Sex, Lies, and Life

Note:I am by no means saying this happened. This is a composite of fact and fiction, lies and truth. If you have any questions please feel free to respond to my e-mail address.



Even another pint of Carlsberg couldn’t shake me from realizing how much of a disaster the night had been. We had been in Dublin for almost two weeks, and it immediately became clear just how stratified the bar/club scene is. As much as we talk of equality among the sexes, men and women face an entirely different social set of challenges, expectations, and falsities.

In any club or bar, the “approach” is entirely handled by the male. At most a girl may glance in your direction and you may even see the faintest hint of a smile if you’re lucky or she’s had too much to drink. The onus of responsibility is entirely on the male to hold an interesting conversation, to dance well, to pick up the tab. The girl’s responsibility in this farce is to look pretty and half-interested in her gentleman caller. It’s all a bit much for me, frankly.

This isn’t an indictment of Dublin or Ireland or Europe in general. It’s more of an informal list of grievances at the social stratification we’ve given men and women. Of course, I’m not blind to the difficulties that women face on a typical night out. Some men will ruthlessly pursue sex even if it means lying, drugs, or plain force. Nearly every night we’ve gone out almost every girl in our group has been accosted by hordes of irish men chatting them up. I’ve lost count of how many offers they’ve had to go home with some 25 year old banker from London. Hell, another girl in the group has been asked more than once if she’d be up for casual. When she denied him, he assured her that he’d give her “the best sex of her life”. Seriously, does that shit even work?

The problem here is that this system hurts both parties equally. I’ve already lost a few opportunities with women here where just because I didn’t walk up and initiate the conversation immediately or because I wasn’t out going enough at that particular moment. The attitude is “he isn’t grabbing me to dance or trying to force himself on me, so therefore he isn’t interested in me”. It’s a sad state of affairs.

One night in particular stands above the rest. I was at a pub in downtown Dublin, slouched against the wall, sipping my Carlsberg. I took a look around and took the moment in. One girl in our group had been chatting with a rather sketchy looking guy ten minutes ago. Five minutes later they were making out. “No wonder they flock to the American girls”, I ruefully think as I drink another sip. I was undoubtedly tipsy, and probably very close to drunk. The same girl bounces up to me, looking more than a bit angry. She tells me that the guy turned out to be a massive sleaze, and that he “seemed like such a nice guy at first”. I can’t help but smile a little. I want to lean over to her ear and tell her that all men are dogs, and that we all know that, deep down, women hold nearly all the power. But before I can say anything we’re back up and about migrating this way and that way through the bar. Everyone seems to be having a good time, but is it all just a façade everyone is putting on? Are we all just trying to prove to the world that we’re so DAMN happy that we just can’t control it anymore?

As we’re dancing, I notice that the other girl in our group is involved in quite a good conversation with a presumably local Irishman. We go over, say hello, and leave them to their devices. She said earlier in the week that all she wants is for a guy to approach. Looks like she got her wish.

A few minutes ago, I’ve lost track of everyone. The girls are probably dancing and chatting it up with people. Me, I’m inches away from the bartender, still sipping away. Suddently, something snaps. I’ve had enough of sitting around, of the obnoxiously loud music, of thinking too much about things that matter too little. I send a text off to the girls telling them that I’m headed out and that I may or may not be back. I head over to the bathroom for one final stop before leaving. As I stand in front of the stall, the only place where I can hear myself think, something catches my eye. Written in highlighter is the internet address for an escort agency in Ireland. I let out a quick laugh, and almost think of writing down the URL before I realize what I’m doing. I laugh it off, and head for the exit.

As I stumble out of the bar, the cold air rushes over me and instantly relieves some of my anxiety. Two weeks. Two weeks I’d been here and all I’ve accomplished at night was spending an ungodly amount of Euros. I’m starving, so I head for the nearest late night greasy fast food restaurant that’s willing to serve drunkards of all ages. Well, I begin to think, it hasn’t been a total waste. I’m interested in classes again, and the people I’ve met are at turns fascinating, fun, and genuinely kind. But still, I yearned for a long late night drunk conversation with the nonexistent witty girl from across the bar who with one cutting remark can force me out into the open.

I’m just about to head back to the bar just fresh off a delicious Burger King cheeseburger when I hear three very, very drunk girls. They look very young, probably even younger than me. My first thought wasn’t “wow, the black haired one is striking” but instead “dear god, is she going to get home okay?”. That’s when I see the guy next to me put out his cigarette. He doesn’t look all that shady, except that he clearly was about to do exactly what 23-year-old guys do. He walks up to them, physically pulls the black haired girl away from the group and yells at her to come home with him. “Come on baby, you’re beautiful! Let me help you home!”. He half pleads, half demands. At this point she’s trying to pull away from him but he’s got her by the arm and she’s still trashed off her wit’s end. Make no mistake, I am by no means chivalrous nor do I try to live by some arcane gentlemanly code. But in that moment, I wanted to get that guy off her. I frantically looked around for her friends, but they had evidently gone into Burger King without her. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m in between our 23 year old gentlemen and a girl who looks increasingly younger. I don’t remember quite what I said, outside the generic “lay off”, “get away”, and “have some class”. I’m fairly sure he would’ve laid me out then and there, but we’re on a main crowded street so he eventually stumbles away. The girl is simply stunned. I lean in close and tell her that her friends inside, and that she should really watch herself. She nods and heads inside. I take one last glance inside and see that the other two girls were too busy flirting with guys inside to realized that their friend almost went home with a complete stranger. I stand in awe. One guy grabs another girl by the waist and pushes her on him and roughly kisses her. She laughs it off and responds in kind by giving him a playful peck on the cheek. “Oh, fuck this” I announce to no one in particular.

I’m across the bar when I get a frantic phone call from one of the girls in my group. She wants to leave since it’s late and she’s tired. She sounds exasperated, but I chalk it up to her just drinking too much. As soon as I see her it’s clear that something had happened. She wasn’t just distraught from drinking, but distraught from the night. We make small talk until we’re on the bus back home. Halfway there she collapses next to me in my arms and confides that the guy she met at the bar had tried to force her into the bathroom to have sex. Apparently by the time he had gotten them over to the bathroom another guy realized what has going on and promptly punched the bastard in the face. She left soon after. She could have fought him off, she tells me. I believe her. But still, what sort of world do we live in where girls are expected to fend off would be rapists every night? I suddenly feel very selfish. Here I am, bitching about my lack of ability in picking up girls at clubs and yet every girl regularly has to do the tightrope of friendly warmth and cautious suspicion every time they have a conversation with a man?

I wake up the next day in a bit of a stupor. The bed’s still empty, my hormones are admittedly raging, and it’s becoming ever clearer that waiting until I meet The One is a terrible notion. I writhe with the decision for over an hour before reaching for my cell phone to text a number on the website. I try to rationalize it somehow, that I’m not PAYING for sex. But really, that’s what I’m doing. It’s not that I think it’s immoral or somehow beneath me, it’s just quite the step to take. I had thought about going to Amsterdam and doing the red light district, but somehow a weekend trip for one night with some random dancing lingerie model in red light didn’t appeal to me much. Like everything else, I do my research. The government turns a blind eye to escorts, as it’s generally much safer than anything off the street. I soon learn to look for a girl who is marked “GFE” which stands for girlfriend experience. It’s supposed to mean Mouth to mouth kissing, a little conversation, and something a bit more sensitive than a random fuck and leave. Of course at the end of the day, it IS a fuck and leave.
Some of the girls are undeniably beautiful, and part of me begins to wonder what their stories are. Price is an issue too, but once I realize that I spent roughly that much money in three nights out it became a non-issue. Another night of frustration drinking at the bar or something as crazy and exciting as an escort? Is it moral? Am I making a mistake? My mind is a flurry of contradictions; I haven’t moved off my bed in what seems like years. Fuck it, I finally say and text a message asking if she’s available tonight. Less than five minutes later, my phone bounces to life with a “Yes” message. My pulse is racing, am I really doing this?

I frantically grab the phone and call the number.
“Hello?” an accented voice asks.
“Hi”, Is about all I can stammer out. A few seconds later I’m able to get out a full sentence.
“I’m interested in meeting tonight, is that possible?”
“Yes” she replies, slightly warmer.
“I uh… just have one quick question. I’ve never done this sort of thing before, is that okay?”
“Sure” she replies, almost with a little giggle.
She tells me that at the time of our meeting I should head down to a landmark and call her later. I can’t focus for the rest of the day and wait anxiously, eagerly, and giddily. Walking along the main streets, weaving through the flock of pedestrians and silently cursing any time I see a garda policeman, I feel like I’m in my own pathetic version of the Bourne Identity.

By the time I reach the landmark, I’m just about ready to collapse. My mind is even more of a mix of whirlwind thoughts. Don’t do it! What, are you crazy?! And then “You’re already here! Beautiful girl! Sex! Excitement!”. I jump about ten stories when she calls me back. She tells me to enter the “small intersection” across the street, which I eventually realize is the alley. She gives me a room number, and tells me to ring it when I get there. With that, she’s gone. I cross the street, expecting to find some magical street of hookers, heroin and strip clubs. Instead, a mere few feet from one of Dublin’s landmarks, is a rather plain looking alley. It looks more like an industrial park than the site of lurid sex transactions. I ease up, wander down the street, and open the door. After being buzzed in, I notice a CCTV camera. Oh fuck, I think. Then I realize I’m in Dublin, and there’s damn camera’s everywhere.

As I head towards the room number, the door cracks open. “Natalie” opens the door and beckons me inside. At this point, I can’t even translate complete words, let alone thoughts. I tell her that she’s absolutely stunning, which she is. She’s about 5”7 with long black hair. She’s wearing nothing but black lingerie, and a smile that could light a small town for days. She’s slender, taller than I am, and more than a bit physically intimidating. She’s perfect.

I walk into the room, and it’s a very nice posh place. The bed is clean, and there is a small bathroom off to the side. I take off my bulky jacket and place it over in the corner. “You’re young, aren’t you?” is her first question.
“Yeah, I’m twenty.”
She smiles even wider. I know it’s an illusion, but I could care less.
“Now why would a twenty year old come here for me?” she says with a hint of playfulness.
“Oh, you know. I’ve been here for a few weeks and….” I can’t finish my sentence. Partially because I’m still awestruck. Partially because I didn’t really have some nuanced worldview on why I wanted to sleep with her. And partially because I couldn’t believe I was getting into a serious discussion with an escort.
I tell her that I was planning on waiting for the Right Girl to sleep with, someone I loved, but that recently “that all went to hell”. The words taste like acid in my mouth. She gives me another reassuring smile.

She switches the subject and asks how long I’ll be with her tonight. After discussing the details, I hand her the money and surprisingly I don’t feel dirty in the slightest. She asks if I want her to wear these ridiculous heels, and I smile some more and tell her that “no, I just want… something simple”.
“Ah, okay” she says, almost relieved.
She then instructs me to take a quick shower and to come out in a towel after I’m done. “I’ll be waiting.” Is all she says.

After taking the quickest shower in my life, I have trouble getting the all too tiny towel around me. I stop trying to get it to stay on when I realize that I’m trying to cover myself up from an escort.
She beckons me over to the bed, and I lay next to her. We engage in a bit of small talk about where we’re from (she’s from Prague) and what Dublin is like before she leans in for a kiss. It may not come as a big surprise, but escorts are excellent kissers. She seemed to somehow adapt to my style of kissing and she’d respond in kind, sometimes taking charge and somehow letting me determine the tone of the kiss. As we’re about to do more, she asks me “how long its been”.
I sheepishly ask “since what?”. “Sex” is her one word answer.
“Um… never.” Is all I can respond.
She suddenly tenses up and lets out a very sharp “what?!”. It’s the clearest English she’s spoken all night. She understood everything I said, but when she spoke it was always clear English was her second language. Suddenly, her words grew sharper, more resonant.
“You’re twenty and you haven’t had sex?” she asks me point blank.
Great, I think to myself. About to be rejected by an escort.
I tell her that I was planning to wait until I was sure I wanted to marry the girl, but that due to my past relationships I didn’t think I could handle sex with someone I loved.

She looks genuine intrigued at this point. She leans in closer, now next to me again. “But your first time should be…. Sensitive and sweet… with someone you’ve known for a long time… not someone like me who you just met”.

I paused for a bit, and responded carefully.“Yeah, but no one has that first experience. Most of my friends had sex for the first time with someone random at a party, drunk off their ass. Or they actually love the girl they’re with, and then they have sex and they fuck their relationship up.”

“You… you have a good point.” With that, she kissed me again. I know that she probably may have just wanted to shut up and commence with the sex, but part of me believes that I honestly had a real conversation about First Times with an escort.

We finish up, and I’m utterly exhausted. She gets up from the bed, and casually waltzes over to the bathroom. She tells me she’s going to take a quick shower and that I should get dressed. I laid dumbfounded on the bed for what seemed like ages. So that’s Sex, I remember thinking. Damn.

Finally, I threw on my clothes and she soon came back into the bedroom. I know it seems odd to point this out about an escort, but she was still entirely naked as she walked over to put on her thong and lingerie two piece. I think I said “thanks” about a billion times while walking over to the door. Before I leave, she looks at me and asks one more question. “Why didn’t you just go to a club?” she asks honestly but politely. I slouch a bit and tell her “I guess I just lack confidence”. Before kissing me one last time, she just commands “Don’t.”
As she smiles that perfect smile again, I tell her to “take care”. She tells me the same, and shuts the door.