Easy Money.
xx.
Some people speak of love as if it's a fucking gift. I mean come on. To love and to cherish. To have and to hold. As long as we both shall live. More like as long as you can get my rocks off or until I find someone who can do it better. As long as you have a job and keep me in the finest clothes and jewelry. As long as you remain a size 3, no matter how many children you push out. Love is a load of bullshit. Marriage ain't nothing but a cherry on top of a pile of crap. I can get my rocks off, have nice things, and stay a size three, all without love or marriage or commitment or any of that shit eight year old little girls dream of. Maybe it's not everyone's cup of tea, doing what I do, but it keeps my bills paid and my hair done. I'm not on the street, begging for it like some whore. It's not a crime to enjoy sex. Particularly with rich men. Nor is it a crime to get paid for having sex with particularly rich men. Anyone who thinks so obviously needs to get their brain sucked out through their dick, and that just happens to be my specialty...for the right price.
So what if I show a little skin? You would if you had the body. You'd wear tight leather dresses if you could. You'd rock cheetah print, 5-inch stilettos if you could. Modesty? Yeah right. Guys are gonna look either way. They're gonna undress me in their mind and then make their move. He's got a Rolex on his wrist and the keys to that sleek little Audi in his left pocket. Let him make a move, I won't say no. Hell, I'll pretend I didn't see him slide the ring off his finger. She's the one to blame for their failing marriage. She was stupid enough to believe he loved her in the first place. Maybe in college when she could do splits and drink with the best of them. He didn't ask her to turn into a common housewife. A stay at home mom to their two boys. He wouldn't have married her if he had known she wasn't a natural blond. It was fun way back when. It's not fun anymore. He wants someone new. Someone young. "Someone like you." he says. Then I have to shut him up with the back of my throat because I don't belong to anyone. Especially not some middle-aged banker with a thing for hair-pulling. Not even for the few minutes until he cums.
Over a hundred dollars for less than ten minutes. He asks for my number and I oblige, just this once because that much cash is worth breaking a few rules. I can always change it when he starts to get needy. They always do. It's that love shit again. They love the sex. They love having someone listen to their rich-banker bullshit problems. They love that thing I can with my hips. They love walking through their white-picket fences, past their kids playing ball or hopscotch or whatever brats play nowadays, and going into the house to kiss their wives on the cheek. And she's glad he's smiling again and calling her babe. He doesn't even try to roll on top of her when they get into bed. "He finally understands." she thinks. That's just how love works. I've seen it first-hand.
The only thing I'll ever love is easy money.
So what if I show a little skin? You would if you had the body. You'd wear tight leather dresses if you could. You'd rock cheetah print, 5-inch stilettos if you could. Modesty? Yeah right. Guys are gonna look either way. They're gonna undress me in their mind and then make their move. He's got a Rolex on his wrist and the keys to that sleek little Audi in his left pocket. Let him make a move, I won't say no. Hell, I'll pretend I didn't see him slide the ring off his finger. She's the one to blame for their failing marriage. She was stupid enough to believe he loved her in the first place. Maybe in college when she could do splits and drink with the best of them. He didn't ask her to turn into a common housewife. A stay at home mom to their two boys. He wouldn't have married her if he had known she wasn't a natural blond. It was fun way back when. It's not fun anymore. He wants someone new. Someone young. "Someone like you." he says. Then I have to shut him up with the back of my throat because I don't belong to anyone. Especially not some middle-aged banker with a thing for hair-pulling. Not even for the few minutes until he cums.
Over a hundred dollars for less than ten minutes. He asks for my number and I oblige, just this once because that much cash is worth breaking a few rules. I can always change it when he starts to get needy. They always do. It's that love shit again. They love the sex. They love having someone listen to their rich-banker bullshit problems. They love that thing I can with my hips. They love walking through their white-picket fences, past their kids playing ball or hopscotch or whatever brats play nowadays, and going into the house to kiss their wives on the cheek. And she's glad he's smiling again and calling her babe. He doesn't even try to roll on top of her when they get into bed. "He finally understands." she thinks. That's just how love works. I've seen it first-hand.
The only thing I'll ever love is easy money.
♠ ♠ ♠
Again, this is for a walking travesty; 's Walk a Mile in Someone Else's Shoes contest. Feedback welcome.