Smoke Break Conversations of a Serial Punter

[Beverley]

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.

 

[Phoebe]

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.

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

 

[Beverley]

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

Thats why the line "very poor decisions"

 

[Master Yoda]

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.

 

[Sally]

Oh, that's amazing! What a great piece of writing! I really enjoyed reading it and found myself blushing as I thought about it. How could you understand this so deeply when I know you aren't even close to experiencing it? But honestly, I can tell you that you are truly living it.

 

[Master Yoda]

Oh, that's amazing! What a great piece of writing! I really enjoyed reading it and found myself blushing as I thought about it. How could you understand this so deeply when I know you aren't even close to experiencing it? But honestly, I can tell you that you are truly living it.

In case that was aimed at me—thank you. If not, I’ll leave this here and bow out quietly.

I don’t pretend to live what the women live. What I wrote comes from earning a little trust, listening more than speaking, and noticing the small things: the reset breath at the door, the shared joke at reception, the way a room softens when both people stop performing. I’ve been the shaky 2 a.m. texter and the bloke who left a room worse than he found it; learning to do better is the only part I “live” with any authority.

If I seem like I understand, it’s because the women were generous enough to let me watch the craft—timing, reading, pacing—and because I keep my own house honest: show up clean, be clear, tip properly, add peace not pressure, leave people softer. The magic belongs to them. We just get to witness it without breaking it.

Either way, I’m grateful for your kindness. It keeps old blokes like me accountable.

My pocket rules (for anyone they help):
• Go slower than your impulse.
• Tell the truth faster than your shame.
• Leave the room kinder than you found it.

If you weren’t talking to me, all good—I’ll be over where no one is which is the most loyal company granted to me most of the time.

 

[Phoebe]

don’t mortgage your heart to it.

Practice leaving well. The exit is the last thing she’ll remember.

Tip the reception.

, Sometimes old wise one Yoda, its not the Client that this happens too.. Sometimes a client goes and knows the boundaries, gives a tip to reception "Be kind to your mother" and escort asks for phone number swaps not the client, and one day not long after the client knows how to exit the right way the phone rings and you end up spending hours and hours talking with her which is rather ironic considering my post about once you know her dogs/cats name its over, well I knew more than that... I knew which isle the cat food came from....

You know where this is going and i bet you have traveled the same road sometimes its not the client that falls, and yes the client may leave and may leave a scent of wondrous humanity behind, but the escort herself leaves with client and exits when she should stayed behind....

Quit smoking you say, sometimes there can be fire without a match or even a fuel source which in this game normally burns many acres of pasture which sadly you can not insure against.....

-----------

 

[Master Yoda]

, Sometimes old wise one Yoda, its not the Client that this happens too.. Sometimes a client goes and knows the boundaries, gives a tip to reception "Be kind to your mother" and escort asks for phone number swaps not the client, and one day not long after the client knows how to exit the right way the phone rings and you end up spending hours and hours talking with her which is rather ironic considering my post about once you know her dogs/cats name its over, well I knew more than that... I knew which isle the cat food came from....

You know where this is going and i bet you have traveled the same road sometimes its not the client that falls, and yes the client may leave and may leave a scent of wondrous humanity behind, but the escort herself leaves with client and exits when she should stayed behind....

Quit smoking you say, sometimes there can be fire without a match or even a fuel source which in this game normally burns many acres of pasture which sadly you can not insure against.....

-----------

Phoebe, I hear you.

Sometimes there’s no match and still there’s fire. No villains. Just humans with nervous systems, rent due, and a moment that feels bigger than the room.

You’re right: it isn’t always the client who tips over the edge. Sometimes he leaves clean, tips reception, bows out—and the call comes from her side. Two people talk for hours, names of pets, favourite aisles at the shops, and suddenly the boundary isn’t a line—it’s a blur. That’s real. And it happens to good people who were trying to do the right thing.

I don’t put blame anywhere. This industry exists because humans need what it offers: safety, livelihood, touch, relief, theatre, and—on the best nights—kindness that lands. It can be wonderful. Laughter in the lounge. A room that exhales. Two strangers leaving softer. It also has traps. Rescue fantasies. Secret messages at 2 a.m. Chemistry sold as destiny. High-risk, high-reward for everyone—workers, clients, reception, the house. A great day can float a week; the wrong tangle can sink a season.

My lane (not a rulebook, just how I try to carry myself):
• Name the spark without romanticising it.
• Keep clarity ahead of chemistry, boundaries ahead of poetry.
• Leave people better, even when leaving hurts.
• When a line blurs, breathe, slow down, bring it into daylight, and reset with care.

We can’t insure against pasture fires of the heart. Maybe the next best thing is straight talk, soft exits, and a little mercy for ourselves when we misstep. No shame for feeling; just responsibility for what we do with the feeling.

Your share lands, Phoebe. It honours the women, the work, and the truth that sometimes the ember hops the grate. Thanks for saying it out loud.

The house, the women, the clients—we’re not on opposite teams. We’re in the same weather. When it’s good, it’s genuinely good. When it’s dangerous, it’s because it matters. So we respect the spark, protect the people, and keep the door open for grace.