My Husband Pays Me for Sex

My husband pays me for sexual favors. Yeah, you heard me. I’m his whore. Well, not always, but sometimes. It hasn’t always been like this.

Age and motherhood have lowered the level of my boobs and my libido. While I can go days without the desire of a single touch, my husband mopes around the house on the daily incessantly informing me of his urgent needs.

I need to be drained.

I need to release the demons.

I need to expel the pressure.

“You have a hand,” I often reply, uninterested in aiding him in any capacity, despite his fancy wording.

“Yeah, but I need you,” he’ll say, which is kind of sweet. After all these years of marriage and parenthood, he still wants me. I wish — I really do wish — that I was still the constantly horny sexual free spirit that he chose to marry.

But guess what? Life happens and shit changes.

Motherhood is beautiful if you like being groped at, yelled at, sucked on and occasionally bitten. At the end of each day, I’ve given all my kisses, all my energy, pretty much all my soul and spirit to those sweet, little bodies sleeping upstairs.

All I want to do is plop on the couch with poop on my shirt and cheese in my hair and be. Just be. No sound. No talking. Oh, and definitely no touching.

Marriage is fun.

“Can you drain me?” my husband asked one night, with very little confidence that I’d agree.

“Pay me,” I randomly said.

“How much?” he asked, smiling. This is married flirting.

“One hundred bucks,” I said, not even looking up from absentmindedly scrubbing a pot.

“Done,” he said as he unzipped his pants.

“Whoa. What the fuck are you doing? I’m a professional. Pay me first,” I argued. Obediently, he squatted down (bad naked!) to reach his wallet, which was in his pants around his ankles. He threw five 20’s at me.

He sat down. I got on my knees and got to work. They don’t call it a job for nothing!

I put less than minimal effort into the task. Approximately three minutes later, the job was done. (It’s equivalent to $2,000/hr for those of you doing the math.)

I know what you’re thinking. Isn’t his money also my money? Well, yes and I know this arrangement doesn’t really make much sense, but I like it.

Here’s why:

I miss having my own money. While we have some wiggle room in our budget, I feel guilty about spending money. The money in my wallet is used for gas, groceries, class dues and co-pays.

The money I earn from prostitution, however, well that’s all mine. Ladies and gentlemen, I may have found my calling!

I never thought I’d become that stereotypical, grouchy wife with her thighs sewn shut throwing around rejection like confetti. No, I’m much cooler than that.

But sometimes, I just have nothing left to give. This arrangement satisfies his needs, puts some cash in my pocket and keeps the spark in our marriage. If he’s drained early in the day, he ignores me at night and then everyone is just happier and less annoyed.

No, I do not charge for every pipe drained. I’m a whore, not a plumber. When temptation strikes and nature takes its course, we romp in our conjugal bed, free of charge.

Or when I feel the occasional rod poking me on back in the middle of the night, I will drowsily submit, sometimes enjoying it, other times just taking one for the team.

“I think I’m going to take on more customers,” I joked to my husband. This is, again, married flirting.

He smirked, “Is that a fact?”

“Yeah, this is such a lucrative side-hustle, it would be silly not to. I’d be doing it for the family. For the kids,” I said.

“To help pay for college,” he played along.

“Exactly,” I said, playfully smacking over the head with an oven mitt.

“Well, you don’t want to upset your first — and best — customer,” he winked. “He might walk away. Would that be worth it?” he asked, getting fake jealous (or maybe it was real jealous because, you know, men. . .)

“Not worth it at all,” I said, sitting on his lap, “but I need to tell him that my rate just went up to $200.”

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