I was wrong. So wrong.
Three years ago this June, I married a woman who was working as a nude dancer and occasional prostitute. I fell in love with her. I really did. She said she wanted to get out of that life. That she needed to get out of it, that it was killing her (drink, drugs and frequently unprotected s**). She cried about it and swore she would never go back to it. I was certain she meant it. Things were fine for the first year. But then she started going out again with her friends from the life. And soon she was talking outcalls once in a while for the money. Then sometimes she'd go back to the club and dance, or take a bachelor party or a corporate gig for big fees. By our second anniversary, she was gone from our home at night more often than she was there. And when she came home, she smelled of booze and dope and c**. Even at 37, she looks great and men want her, and she can still make good money. But what we have now could only be called a marriage by some twisted definition of the word. I made a mistake and I don't think I can continue it. I'm afraid I'm going to have to divorce her because apparently I'm not enough of a man for her, and I don't have what it seems to take to keep her from stripping, or from having s** in the VIP room, or from turning tricks. It's painful and humiliating.