In New York City it’s common to meet spoiled little rich girls. I’ve met a few since I’ve been here, and like anyone they can be pleasant enough in mixed company. But once I had the strange experience of nailing two completely spoiled rich girls in a row, within the space of a couple of weeks.
My regular girl at the time was out of the picture (in her home country). I met and gamed spoiled little rich girl A — let’s call her “Ariel” — in a pretty typical meet-number-date-kiss-date-fuck manner. She was sweet enough, actually had a really good heart. The two things that I didn’t like about her were that she had fake tits (an 18th birthday present from Daddy, huge warning sign there!) and that she made this weird laughing noise the whole time when we fucked. But she was a hot little lay, and like I said, a sweet girl.
Ariel had a way nicer apartment than me, in a neighborhood where the rents are sky high in that truly obscene Manhattan way, and all kinds of fancy electronics and toys and clothes and original art pieces. She had got her cush job at a big media company the way a lot of these girls do, by interning for free when most working and middle class kids are out working lower-rung jobs to pay the bills with hopes of climbing the ladder. Her parents still paid her rent even though she was pulling down fat paychecks. But Ariel never boasted about it or acted too spoiled.
One morning though, after a late-night session at her place, we were getting on the downtown train and she was talking loudly about how she had to wait three more weeks to go to the Caymans with her Mommy and Daddy. I was a bit hungover, or maybe just tired of being around her and annoyed that we had to take the same train downtown, and I let slip a bitter comment about, “Oh, Daddy’s poor wittle girl has to last thwee more weeks before her island vacation.”
Said in the proper tone, this might have been a playful neg. I did not say it in a playful tone. It was not a neg. I really let her see my contempt and yes, my jealousy.
The irony here is that I had just got back from a beach in Central America myself. And all things considered, Ariel was much less of a spoiled brat than most girls in her situation. But I had already tipped my hand. I showed bitterness.
Bitterness comes from feeling that your lot is somehow unfair. It’s a useless emotion, and frighteningly common. And it’s the mark of a beta. Many men are expert as seeing unfairness around them all the time. It’s a common trait in reactionary liberals. The only purpose it serves is to keep you down. Even when things are unfair, being bitter about them achieves nothing. And more often then not, at least in a country like the US, bitterness comes from people who really ought to be counting their blessings and enjoying their lives of relative freedom, health and abundance. People like, ahem, yours truly.
Ariel defended herself slightly and we both let it drop. We rode the train in silence and when her stop came it was a half-hearted kiss goodbye. I saw her a couple more times after that and we went through the motions of sex, but the spark was gone. She saw me as someone who resented her; and I came to notice more and more ways her special privilege was obnoxious to me.
That same week (I think), I met spoiled little rich girl B. “Betsy” was light years worse than Ariel on the spoiled cunt meter. She was a dynamite little bodacious package of a Jewish princess, with that slutty sultry look in her eye. I met her at a bar where we were both lone-wolfing. We struck up a conversation about literature (she had been reading some short stories), and several drinks and another bar later we were back at my place as she insisted she “never did things like this.” (HA ha ha ha ha hahhhh!) For a girl who never did things like this, she sure did know how to suck cock.
I had no illusions about the long-term quality of this girl, but we had an intense flame going, and I was actually impressed with how well-read she was. The sex was great that night, and again the following morning. After fucking in the morning we got some late breakfast and fucked again. That kind of repeated sexual contact in a short space of time is one of the best ways for two humans to bond. I’d suspect that’s how most couples that are really in love, fell in love in the first place.
Well, I didn’t fall in love with Betsy, and thank god. She exhibited some of the best/worst characteristics of the modern liberated spoiled slut. She was a mean dicksucker — top 5 I’ve ever been with. She had some (very attenuated) Spanish heritage, which apparently made her feel like it was sexy to say in a wittle baby voice, “Ay papi ¡que rico!” when I fucked her from behind, even though at no other point did I ever hear her speak Spanish, by “accident” or otherwise. [Note: an actual spanish hottie saying “ay papi que rico” in a baby voice while getting fucked from behind is hot, very hot…. but some rootless little spoiled rich Jewish girl saying that out of a desire to cling to an “authentic” culture because she knows how empty she is inside, and hoping it will seem exotic and sexy, is not hot. It’s annoying. I suspect she did it for some guy a couple years back and he loved it and now she whips it out for every white guy she’s with. I’d also bet dollars to donuts that she would never, ever dare to do that shit with a real Mexican dude, if she ever happened to condescend to fucking one.]
Another thing about Betsy was that she suffered from too many options. With bailout money always and forever at her side, she never had to commit to anything. I’ve seen this disease strike trust-fund men too, of course, but with women it’s usually even wose, and absolutely fatal to their character. A young, hot girl is prone to flake almost by definition. Add a few hundred thou in the bank (plus millions more, eventually) —money she did nothing to earn — and the situation becomes intolerable. As a matter of fact, Betsy also complained about trips to the Caribbean, just like Ariel, though when Betsy did it I just wanted to smack her in the face.
The kicker came two days before Christmas. She had invited me to spend Christmas with some Christian relatives of hers in the ‘burbs, and I agreed, turning down two invites from other people. On the 23rd I gave her a buzz to see if she wanted have a drink [and a shag, natch]. She answered from the airport. She decided she wanted to go home for the holiday, to the other side of the country. Apparently it hadn’t occurred to her to inform me that my Christmas plans would be canceled.
“Do you have already have a ticket?” I asked.
“No, I’m just going to buy one here.”
“Do you have any idea how much it’s going to cost to buy a ticket for a transcontinental flight, in person, at JFK airport, on the day-of, on December 23rd?” I asked, incredulous.
“A few thousand, I guess.” She sounded bored by the whole concept of weighing costs.
“Have fun.” I hung up.
I ended up having a great Christmas, incidentally, no thanks to the spoiled whore. When she got back from her trip home and then the Caribbean, she called a few times and once I let her catch up with me at a coffee shop in our hood. She looked at me very sincerely, tears in her eyes. She said she was sorry that she was such a flake. That she had really, really missed her family, and that she knew it must seem crazy to people the way she just jumps around without notice. Part of my heart started to melt a little. I looked at her DSL and started to reconsider shutting her out…
Then I tuned back into the words those DSL were forming, “I really want to be a war correspondent in Georgia or Armenia.” She was spouting off with an inspired look in her eye.
She was dead serious. I’m all for having dreams, especially unique and ambitious ones like being a war correspondent in the Caucasus (provided, um, there are actual wars to cover). But it suddenly became so clear to me this girl had no idea what she was talking about. She lived her life with utter ease, not beholden to anyone. There was no conceptual difference, to her, between being able to fly home on Christmas Eve on a whim and covering wars in far-off countries. I tried to tell her that shit didn’t work that way. That eventually if she tried to do anything real with her life, she would have to put in actual work, even when she didn’t feel like it. “That goes for relationships too,” I said…
Well, as soon as I said that, I realized what I had done. I was caring. I was pissed off, and incredulous. I was frustrated by her utter lack of concern for anyone but herself, and I was bitter… Against my better judgment, I was trying to change this little girl, or at least give her some advice.
Needless to say, once I caught myself, I pulled back. “Bail, Master Dogen, Bail!” shouted the (tardy) game-regulator in my head. We finished our conversation, I finished my coffee, and we said goodbye. I never spoke to her again after that.
But every encounter provides a lesson, and in their own way, sweet Ariel and cunty Betsy both taught me the same thing… Never care about a woman’s financial situation; never feel jealous or bitter; never try to change her attitude about these things.
Always clarify in your mind what it is you desire from women, whether its love or sex or companionship. Then pursue that, and ignore the rest. Everything else is extraneous, at best an amusement.