A wife’s intimacy often costs more than a prostitute’s. At least with the latter, there’s a transactional clarity. She finishes, collects her dues, and leaves—no lingering spite, no festering resentments, no dragging emotional debt. She doesn’t spit venom, reminding you of every imperfection, every perceived slight. No guilt trips; no emotional quicksand. A prostitute offers a service and goes, leaving no trace of herself beyond the moment.
But a wife? Oh, she stays. She stays with her words, her accusations, her endless criticisms. She stays to remind you that all the effort you’ve poured into the relationship, all the sacrifices, the labor, the compromises—you owe her for that too, eternally. It’s not just about money; it’s about the unrelenting emotional taxation. The currency in this exchange is your peace of mind, and you’re always overdrawn.
Prostitutes don’t demand that you repay them with years of your life. They don’t expect you to father offspring, to carry the weight of responsibilities that multiply with every breath. They don’t wrap your future in layers of obligation, disappointment, and unspoken resentment. Prostitutes, ironically, offer freedom—a finite encounter, a clean slate afterward. There’s no “fear of dying alone” with them because, in truth, everyone dies alone. A prostitute doesn’t sell illusions of eternal companionship; she sells a fleeting escape.
A wife’s presence, however, can become a continuous torture—a relentless assault of criticism, her words sharper than knives, tearing into the fabric of your very existence. And the cruelty? It’s wrapped in the guise of love. It’s the kind of cruelty that doesn’t end after a single night. It stays. It festers. It thrives in the shared space, the shared life. Like a parasite feeding off your insecurities, your vulnerabilities, your flaws. Every argument is an autopsy of your failures. Every silent dinner is a reminder of your inadequacies. There’s no mercy, no reprieve—just an endless spiral of emotional punishment.
Even prostitutes, those much-maligned figures of society, have mercy in their transactions. They walk away. Wives, on the other hand, plant themselves in the center of your world, unearthing every buried regret and mistake until there’s nothing left of you but a shell—a hollow man shackled by duty and resentment.
And yet, isn’t it ironic? The root of all this is something so small, so seemingly simple: a body, a desire, a biological imperative. Take away the sex, the “pussy,” and perhaps the whole illusion of relationships crumbles. The world as we know it might collapse under the weight of unmet expectations. And yet, isn’t it that very thing—the supposed joy, the connection, the promise of reproduction—that becomes the weapon, the catalyst for catastrophe?
The truth is, we’ve built an entire civilization around the pursuit of something that often destroys us. Eliminate the physical need, and what’s left? Peace, perhaps. Freedom. But we cling to it, to the idea of companionship, of meaning through another. And in doing so, we often destroy ourselves.
Maybe the ultimate irony is this: the thing we chase for comfort and connection often becomes the very source of our deepest misery. A twisted joke played by life itself.