Personally, when I hear the words “Girlfriend Experience” I find myself wondering why anyone would pay someone to bitch at them for forgetting to take out the trash or wash the dishes.

Of course, from a business perspective, Prostitutes use the term to advertise a “service” where they (ostensibly) try extra hard.  They infuse a little passion into the experience to make it feel special.  It’s not just Hooker Sex – it’s Performance Art!

Then again, mimes are performance art too.  You’re not paying them extra to pretend really hard that they’re stuck in an invisible box.

I have simple tastes.  I’m not looking for a performance.  All I ask from a girl is that she try to hold as still as possible and not cry audibly – but that’s just me.  Some guys need a little more.

When it comes to “The Girlfriend Experience” you think you’re paying for simulated emotions.  You think you’re paying for something special.  What you’re actually paying for is “kissing on the mouth” and “sincere moaning”.

By the way, if you want kissing on the mouth “with tongue” it’ll cost you extra.  If, for some reason, you want to perform oral on her . . . extra.  While I’ve never paid for this particular service, I imagine it to be comparable to drinking from the Suez Canal in both flavor and relative health risks.

If the ad says “K9″, move on.

It would seem that a reasonable adult would look at the words “Girlfriend Experience” and recognize them for what they are: clever marketing.  Then again, you would think most people would be smart enough not to bury their face between a hooker’s legs either.

The GFE isn’t selling “better sex” . . . it’s selling a placebo effect.  Sex is not the only reason men go to prostitutes.  Some men simply want the company.  After working 60 hours a week at a bullshit job covered in grease and solvents, maybe all a man wants is an hour of safe harbor in an otherwise uncaring world.

His kids don’t listen to him.  His wife won’t listen to him.  He can’t afford a therapist on his salary . . . But a Prostitute?  She’ll listen to him.  She’ll be hanging on every word, and she’ll jerk him off while she does.  Hell, if anyone is going to understand a hard life of wage slavery and emotional detatchment it’s a prostitute.

Your shrink sits there in his two hundred dollar loafers busily not giving a fuck.

The odds that your wife is cheating on you?  Greater than 50/50.

Guys want this placebo effect the way they want alcohol or drugs or a fast car.  None of these things will make their problems go away, but maybe, under the right lighting, they can iron out the wrinkles for an hour.  Just maybe they can recover enough of themselves to make it through another week, or another day, without snapping and beating their boss to death with a tire iron.

A prostitute won’t erase your problems.  Then again, neither will most anything else.  You can fork over a few grand and spend an hour or two with a really high-priced call girl with the hope that she’ll really sell the illusion.  If you’re in Nevada, you can go to any one of the establishments there that caters to this sort of fantasy.  All you’re really paying for is a better set of tits and the illusion of safety.  Sure, the girl’s pimp probably isn’t going to kick in the door and rob you in a licensed brothel, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re going home alone.

Maybe you’re hoping she’ll come home with you.  Maybe you think that somehow, out of all the guys she’s blown that day, you’re special.  This has absolutely nothing to do with her, and everything to do with your sagging ego.  Let’s face it, if you’re trying to bring home a girl that’ll suck your cock for drug money, you’re barking up the wrong tree in your search for love and affection.

Is it cheaper than a real girlfriend?  Maybe . . .

. . . But do yourself a favor.  Save a couple “roses” and settle for a regular fuck.  Ten minutes later, when you’re sitting at a stop light thinking “Why the fuck did I just do that!?”, at least you’ll have money for gas.