From practical sex to warmth, attention and intimacy

High class escort service: a client on Society Service and his “complaint”

Happy New Year! Our previous blog was a great way to close the year, and that calls for an equally strong start to the new one. A client was inspired by our last blog and decided to share his own experience. He calls it a complaint, but you will quickly notice it is really an unexpectedly clear glimpse into what a good booking can do.

At the end he also makes a suggestion: a small dinner to meet face to face. Under the motto you ask, we deliver: if you like this idea, you can sign up via marike@societyservice.com. Once we reach 10 sign ups, I will actually plan it and then I will contact everyone who has registered.

The lasting effect of a high class escort service

"I hesitated for a moment before emailing this, because I don’t want to come across as that guy who buys a service and then suddenly starts reviewing his own love life. But I read that blog on your site with input from another client and I thought: okay, apparently you can just be honest. So here we go.

Let me get straight to the point. I’m not “loyal” to escort agencies. Just like I’m not fooling myself about the state of my marriage. It has been sexless for years, or at least sex light. And no, I’m not going to give you my entire relationship history now. But it comes down to this: at some point I thought, I can either walk around frustrated for the rest of my life, or I can handle it practically. And that’s where sex work came in.

For years I mostly took the more standard routes. Massage salons, private outcalls, “regular” escorts. For around a hundred euros you get a sexual service, you do your thing and then you go home. Not romantic, not warm, but it solves something. And to be fair: back then that was exactly what I was looking for. A kind of… human fast food. Not the healthiest choice, but it takes the edge off.

But then I saw you on TV. And I thought: yeah right, that’ll be one of those stories. High class sounds nice, but anyone can put “high class” on their website. Honestly, I expected some kind of luxury marketing sauce. Pretty words, neat photos without faces, and above all: lots of hassle with rules so that afterwards I’d still be wondering what exactly I was paying for.

And then I booked. And after five minutes I thought: okay, this is genuinely different. Here’s my “complaint”. There’s no disclaimer anywhere. No warning like: careful, you’ll get used to this quickly and it’ll become an expensive hobby. And that’s basically your fault. Because if I’d known this beforehand, I might have kept pretending I didn’t need warmth and intimacy. I could have stuck my head in the sand a little longer, you know?

Because that’s what it was. I thought I was booking sex. But I turned out to be booking something completely different. Warmth. Attention. Intimacy. And I say that with slight reluctance, because it sounds like a line from a rainy Sunday novel. But it’s the truth. It wasn’t just good. It was… nourishing. Like something in my head and body said: finally. I got home and I didn’t have that “right, that was that” feeling. I had this strange, pleasant calm instead. Like I’d recharged a little. And that feeling lingered for days.

And that’s the dangerous part. Because now it’s no longer just a practical solution. Now it has become something I apparently need. And then it gets expensive. Not necessarily because your rates are “too high”, but because the bar suddenly goes up. I’ve now experienced what it can be like when someone is truly present. When it’s right. When it doesn’t feel like you’re buying something, but like you’re getting an evening where you can simply be human for a while.

So yes, I still book elsewhere sometimes too. Sometimes because it’s convenient, sometimes because I’m curious, sometimes because I convince myself the grass might be greener somewhere else. And then afterwards I realise: fine, yes. But not the same. I’m not going to be dramatic about it, but the difference is there. And that’s why I keep coming back to you.

One more thing I want to say: your way of communicating is… uh… interesting. By email you can sometimes come across a bit blunt. Tight. Businesslike. Like you’re typing with one hand and holding up a stop sign with the other. Not unfriendly, but very much: these are the rules, this is the process, next. And then I scheduled that phone call, because I saw under your emails that it was an option. I thought that was very smart. Because then I have your full attention for a moment.

And on the phone you were completely different. Warm. Human. Funny too. You really listened. You took your time. You asked questions that made it clear you understand how things work in real life, not just on paper. I also told you honestly that I sometimes find your email style a bit strict, and you explained why. That you get an insane number of emails every day, that people keep asking the same questions, who’s available, what does it cost, can we see face photos, while it’s all on the website. And yes, I get it. I’d go a bit crazy too.

Then I asked why you don’t outsource it. Just put a customer service team behind it, done. And your explanation was actually the most convincing part of all. You said: discretion. And not as a marketing word, but as real responsibility. Because you don’t want to throw people’s sensitive information into a system where all sorts of others can access it. That you don’t want to expose clients to an unacceptable risk. That you’d rather carry the workload yourself than buy convenience at the expense of privacy. I honestly found that impressive. Because it says something about who you are. And why your business is the way it is.

And also: Jules. I have to mention him. Because I had contact with him through the Concierge Service and it was simply very good. Friendly, approachable, patient, and with an eye for detail. I really appreciate that. I like people who solve things instead of endlessly ping ponging. Smart move to outsource this, he complements you perfectly.

Now back to my “complaint” and why I’m actually emailing you. The after effect was so positive that I caught myself doing something I don’t usually do: I felt lighter. I had more energy. I was more creative. I was even a bit friendlier in traffic, and that’s saying something. I felt… more myself. More of a man too, but not in that macho “look at me” way, more in that calm way of: I’m okay as I am.

And the strange thing is: it carries through into the rest of your life. Into your work. Into how you start your day. Into how you look at yourself in the mirror. I had inspiration again. Desire. And yes, also a bit of sadness, because you also feel what you’re missing at home. But even that sadness was clear in a weird way. Not suffocating. More like: okay, this is where I am.

But alright. I complain with a smile. Because I’d rather have this than go back to that flat, empty “done and dusted” feeling. This is an expensive hobby, but one that pays you back in strange ways. Not in money, but in quality of life. And that’s really the only thing I truly care about in the long run.

One last idea, just because I mean it. I said it on the phone too, but I’m typing it again: I’d love it if you occasionally did something face to face with clients. A dinner once per quarter or something. Not twenty people in a room, but small. Cozy. Just a few people who enjoy speaking with you as a person, separate from bookings, and sharing experiences with each other. I understand this is sensitive because of discretion, so I’m just throwing it out there. But I think you could make something really nice out of it if you find a safe format.

Alright. Enough writing. If I keep going much longer, I’ll start sounding like I’m writing a poem and that doesn’t suit me. Thank you, truly. For your work, your care, and yes, for the fact that you accidentally made my life a little more enjoyable."