sex was great, when I felt warm and loved and wanted, paying for sex felt unnecessary at best and a nasty stain from the past at worst. But when I hated my wife, when I hadn’t slept with her for years, when various affairs went wrong and exploded in my face- I couldn’t keep away. I didn’t want to keep away. I wanted to immerse myself in this murky world, wallow in the filth, and cover myself in depravity. Before the internet, paying for it was the easiest option.

I started to make friends with one or two regular girls and even dated a couple briefly. Their lives were so much more interesting than mine and I remember being frustrated that they would never talk about their other customers. I wanted to hear how everyone else had sex too. I wanted to sit in a bar with them, only the two of us knowing she had fucked 6 men that day for money.

Those days are imprinted on my mind; wandering around London, tempted by the cards in the telephone kiosks and the lights in the bedroom windows. Feeling the desire rise from my cock through the pit of my stomach to fill my head with giddy sex gas. Before long a kind of migraine set in, the accumulation of lust making my head explode. It was then I needed to make a choice and would often just go to the nearest place, a place I might have walked past three times that night already and decided not to go to; climbing the rickety stairs, smelling the disinfectant, often sitting with the elderly maid and exchanging awkward small talk until the cunt I needed to use was finished with her previous victim.

Then ushered into the den of iniquity, seeing her for the first time; having to make a quick decision in seconds as to whether I spent with her or made a horrible excuse and go back into the night to look for a better option, head and balls competing for swollen capacity. If I stayed, then the very second I had finished inside or over her, I had forgotten I even needed it in the first place.

Once the internet had made sex and the sex industry a part of everyday life so much more easily, the methodology changed but the feelings didn’t. Having made your selection online and made a telephone booking, you had that delicious wait for that timid knock on the door and that moment of epiphany when a woman took her clothes off for you just because you had paid her.

The sex was better than you might think. The best of them never let you see when they were clock watching, didn’t fake it (or at least did a good job of making their orgasm sound authentic) and had a real and genuine enthusiasm for the job that matched my own. Many were really bright and funny and interesting.

Occasionally though it was downright rank of course. She would be a poor lover, hygiene maybe not up to scratch, ripped you off, turned up very late (everyone was late to some degree) or patently was a complete stranger when compared to the picture online. A true punter like myself quickly worked out which sites were not going to cheat you and patronised them exclusively.

When things did go wrong- I was spectacularly ripped off by scams in London on a couple of occasions when younger, and almost got beaten up by a taxi driver in Paris- I reconciled the hole in my bank balance and the bigger one in my self-esteem by trying to rationalise it logically- perhaps now, now was the time to quit. Maybe this awful experience would teach me the lesson I needed. Perhaps now I would be free of it for good.

The problem was it was almost always good, and sometimes great. I used it to satisfy my growing sex bucket list. It was a ritual in any new city, to celebrate some good news, to top off a great evening. I can easily recall the triumphs even now; the black girl and her white friend kneeling in front of me in a brothel in Cape Town; the stud I sucked off to please my Indian lover; the teenage Brazilians my girlfriend and I bought in Rio, me buggering one as she licked my girl’s cunt; the coffee coloured pneumatic girl from Huddersfield being fucked in front of the mirror in my lunch hour. The very stuff of life, I felt then, and I haven’t really changed my mind since.

I dressed them as maids. I dressed them as schoolgirls. I did it on hotel balconies and in the shower with them. I had two at a time and invited the maid to watch. As my kink grew I delved further afield- ringing a girlfriend so she could hear me being whipped in a dungeon; being tied and exposed in a window in Toronto as a Mistress teased me to distraction. Fucking another Mistress, a generation ago, whilst being made to wear three condoms at once and a man in a gimp mask and dozens of piercings made to watch. I loved it all.

Now the eternal lust has subsided with age to almost manageable levels, all this is a much more an occasional treat than an everyday occurrence. I don’t miss it except when my Beast is on the prowl and he sleeps more than he used to. It has kept sex fresh for me and I think it has been worth the cost.

Fittingly the girl I now love was an escort in her youth. Equally she is not ashamed of her adventures and loves to tell me of them, twenty years on. She is about to become a Pro Domme and I find myself helping her with the logistics, getting a vicarious thrill from the organisation, keeping the jealous gene at bay by sharing it with her. She wants to go with me the next time I pay for it. I have found my sexual soul mate.

Recently she suggested I got tested at a clinic for STDs. I agreed and was surprised that after all this debauchery I was clean as a whistle. The only cost has been a big dent in my bank balance, one dose of crabs many years ago and some human collateral- this last regrettable but seemingly inevitable. And everybody deserves a hobby after all.

So there you have it. I am addicted to sex and addicted to paying for sex. Almost nobody knows this about me although one or two have guessed over the years. I like the fact that this has consumed me in private but that I have survived it.

But then again I am writing this to post on an erotic website. So maybe I’m not as in control as I thought.

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