It could be the self-destructive nature of the visit. Giving over $100, $120, $250 of my hard-earned non-profit salary for disinterested hand-jobs, blow-jobs full of teeth, or a quick fuck is the pinnacle of self-hate. The 60 to 90 seconds of orgasm is the only part that feels good. The rest—withdrawing the money from an ATM, handing it to someone else, pumping a drug-addicted, Marlboro-reeking twentysomething who couldn’t be more disinterested in me, the walk of shame, the residual condom smell, the distraction of regret, the three or four days of beating up on myself, sneaking in the shower so my wife doesn’t smell the rubber, smoke, hairspray, or cheesy perfume—is hell. But, I keep doing it. Sometimes I go once a week. Sometimes it’s once a month. Other times it’s longer. But, I always relapse… and that’s what it feels like: a relapse. As I type this, I’m thinking about the new large-breasted blonde at the body rub joint near my office, and our session last week, and I want to visit her right now. Except I can’t. I just called, and she’s home sick today.