Alright boys. This one’s gonna hurt your ego, make your grandma cry, and possibly get me banned from three platforms and a family WhatsApp group. But screw it. Someone’s gotta say it.
Let me introduce myself (again, for those new here): I’m Jack Gamble. Professional loser, full-time gambler, and part-time philosopher after six beers and a losing streak. My girlfriend, Gigi (not her real name, her real name is unpronounceable and possibly trademarked), is hot. Like, Dubai-hot. Not “girl-next-door” hot. I mean, private-jet-plastic-surgeon-level hot. She’s got more silicone than a Tupperware convention and more lip filler than a Kardashian reunion.
And guess what? She makes her living showing off her assets on OnlyFans and, occasionally, by escorting rich dudes who think they’re James Bond but smell like cologne and financial anxiety.
Is this wrong?
Well, according to the moral compass of Karen from HR and that one Twitter dude who lives in his mom’s basement yelling “SIMPS!”, I’m apparently the cucklord of the century. But here’s my question:
Is it really worse to date an honest, tax-paying, sexually liberated entrepreneur… than to be in a relationship with a lying, unemployed narcissist who posts gym selfies and cheats on you at every company Christmas party?
Let’s unpack this slowly, like my girlfriend does her Louis Vuitton suitcase after every “business trip” to the UAE.
Why Is “Whoring” Still a Dirty Word?
We live in a world where people pay to watch folks eat noodles on YouTube, pretend to be wolves on TikTok, or cry in ugly sweaters on Instagram for likes. But God forbid a woman monetizes what every second pop star, influencer, and shampoo commercial is selling anyway: sex appeal.
You can walk down the street and see billboard ads of half-naked celebrities, children’s music videos that look like rejected strip club auditions, and reality shows where people “accidentally” flash their boob jobs for ratings — and society says: “Art! Empowerment! Culture!”
But if Gigi uploads tasteful (read: aggressive) content of her buttocks holding a champagne flute while standing on a yacht in Dubai, she’s suddenly a moral failure?
Excuse me, but where was this energy when Maroon 5 took their shirts off for the fifteenth time at a kid’s Super Bowl halftime show?
Where were the protests when some Eurovision contestant dry-humped the stage while seven-year-olds waved rainbow flags?
But if a woman makes $15,000 a weekend by giving a bored oligarch a weekend he’ll never forget — now she’s the problem? Grow up.
Is Being an Escort Girl Worse Than Being a Bad Girlfriend?
Let me tell you about my ex. She cheated on me with a DJ who played house music and thought ketamine was a personality. She maxed out my credit card, got us kicked out of our Airbnb, and once told me “loyalty is outdated.”
Gigi, on the other hand, is loyal like a Swiss bank account. Sure, she occasionally goes on “paid dinner dates” with billionaires who look like sagging meatloaf, but at least she tells me. And she comes back with gifts.
What did my ex come back with? Chlamydia.
What’s It Like to Be the Boyfriend of an Escort Girl?
Some mornings, I wake up alone in silk sheets and a rented Airbnb while she FaceTimes me from a 5-star hotel in Qatar. I ask her how it’s going, and she says: “Great babe, I bought you those sneakers you like. Also, I made thirty grand. Be back Tuesday.”
Do I get jealous? Of course. I’m human. But then I remember I spent last Saturday throwing up in my mom’s bathroom after losing my rent money on a 17-team parlay. So I guess we both make bad choices.
Also, let’s be real: there’s something thrilling about being the guy who gets the “real her.” The one who sees her without makeup, in pajamas, eating pizza, farting like she’s in a wind tunnel. These billionaires might get a fantasy — I get the unfiltered chaos. And I love it.
Except when she farts in bed. That part sucks.
Can I Tell My Mom?
Hell no.
You try telling your 67-year-old mother that your girlfriend makes a living posting butthole pics and occasionally getting flown to Saudi Arabia to “accompany” a sheikh who smells like Versace and old money.
My mom still thinks I’m a freelance graphic designer. Last time she saw Gigi, she whispered, “She looks… expensive.” That’s mom-code for “she gives off sugar baby energy but I’m too Christian to say it.”
Moral Compass? I Lost Mine in Vegas
Here’s the truth, fellas: We live in a transactional world.
You think your buddy’s wife loves him for his witty banter and soft belly? No, she loves him for the house, the safety, the stability. And that’s okay.
Love is a spectrum between lust and logistics. Gigi just removed the illusion. She doesn’t pretend to be in love with those clients. She delivers a service, gets paid, and comes home to me — usually with skincare products I could never afford and stories that sound like rejected scenes from The Wolf of Wall Street: Dubai Edition.
So if you’re asking, “Is it wrong?” — wrong for whom?
Wrong for the guy who’s too insecure to handle it?
Wrong for the woman who figured out how to beat the system?
Or wrong for the society that judges her while secretly subscribing?
Final Thought: Whores and Hypocrisy
Let me be brutally honest here.
Being with Gigi has made me question everything.
What is love? What is morality? And why is a woman who fakes love for likes on Instagram a #bossbabe, but a woman who fakes an orgasm for 10 grand a night suddenly a disgrace?
Seems to me we only value sex work when it’s covered in fake virtue and hashtags. But take off the filters, and suddenly people freak out.
Listen. If your girlfriend works at a boring office, lies to your face, and flirts with her married boss for a promotion, congrats — you’re dating a traditional woman.
If your girlfriend takes her clothes off for money and buys you a PS5 with her sugar daddy’s crypto, congrats — you’re dating a capitalist icon.
Either way, someone’s getting screwed. Might as well get paid.
Yours truly,
Jack Gamble
(Still morally bankrupt, but financially recovering thanks to Gigi’s weekend in Abu Dhabi)