People always ask me when someone becomes a “late virgin.” I let them define it. The whole idea of a normal timeline for sex is ridiculous — it’s changed so many times through history that the only constant is the shame people still feel about it.
That’s why I started doing what I do. My ad online has a whole section just for men who describe themselves as forever alone — the ones who are terrified of women, ashamed for even thinking about sex, convinced they’re too weird or broken to ever be wanted. I tell them: Talk to me. I can help. And the truth is, most of the time, what helps them isn’t even the sex.
You’d be amazed how many men come to me not because they’re desperate to lose their virginity, but because they want to be seen — really seen — by a woman without fear or judgment. They want to say out loud all the things that have been haunting them for years: the loneliness, the anxiety, the feeling of being invisible. When I listen, something shifts. It’s like a weight comes off their chest. For most of them, that conversation — that human connection — is more healing than the act itself. Someone can tell you “not all women will laugh at you,” but you don’t believe it until you’ve actually been vulnerable in front of one and realize she’s not going anywhere. That’s what I give them. A chance to feel that for real.
When a client arrives, we don’t just rip our clothes off. Usually, we end up giggling a lot at first. I can see their nerves buzzing — their hands fidgeting, their words tumbling out too fast. We sit on the couch. We talk. I let them breathe. Then, when the energy softens, I gently steer the conversation toward sex — not to make things steamy, but to help them say the words. Most haven’t said them out loud before. I read their body language, see when they’re ready, maybe touch their face, and we move from there at their pace. It’s slow. Intentional. Human. Some people might call that therapy with a twist. I don’t call myself a therapist, but I definitely use the skills I learned from my old line of work. The point isn’t to perform. It’s to unlearn fear.
Not every story ends perfectly. There was one guy — younger, deeply consumed by porn. He couldn’t even stay present. He had to hold up his phone and watch videos while I was going down on him. He kept asking me to act out stepmom fantasies, then would lose his erection and mutter, “God, I guess I’m just a loser.” It broke my heart. I’d told him beforehand that real sex doesn’t look like porn, that it’s slower, less choreographed, more awkward in a good way. But he didn’t want to hear it. He wasn’t ready to connect with another person; he was chasing an illusion. Eventually, I just said, “Hey, best of luck, dude. I’m gonna go.” I left that session feeling like I failed him — but also realizing that some people aren’t ready to be helped until they decide to step out of fantasy themselves.
People assume men who pay for sex are entitled or dangerous. That’s not my experience. Most of my virgin clients are overly respectful — sometimes to a fault. They expect me to tolerate them, not enjoy them. So part of my job is showing them that I’m a real person who wants to be there, who’s genuinely interested in them as a human being. That changes everything. I check in with most of my clients afterward. Many tell me they feel different — more confident, more relaxed, even noticed more in daily life. A few have said it changed their lives. But the messages that wreck me are the simple ones: “Thank you for treating me like a human.” That’s when I cry.
After escaping a long, suffocating relationship I’d been in since I was fifteen, I was too afraid to date. I remembered that episode of Firefly where Inara helps a young man through his first time, and something clicked. I started volunteering on Reddit, offering to hang out with local virgins. Nothing sketchy — sometimes just to talk, or let them touch a breast for the first time. I had eight experiences like that, and four of those men told me, “You should do this for a living.” So, I talked to my therapist, did my research, and finally posted an ad. I didn’t expect anyone to respond. But they did. A lot of them.
They come in all shapes and stories. Some are painfully shy. Some are engineers, gamers, artists, even bodybuilders. I’ve had three men who could easily pass for Hollywood leads — one looked like Ryan Reynolds — but they were so anxious about intimacy that they froze the second things became real. It’s never about looks. Ever. The real issue is fear — fear of rejection, fear of inadequacy, fear of being unlovable. And until someone helps them feel safe, no amount of dating advice will matter.
Yes, I charge for it — $400 for 90 minutes, $500 for two hours. It’s below market rate for my area, but I like to keep it accessible for people who’ve already spent years feeling unworthy of love. And yes, I’ve had one stalker. Out of dozens. The rest have been kind, respectful, and grateful.
Most of my clients aren’t broken. They’re just scared. They’ve spent too long online, consuming a warped idea of sex and women. They’ve been told they’re losers, that women only want “Chads,” that if they’re not 6’2” with an 8-inch dick, they don’t stand a chance. But here’s the truth: women don’t care as much about any of that as men think they do. I tell my clients — regardless of their size or looks — that the real magic is in connection. You want to blow her mind? Learn to pay attention. Learn to eat pussy right. Learn to make her feel seen. That’s how you win.
What I do isn’t glamorous. It’s intimate, sometimes sad, sometimes beautiful. But it’s real. And for a lot of the men who walk through my door, it’s the first time in their lives they’ve ever truly felt that.