It would be nice to say that I went back the next night and finished what I had started, but in truth I didn't.
The sex had been brilliant, and looms ever larger in the legend of my own life in my own mind. All of you English majors out there will recognize (or should anyway) the initials in the title of this post---William Wordsworth nailed it on the head when he spoke of Emotion Recollected In Tranquility, and the acronym has stuck with me since my undergraduate days. I got to engage in lots of different kinds of sex that She doesn't see as part of her world, especially with Her ever decreasing libido.
But there's a baggage charge involved in paying for sex, even when it's a commonly accepted practice in the part of the world you're visiting. There were experiences that I wanted to have, acts and feelings that would never been available to me, and so I had taken a very deep breath and plunged in, knowing that I couldn't unring the bell once it had sounded.
And I'm still trying to figure out if it was worth it, not monetarily of course, but emotionally. I still get rock hard thinking about what I did, and how easy and simple it was. And then the moralistic part of me rises up, and I start dealing with guilt feelings about paying for sex.
And I'm still trying to strike that balance, where I can reconcile what I did with how I feel about doing it.