You would think that by virtue of my being an intelligent, well-educated, good-looking, physically fit and fertile woman, I would have no difficulty making a man go down on his knees to claim me, as his girlfriend, fiancée, wife, or mistress. Whichever he desires. You would think that my ample breasts and my curvy ass would merit an instant erection that would lead to long-term romance. You would think that my proportionally beautiful bald vagina would make any men think of raising a family and children with me in an affluent countryside filled with horses and tulips and castles and unicorns.
Alas, that is not so.
I may be all that, but I am poor. That intelligence never thought of something innovative and lucrative that would make me the next Bill Gates– with a pussy instead of a penis. That education cost me thousands upon thousands of loans that I need to pay off every month. With interest. My looks have only gone so far as making men come up to me in a bar or a club, chatting about the mundane, then a drink; more mundane talk, then another drink, then another, and another, until he feigns inebriation that is an excuse to secretly finger me in a dimly lit public space.
Here I am, underemployed, working odd hours, with days off spent working another underpaid job on top of the first two. Where have all the promises of education gone? A grandmother told me, before she met her Creator and had a cup of coffee with a Starbucks branch in Heaven, that I should be a good girl and that I should study hard. That I should finish a degree that demands for an in-demand job. “Pretty soon,” she said, “you will be beautiful and rich, and a man will marry you in no time.”
That was ironic coming from a spinster, but it was unsolicited advice all the same. I held on to it, believed it, bled it, until it was my turn to enter the hallowed halls of my university, with the promise of getting out of my middle-class economic status. But even that status could not compete with the exorbitant fees universities now demand, leaving you in a sort of quicksand– the more you resist, the more you are trapped.
But I guess I am innovative after all. I get asked out a lot by men, for coffee or lunch, or dinner, or an out-of-town trip or a holiday. Most of the time, because they put their best foot forward, or they are afraid to be branded as cheap, or they want to secure a spot in my vaginal slot, they are more than ready to pay, at least on the first date. Order whatever you like, (beautiful girl), they would say, and secretly, I just hope you won’t order the most expensive item on the menu. Do you have enough to pay for cab? I’ll even pay that for you. Just please let me crawl in bed with you. Let me get my money’s worth.
I made dating a sort of business. My capital is my looks, and my profit are the free dinner, free rides, free tickets, free whatever. I thought, Hey, I wanna eat at so-and-so, but the price is almost my month’s rent. I wanna travel to this-and-that, but I have to save the dough for my loan payment. I wanna see some Hollywood double on the big screen, but I barely have enough for a train ticket. Wait– since I look fit enough, alright enough, why not meet men, date them, eat with them, watch movies with them, and meet my weekly quota of three fucks a week? Win-win, yes? But only if he pays.
That is how the business unfolded. I set up an online dating profile and put my best photos on it. I filled out every question as very feminine as I could. I made myself simply irresistible, so irresistible that if a man would pass me over, he would probably be gay. I went online many times a day every day, visiting profiles here and there, waiting for them to leave me a message.
But I wasn’t doing it for just any man, excuse me. Let’s say that I was also hoping to find a decent man that I could see a future with beyond the freeloading.
I didn’t have to wait long to see how successful this business was going to be. Within minutes of making my profile public, I had many men send me private messages. Some were down to meet that very minute; some were a bit more shy but nonetheless interested to take me out. I filtered them out, based on looks, then annual income, then age, then profile content. Then I would reply accordingly.
I met the first one, the most private and mysterious one, three days after the initial contact. He set the date and time: Friday dinnertime, at a posh restaurant downtown. I took the train to the mall nearest the restaurant, got inside one of the toilets, where I changed into my dinner dress and shoes, and put make-up on. I put on my reddest lipstick for good measure. Soon I came waltzing into the restaurant, all men’s eyes on me. The receptionist led me to his table, and I instantly gave myself a pat in the back. Handsome? Check. Dazzling smile? Check. Loaded? Check. Hung? I took five hours to find out, but, Check!
The dating and freeloading did not seem to end. My evenings were booked almost every day of the week. Most of them were first dates. One guy took me to the same restaurant. Another bought me tickets to the play I hinted I wanted to watch. One took me for a drive out-of-town, where we spent a weekend by the beach, all expenses paid by him, of course. One took me on his business trip abroad. One openly asked me if I wanted him to be my sugar daddy.
Suddenly, I wasn’t so poor at all. The social climbing was made easier, paying the bills much faster. I still worked three jobs, but I also made sure that the business was running smoothly.
But I always made time for the first guy. He was sweet and smart and dashing, I felt like I was falling for him. He told me he was falling for me, but that he had a deep, dark secret that he could not bear to tell me.
I found out soon what his secret was, and I never freeloaded in my life again.
It was positive– he gave me HIV.