IT HAPPENED TO ME: My Husband and I Hired an Escort in Amsterdam to Have a Threesome With Us

This woman had a job that she said she enjoyed and that paid her well. I hoped she was sincere, and that her life, as she described it, was lovely.
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Publish date:
April 29, 2015
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Tags:
prostitution, marriage, Sex,

I have participated in the sex trade.

It sounds weird saying it, and it gets even weirder when I try to research whether there have been others like me. There are plenty of articles about women who used a gigolo for one reason or other, but not a single article about my experience.

On a trip to Europe with my husband, we purchased the services of an escort and had a threesome. I’m a woman who hired a prostitute in a foreign country to have sex with me and my husband.

I repeated my sentences there a bit, I know. It still sometimes sounds so weird, and it sounds stranger the more I write about it. I have a "normal" marriage with a man that I adore. My husband and I have been together for close to a decade. I’ve enjoyed our marriage and we have plenty of moments that keep the spark alive. This type of experience just happens to be one of them.

We sat on our back patio one night, idly planning the details of trip approaching in a few short weeks, the sights we had to see and the experiences that we had to try. Climbing an iceberg in Iceland, sleeping on the side of a volcano? What about the Louvre in Paris, or maybe doing a tour of the Catacombs?

As we became pleasantly tipsy, drinking wine and looking at the stars, I ventured an idea that had suddenly popped into my head. “What if we stopped in Amsterdam? Would you be game to hire an escort?”

He looked over at me curiously, and I could tell that he was assessing whether I was trying to trick him or whether I meant it. I kept talking to fill the space. It was legal over there. They were tested for STDs and it was protected by law.

Also, there was absolutely zero chance of running into her around town. He asked if he could help pick her out, and I said sure. The next night, we ran late for a dinner party due to his rummaging through web page after page, lost in hair color, bra sizes, languages spoken.

In the end, we both decided on someone named Helena. She looked lovely, posing in a tiny bikini on the deck of a yacht, with long brown hair and blue eyes.

Our flat in Amsterdam was owned and rented out by a model-handsome physician with magnets of nude firemen on the fridge. A hidden button on the wall would cause beautiful opera music to play through the space, and his puffy chaise lounge was big enough for both me and my tall husband. Heavy curtains bordered floor to ceiling windows, and a look outside revealed the gay clubs and flower markets of north Amsterdam.

We took in the beautiful environment for a moment, but then sat nervously and waited for the woman to appear. When she finally arrived, she put us both at ease and effortlessly led the menage a trois.

Afterward, she and I sat on the back patio smoking cigarettes. I asked about her work. Helena specialized in American couples. There was a security guard waiting outside for her. If she hadn’t texted him within the first five minutes, he would have come up to check on her. If he couldn’t get in or there were other signs of danger, he would have called the police.

She was a college student and made really good money doing this, money that she used to pay for her education free and clear. When finally graduated in a year or two, she was going to move back to Spain. She liked my questions, and had her own questions about life in the United States.

The conversation was fascinating. Had she been in danger, the full force of the law would have risen up to help her. This contrasts starkly with prostitution in America, which hides in dark corners and doesn’t allow participants the knowledge of safety and legal protection.

This woman had a job that she said she enjoyed, that paid her well, and that afforded her the same benefits that most of us enjoy in our work positions. I remember thinking at the time that I hoped she was sincere, and that her life, as she described it, was lovely. I still hope these things for her, wherever she may be.

I know that the comments section of this article may, in some instances, be disgusted and judgmental. Writing about this subject in a public forum, I wouldn’t expect anything less. How do we know that this woman wasn’t trafficked, that she wasn’t being exploited? The answer to that very valid question: We didn’t, not one hundred percent. We utilized an agency that was licensed with the city and only utilized women that voluntarily contracted with them. Due diligence was exercised, but at a certain point, we went with the flow.

Originally, I was going to end this article about regrets, damage done, anything to avoid the ire of an unknown public. I couldn’t do it. Neither my husband nor I regret doing this, and the two of us would gladly do it again. The effect upon our sex life was overwhelmingly positive and immediate, with effects that still linger to this day. I recently sat down with my husband and asked his opinion again, to see if it had changed at all as time passed. sat back and thought about it.

“I liked it,” he said, “I would do it again if we were ever over there. But it actually was just sex. It could never replace the woman who knows my body and what I like. We have our own thing going on, you know?”

He couldn’t have said it better.