When I texted Jack, the Millionaire CEO, about the debacle that happened at the club last Tuesday, he texted back, “See, this is the kind of thing I’d like to save you from.”
>insert eye roll here<
We are well into the 21st century, but some men still seem to be looking for a damsel in distress. The only problem with being “saved” by a man, I’ve discovered, is that he only wants to save you on his terms. I will save my own damn self, thank you very much.
Jack and I had a lunch date planned for Friday afternoon. He had driven down from Marble Falls and got a room at a local hotel for the evening just so he could go on a lunch date with me.
I didn’t know any of this at the time and canceled our lunch date at the last minute because I couldn’t get my stupid fake eyelashes on.
Oops.
In my defense, however, you do not show up for a lunch date with a man who wants a fantasy girlfriend without long, luxurious lashes. There’s nothing that ruins a fantasy more quickly than short, stumpy ones like mine.
I invited him out to the club that night instead. In hindsight, it probably seemed sketchy as fuck to cancel a lunch date and have him meet me at the club instead, but he didn’t seem to mind. I was glad he came, however, because, as they say in Stripper Game of Thrones, the night was long and business was slow. Without him tipping me twenties every time I turned around, I would not have made very much money that evening.
He spent most of the evening complaining that strip clubs weren’t his jam, that he rarely darkened the door of such seedy places, that he was only there because of me.
And he spent the rest of the evening sharing his concerns that women might only date him for his money.
Now, that’s a legit concern, but if I had a shit ton of money and wanted people to date me only because they genuinely like me, I would probably drive a Hyundai and not constantly brag to everyone within earshot about my Porsche, my Viper, my Denali, my lakehouse and my ranch. That’s just me though.
To be fair, however, it’s quite possible that he worried women would date him because of his money and also worried that he had nothing to offer women except his money, and that’s quite sad if you think about it. However, men, I want to completely dispel the notion that you need to have a bunch of stuff in order to entice women to date you. I don’t give a shit about your stuff. I am only concerned about the kind of person you are. I mean, given my past track record, I apparently like men who are both super charming and super mean to me. My therapist* and I are working on that last part.
Sunday night, Jack texted me a photo of him and his drug dealer** hanging out at the club yet again. For a man who does not like strip clubs and rarely darkens the door of such seedy places, he is fast becoming a regular.
Then he got really lit and texted me a long string of highly inappropriate messages that completely disqualified him from ever dating me again. Thus concludes this chapter of my really brief, somewhat boring fling with Jack, the Millionaire CEO.
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*By therapist, I actually mean friends who yell at me for dating men who are mean to me. If you are one of those friends, keep yelling, plz. I can’t afford a real therapist, lol.
**Thank God for drug dealers. If not for them, a whole lot of grown ass men wouldn’t have any friends at all. | |
Tales from Da Club 