I’m nothing more than a glorified hooker. I just spent the last 15 minutes blowing my married “boyfriend” in his car, which was parked in an abandoned warehouse parking lot. I even supplied the tissues and tossed them out the car while he sat back grinning like a Cheshire cat. He had the nerve to stroke my hair and the look of venom I shot him froze that shit up. He knew I was pissed because today was the day we were supposed to go out for the first time. He swore that he was too paranoid to take me someplace nice. “Why can’t we go somewhere way out of town?” I’d insist, but he’d never answer. Of course when he called me, I could tell by the way he was hemming and hawing that dinner wasn’t going to happen. “I don’t have that much time to spend with you today…” he began and I knew what was up. “I guess you’re my trick again.” I snapped just to make him feel like the piece of shit he was. He began mumbling about feelings and I had to cut him off: “Please don’t. Just have my money like you promised and don’t give me any bullshit about forgetting your ATM card neither!” I hung up the phone on his ass.
As usual, he picks me up at the local mall not far from his job. I want to laugh when I see his wrinkly, balding ass coming to swoop me up in his black convertible. “You’re just a sexy motherfucker, ain’t you?” I always ask and that just tickles him to death. It makes me want to vomit since he actually believes this shit. He’s just a sight, wearing shades with the few hairs he does have on his head combed over—sometimes, just to mess with him I flick my fingers through the sparse bird’s nest just to make him whine. “Why don’t you just shave that shit off?” I once blurted out and hurt his feelings. I had to smooth things over (as well as his 5 strands of hair) that day to make him happy. At least one of us was happy that day.
Whenever I get home from our “outings” I wash him off of me and just stare into the mirror. “What are you doing?” I ask myself always, and then I lapse into denial about him being my ‘Mr. Right Now’ until the real thing comes along. Then I get on the phone and laugh it up with my girlfriends about him never lasting more than 90 seconds and how he tricked me off that day. “Girl…I wish I had an old man like that…” one out the group would usually say while the other would echo her sentiments. I roll my eyes every time because each one of those heifers actually has someone. None of them have to hike up their skirts and get fucked like a dog in a parked car or in some skeevy motel with hourly rates. None of them are alone on Valentine’s Day. And none of them have to curl up to cold gift cards and cash to keep them warm at night. They’re the lucky ones and don’t even know it.
Yea I know…why do I do this to myself? Why don’t I tell him to go to hell and end this shit? I dunno…I’ve become ice cold and have hardened myself since fooling with this man for the past two years. I went from “I’ll have my fun for a little while…” to “He’s all I have.” I’ve developed a prostitute’s mindset and that frightens me. I don’t know how to be affectionate. I wouldn’t know how to react if a kind man happened to approach me—I’d probably tell the ‘loser’ to fuck off. Without a fist full of 20’s in his hand he would be wasting my motherfucking time. I don’t even get a chill shooting down my spine for thinking that way anymore. I’m damaged goods.
So, as I become more lazy and stagnant in my situation, I can’t ask anyone to feel sorry for me. This man has a wife and 3 kids at home, and one away at college. I can’t think about them though. As long as I continue to leave red lipstick rings around his dick and whoop and holler for our 1-½ minutes in the sack, I’ll be ok. Well, that is until he gets tired of me; then I’ll be on the lookout for another sugardaddy.