Whatever floats your boat is what i say.
Personally you'd be better off spending it on some tea and biccies and having a wank.
Just a thought.
chica, you could've posted an anoymous poll which asks "have you ever paid for sex?"
in a perfect world, where people who sold sex weren't treated poorly, i think it would be right. But as it is now, its wrong. it objectifies the women (cliche, i know) and in some cases there is rape, and there is definitely physical abuse. There's also oppression because of pimps.
I wish it was not so poor hookers
From Shadows and Fog:
Student: Me? No. I've never paid a woman for sex.
Madame: You just think you haven't.
That's just about exactly what I was going to say. It always costs something.
Should I take the Cadillac to the grocery store and buy some ice cream?
The best sex is the sex that costs you your ever lovin' soul. If it doesn't threaten to capsize your whole life (and possibly kill you in a glamorous, non-diseased way) it's probably just another fun night out.
Yeah, but what do you do the next day? If your soul is gone and your life is capsized and all you have to show for it are fleeting memories of a few earth-shattering orgasms... what then?
Speaking hypothetically, of course.
Easy. You sink into a deep depression before starting in on a hardcore drug addiction that eventually lands you in a clinic. There you have soul-stealing sex, this time with a hot patient who eventually dies tragically after you escape for a three-day drug fling in the nearby metropolis. A fast-talking Memphis lawyer with mob connections, a thousand dollar a week coke habit, and a colorfully old-world hatred of women, gets you out of trouble with the cops, but you're scared straight anyway, and with the help of a hot nurse who gives you another round of soul-stealing sex, you wise up, clean up, and write a memoir recounting all the earth-shattering sex you've had, all the while making sure you lay the blame at your parents' feet and speak in profound-sounding fragments stolen from James Joyce and the back pages of Penthouse magazine. You publish the memoir, cry on Oprah, and sell the movie rights for five meeeeeeeellion dollars.
At that point you have a great life to throw away and you can start looking around again, knowing the sex will be that much better since you have more to lose.
Do you have a plan B? And does your real name rhyme with, uh... "Hames?"
One my friends knows someone who pays for sex. This guy has always paid for it. He's so creepy.