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Smoke Break Conversations of a Serial Punter

Beverley

Beverley

Gold Member
From the POV of a charming disaster of a man. (Tales from the ashtray of love, lust, and very poor decisions)

There’s something sacred about the smoke break outside a brothel.
It’s like therapy, but cheaper and with more second-hand regret.
Every punter thinks he’s just “popping in for a bit of fun,” but trust me — after a few rounds in this life, you start developing… thoughts. Not deep ones, mind you, but thoughts nonetheless.

Chapter one

There I was, puffing away under a flickering streetlight, thinking — why do we call it “paying for pleasure”?
If pleasure’s what I’m paying for, why am I leaving emotionally bankrupt and $500 lighter?
My mate Brad says it’s about the “connection.” Yeah, right.
The only real connection I’ve had lately was the static shock from the carpet when I pulled my pants up too fast.

Love may be blind, but apparently, my wallet isn’t.

Chapter two

There’s an unspoken camaraderie among regulars.
You spot each other in the hallway — nod, wink, pretend you’re both here for “a chat.”
One bloke said, “Mate, she knows me so well, she finishes my sentences.”
I said, “That’s not connection, Dave — that’s pattern recognition.”
We should get loyalty cards.
“Ten visits and your next midlife crisis is free!”

She called me a regular — I think we’re official!!

Chapter three

During one smoke break, I got all philosophical.
I asked, “If a punter falls in love in the VIP room, and no one believes him, does it count?”
The bouncer said, “No, mate. That’s called a Tuesday.”
Then I started wondering…
Why do I only text escorts at 2 a.m.?
Why do I call it ‘therapy’ when it’s mostly cardio and small talk?
And most importantly, why do I keep tipping in odd numbers like it’s lucky?
Maybe I’m just superstitious. Or maybe I’m just super stupid.

I’m not addicted, I’m just contributing to the local economy.

Chapter four

“Oh, I go for the conversation.”
Sure, pal. And I read Playboy for the articles.
I once told a date I was “seeing someone casually.”
Technically true — she saw me, I saw her, and she casually charged by the half-hour.
When I leave, I always promise, “I’ll behave next time.”
Then I light another cigarette and lie to both of us.

If denial were a currency, we’d all be billionaires.

Chapter five

A mate asked me, “Do you ever feel guilty?”
I said, “Every time I check my bank balance.”
I’ve spent enough to buy a used car — or a small island where I could cry in peace.
But hey, you can’t put a price on happiness.
(Well, technically, someone already did — it’s $500 an hour and extra for lingerie.)

Maybe we’re not bad men. Maybe we’re just… emotionally outsourcing.

Chapter six

Here’s what the smoke break philosophers know:
  • The girls remember your cologne, not your name.
  • The ATM near the reception desk is the most judgmental machine on Earth.
  • And every punter swears “this is the last time” — until next Friday rolls around.
Sometimes, between the laughter, the smoke, and the lies, I think…
maybe it’s not about the sex at all. Maybe it’s just about feeling seen, even for a minute.
Then again, maybe I just need to quit smoking.

I take one last drag, toss the butt, and think —
God, I love this stupid, complicated, tragic little circus.

Then I book another appointment.
 
Beverley said:
From the POV of a charming disaster of a man. (Tales from the ashtray of love, lust, and very poor decisions)

There’s something sacred about the smoke break outside a brothel.
It’s like therapy, but cheaper and with more second-hand regret.
Every punter thinks he’s just “popping in for a bit of fun,” but trust me — after a few rounds in this life, you start developing… thoughts. Not deep ones, mind you, but thoughts nonetheless.

Chapter one

There I was, puffing away under a flickering streetlight, thinking — why do we call it “paying for pleasure”?
If pleasure’s what I’m paying for, why am I leaving emotionally bankrupt and $500 lighter?
My mate Brad says it’s about the “connection.” Yeah, right.
The only real connection I’ve had lately was the static shock from the carpet when I pulled my pants up too fast.

Love may be blind, but apparently, my wallet isn’t.

Chapter two

There’s an unspoken camaraderie among regulars.
You spot each other in the hallway — nod, wink, pretend you’re both here for “a chat.”
One bloke said, “Mate, she knows me so well, she finishes my sentences.”
I said, “That’s not connection, Dave — that’s pattern recognition.”
We should get loyalty cards.
“Ten visits and your next midlife crisis is free!”

She called me a regular — I think we’re official!!

Chapter three

During one smoke break, I got all philosophical.
I asked, “If a punter falls in love in the VIP room, and no one believes him, does it count?”
The bouncer said, “No, mate. That’s called a Tuesday.”
Then I started wondering…
Why do I only text escorts at 2 a.m.?
Why do I call it ‘therapy’ when it’s mostly cardio and small talk?
And most importantly, why do I keep tipping in odd numbers like it’s lucky?
Maybe I’m just superstitious. Or maybe I’m just super stupid.

I’m not addicted, I’m just contributing to the local economy.

Chapter four

“Oh, I go for the conversation.”
Sure, pal. And I read Playboy for the articles.
I once told a date I was “seeing someone casually.”
Technically true — she saw me, I saw her, and she casually charged by the half-hour.
When I leave, I always promise, “I’ll behave next time.”
Then I light another cigarette and lie to both of us.

If denial were a currency, we’d all be billionaires.

Chapter five

A mate asked me, “Do you ever feel guilty?”
I said, “Every time I check my bank balance.”
I’ve spent enough to buy a used car — or a small island where I could cry in peace.
But hey, you can’t put a price on happiness.
(Well, technically, someone already did — it’s $500 an hour and extra for lingerie.)

Maybe we’re not bad men. Maybe we’re just… emotionally outsourcing.

Chapter six

Here’s what the smoke break philosophers know:
  • The girls remember your cologne, not your name.
  • The ATM near the reception desk is the most judgmental machine on Earth.
  • And every punter swears “this is the last time” — until next Friday rolls around.
Sometimes, between the laughter, the smoke, and the lies, I think…
maybe it’s not about the sex at all. Maybe it’s just about feeling seen, even for a minute.
Then again, maybe I just need to quit smoking.

I take one last drag, toss the butt, and think —
God, I love this stupid, complicated, tragic little circus.

Then I book another appointment.
Click to expand...

Now now ...as funny as that reads and it reads funny as cluck... if said Muppet quit the smokes he would have more for punting.. esp... when you look at those carton prices... A carton of fags you can book more escorts..... .

Serious I thought 200 a carton those are silly muppet prices..

https://www.smokemart.com.au/cigarettes-price-board?page=1
 
I’ve learned this the expensive way: you’re not paying for pleasure—you’re renting a feeling. If you expect it to fix loneliness, it’ll send you home emptier than your wallet. Name what you’re actually buying: softness, novelty, being seen for an hour. Buy that on purpose, and you bleed less.

We call it “connection.” Often it’s pattern recognition. She’s brilliant at reading breath, pace, eyes. Respect the craft; don’t confuse it with destiny. Loyalty cards are cute; loyalty to your own boundaries is better.

The 2 a.m. text? That’s your nervous system, not your heart. Try this: sleep, shower, stretch—then decide. If it still feels right in daylight, book. If not… you dodged a hangover of the soul.

“Conversation” is our favourite cover story. Tell the truth. You wanted warmth, validation, electricity you didn’t have to earn in the wild. That’s fine. Just don’t sell it to yourself as fate. Intention is the cleanest currency.

Guilt comes due one way or another. What you don’t pay in money, you’ll pay in meaning. So pay the right bills: gratitude, clarity, tipping properly, leaving people softer than you found them. If you can’t be proud of your behaviour with your name on it, fix the behaviour—not the name.

Some practical koans from a charming disaster:
• Don’t haggle. If you need a discount, you need a different hobby.
• Be clear, be kind, be clean. Good energy is foreplay for both sides.
• Ask consent like a gentleman. It’s sexier than any line you’ve memorised.
• When the chemistry feels too real, remember: some magic is part of the service. Enjoy it, don’t mortgage your heart to it.
• Tip the reception. They see your character before anyone else does.
• Practice leaving well. The exit is the last thing she’ll remember.

And yes—sometimes, between the jokes and the lies we tell ourselves, you will feel genuinely seen. Don’t punish that. Honour it. Let it make you a better man outside the building. The point isn’t to stop wanting; it’s to want wisely.

My working theory these days:
• Go slower than your impulse.
• Tell the truth faster than your shame.
• Leave the room kinder than you found it.
• If you can’t stop, at least upgrade—your choices, your timing, your self-respect—by 1% each time.

I still light the occasional cigarette and think, “God, I love this stupid, complicated, tragic little circus.” Then I breathe. Sometimes I book. Sometimes I go home. Either way, I try to carry myself like a man who knows the difference between a moment and a meaning.

Be water. Be decent. Tip well. And if you can manage it—quit smoking.
 
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