I’m not an ugly guy, but I ain’t no Brad Pitt. I’m that guy who doesn’t get a second look from girls. I mean, girls aren’t repulsed by my looks, but they don’t leave the club with me either. After graduating high school I even tried to improve my looks by joining a gym and hitting the weights. But bigger muscles only made me look like a second-rate thug in some home-spun mafia.
This leads me to an embarrassing confession: I use my wealth to get women. (What, you wouldn’t?) I know, it isn’t real love. But who’s looking?
If my mother were alive she’d kill me for bringing home a different girl every week. It’s not that I’m a playboy, but that I don’t discriminate between women of class and those of sleaze; the girls I bring home reek of cheap booze and nicotine and wanderlust. But it’s liberating. I don’t have to feed them because they don’t stay around long (I make sure of that). And I don’t have to impress people who are themselves unimpressive.
What’s more, I think these party girls sometimes fill the void that a lonely childhood created. And most important, sometimes a man needs to have someone keep him warm at night.
