Originally Posted by
Sfornication
Marry a WL?
Mate… that’s not a question. That’s a cry for help disguised as a love letter wrapped in a midlife crisis.
Now I know some of you are coming from the heart. “She makes me feel comfortable,” you say. Comfort? Bro, so does my weighted blanket and that doesn’t charge me three-fiddy for a happy ending and a bottle of pump lube.
Let’s be real. The punter-WL love story is older than Newtown’s last indie bookstore. Guy walks in, gets a GFE so convincing he thinks this one’s different. She laughs at his jokes, touches his thigh, says, “You’re so sweet.” And boom — his brain starts playing Coldplay and rewriting her body count as a romantic montage.
Now I ain’t knocking feelings. Hell, I caught some myself once. Thought I was special. She let me raw-dog — turns out it was Bring Your Own Condom Week and I didn’t get the flyer. My bad.
But here’s the psychology, boys — and pay attention, ‘cause this is the part where I pretend I’ve got a TED Talk and a black turtleneck.
You’re not falling for her. You’re falling for how she makes you feel. And that’s not love. That’s branding. She’s curated an experience. She’s the Apple Store of intimacy — sleek, expensive, and you leave feeling slightly violated but weirdly satisfied.
Now I hear the Alphas in the back going, “Only low value men marry hookers.” My guy, you just dropped four hundred bucks to get told you’re handsome by someone who’d charge extra to say your name twice. You’re not on the podium here.
Let’s flip the script. Imagine she started a thread: “Would you marry a punter if he made you feel secure, paid on time, and didn’t fart mid-CIM?” You think she’s not roasting us in a group chat somewhere? Every punter thinks he’s the one she’ll retire for — like she’s a stripper in a Drake song and you’re the baritone knight in a Toyota Corolla.
And yet, I get it. There’s something raw, vulnerable, even honest about falling for someone who saw you naked in every sense. That’s the paradox, right? You pay for fake intimacy and somehow it hits more real than half the shit on Hinge.
But marriage?
Only if I get a receipt that says “No Refunds — Even If She Goes Back to No. 5 After the Honeymoon.”
Moral of the story?
Since when did dopamine — or some incel with a YouTube playlist called “Truth About Modern Women” — get to decide who’s worthy of love or marriage?
We’re pointing fingers at WLs like they’re broken for putting a price on intimacy, while the same blokes preaching morals are handing over cash, heart, and occasionally their car keys for a shot of synthetic affection. Who’s more guilty — the payee or the payer?
She’s offering a service. You’re buying the illusion. And somehow she’s the one catching judgment?
If anything, WLs have clearer contracts than most marriages: you know what you’re getting, how long it lasts, and who’s cleaning up the mess. Try finding that kind of honesty in a Tinder situationship.
So again, not “Would you marry a WL?”
Ask yourself: Would she even want to marry a punter who needs a receipt to feel validated?
Because at the end of the day, a body count is just arithmetic.
But hypocrisy? That’s spiritual.
She sold a service.
You sold yourself a dream.
One of you walked away with cash.
The other’s still on page six of a forum thread asking strangers if it was real.
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