Every three months, I give blood. Not for heroism. For maintenance. I’m on TRT, and that means I need to keep my iron in check. It’s part of the deal.
Same dance every time: Sit down. Arm out. Finger prick. Hemoglobin check. Then come the questions — clinical, scripted.
“Been out of the country?”
“Any new tattoos?”
…And then the one that always makes the room shift a little.
“Have you paid for sex in the past three months?”
This time, I smirked before I even answered. She caught it right away. Started grinning herself.
I asked, “Why are you laughing?”
She said, “I know what you’re going to say.”
“Go ahead, then,” I told her.
Without missing a beat:
“All men pay for sex.”
I nodded. “You’re right.”
No shame. No pearl clutching. Just a shared truth in a sterile room with fluorescent lights and cotton balls soaked in iodine.
That’s the part people don’t like to say out loud.
Sex is never free.
Men pay — always. It might be time. It might be money. It might be attention, dinners, emotions, rings, or lawyers. But there’s always a cost.
Women know it.
Men know it.
The only ones offended are still clutching the fairy tale — the kind sold in pastel book covers and wedding magazines.
That nurse wasn’t being cynical. She was being honest. And there’s nothing more rare these days than honesty without apology.
If you’re a man, understand the transaction. Know the currency. Pay with your eyes open — or don’t pay at all.
