Once upon a time, not too long ago, in a land not very far away, I used to base my dating selections on how well endowed a man’s bank balance was. I wasn’t interested in someone real. Instead, I wanted someone who would ask me questions like “How about this square cut diamond ring?” and “Would you like me to have this newly discovered star named after you?”
I basically wanted a fictitious creature that lived to pamper my foolish self. I figured the chances of me finding a genuinely kind and wonderful man was slim to nil based on my own dating experiences and from what I observed around me. No one appeared to be sexually active with someone they loved, or even liked very much. Seeing something real and loving was kind of like spotting a high-end designer bag in a small town; most people carry fakes, and when you finally see the real thing you doubt its authenticity. So why would I waste my time chasing after a fairy tale?
I remember the first time I considered what it would be like to date an older, rich man. I had been placed in a global merchant bank to work with its chairman over New Years, while his full-time executive assistant was on leave. I found myself attracted to this balding, egotistical, and bizarre little man. I thought perhaps it was the Skittles that kept falling out of his pockets, but later on linked it to the dopamine that surged through and fogged my brain when he asked me to book his Jaguar and Porsche for their yearly check-ups.
At first it surprised me how easily I fit in with his friends who loved it when I joined them for drinks at fancy hotel lounges. I became accustomed to it all so quickly. I never once felt out of place amongst my new older, wealthier crowd. And then it occurred to me that the reason I had had no previous luck was because I had been working the wrong dating pool. It was all too clear to me now; older men with money were what I had needed all along.
I rushed home and signed up on various millionaire matchmaking websites where men had to have their bank accounts certified to subscribe. I never questioned the absurdity of luring someone with great finances. Was this not what nature had intended? Man provides for woman. Woman nurtures man. Subconscious biological drives are assuaged. It seemed perfectly logical to me; just a mutually agreed upon arrangement where primal instincts run wild. I won't hold it against you for desiring me for my youthful waist-to-hip ratio and in return you can overlook it when I bat my eyes at that car in your garage.
At first it was intoxicating. The thrill of spending time with someone from another walk of life was incomparable. There’s just so much adrenaline and pheromones and hormones and whatevermones in dating rich older men. I sometimes wondered how I was supposed to ever go back to normal dating. In order to maintain this high level of excitement I would need to resign myself to a life of crime. But soon enough I found out that this was only a sure fire way to augment any previous damage done by silly boys my own age. The thing with sugar daddies is, they don’t exactly approach their relationships with tender loving care and the ones that do are trying to fill a void that you cannot even begin to tackle. They may pay for your champagne and lobster, but they will leave you emotionally short-changed every time.
Most wealthy people run around spending much of their time and money on plastic surgeries, gym memberships, grooming and many other fixer uppers that keep them brand spanking new beyond their expiry dates. But hardly any of them puts that kind of thought or enthusiasm into keeping things neat and tidy on the inside. As a result, most of my wealthy companions had this nervous, restless energy that mimicked the symptoms of a heroin addict in withdrawal. Their souls were suffering and I was their attendant medic at the escapist ER. All I wanted in the end was to return them with the receipt.
I have now come to the realization that what I am truly after is not an impressive savings account, but rather an impressive soul -a person’s unique imprint of their own thoughts, experiences, values, dreams, and beliefs, all contained within the body they've been provided with. If I can spot an enticing configuration of these traits they become irresistible to me. Like a moth to a flame, this is what attracts me. This is what I fall for. This is what I need. Picking pockets simply cannot compare.