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I
have always wanted a sugar daddy. As a young girl, raised
on scandalous Jackie Collins miniseries, I would often pretend
that big fat Mr. Potato Head gave Barbie all of her designer
fashions, paid the rent on her dream house, and took care
of the gas card for her silver Corvette. So when I came
of age, I decided to try my own hand at being a kept woman.
How hard could it be? I was, after all, a hot, virginal,
jail-bait-esque piece of ass. I thought for sure I'd score
big with some perverted, Barely Legal-reading businessman.
Unfortunately,
I was raised by a proud, hardworking single mother, so I
had  no
example to go by in my quest. But it seemed to me the best
place to start would be that breeding-ground of perversion,
the Internet, so I placed a personal ad stating my intentions
and thus embarked on my exciting, though at first unsuccessful,
career.
The
biggest problem facing me was my new beaus' confusion
over the definition of the word "spoil." I hadn't wanted
to be crass, so in my ad I had said I was looking for
a "mature gentleman" who would "spoil me." To me, it was
obvious that I was looking for an "OLD MAN" who would
"BUY ME FURS, DIAMONDS, AND A CAR." Why else would I go
to all the trouble of placing an ad? But the cheap asshole
jagoffs whom I dated had an entirely different understanding
of my desire to be "spoiled." For some dumb reason, they
thought I meant that I wanted hours and hours of hot,
stimulating cunnilingus!!
"The Bible says
that the body is a temple, but I preferred to think of
mine as an exclusive country club. They
don't charge you to go into a temple!!
Cunnilingus!!
As if a hot young chick like me would have to advertise
to get pleasure. That kind of thing might happen in a
porno movie, but not in real life. But these ding-a-lings
were in a fantasy world. Over the course of my career,
I can't tell you how many disgusting, pathetic, Dockers-wearing
idiots have slobbering all over my virgin puss! The typical
date would go like this: drinks, dinner, more drinks,
and then..."So you said in your ad you like to be spoiled."
Boom! Before I knew it, my pathetically passive
ass would be sprawled on the bed with the drooling tongue
of some midlife-crisis-stricken fatty working away between
my indignant thighs. And all of these dumb fuckers thought
they were doing me a big service, because although their
slimy incompetent fumbling didn't do a THING for me, I
would get so fuckin' tired of looking at the bald spots
and comb-overs worshipping at my temple that I would fake
a big, loud, screaming orgasm just to get them the hell
away from me!
It
was very frustrating. Here I was, willing to sacrifice
my precious hymen in exchange for lavish gifts, and despite
my obvious hinting, all I was getting was drool and slobber
and the occasional tacky trinket. Even when I moved to
Las Vegas, the land of sex and money, the first old man
I bagged bought me a bed--not so that I wouldn't have
to sleep on the floor, but so that his hairy fat belly
would be more comfortable while he feasted on "tongue
chow!!" That old fucker would slobber down there for hours,
all the while keeping a running commentary on my "adorable
caboose" and "perfect box." Finally I tired of his pornographic
platitudes and froze his blubbery ass out. But this time,
I made sure I got tangible assets out of the deal, like
a computer, scanner, and digital camera--yes, the 24-hour
electrical current of sex and money in Vegas had finally
penetrated my virginal frontal lobe, and I had figured
out how to get fair market value for the pleasure of laboring
in my salt mines.
The
turning point came one night when my Vegas fatty said
something that made me look at my box in a whole new light.
I was lying back on his bed, listing all the US presidents
in my head as I moaned and groaned loudly enough to block
out the slurping of his tongue, when he stopped, sighed
and observed, "I just love doing this to a nice, clean
package like yours. I could never give tongue chow to
a prostitute or a stripper--you never know where they've
been. This is a real treat!"
Jackpot!
The sevens lined up in my head, and I could almost
see the coins spilling from my box. It had been there
all along, but I had never appreciated it. Cleanliness
was indeed next to Godliness, and if I would just learn
to give my neat & tidy puss the value and respect
it deserved, I would finally score big. No more throwing
it away for free--from that day on, nothing was too good
for the precious commodity in my pants. Silken panties,
Evian douches, a golden razor to trim its luscious curls...I
elevated my pampered portal to sainthood and charged accordingly
for access to the Holy Land. The Bible says that the body
is a temple, but I preferred to think of mine as an exclusive
country club. They don't charge you to go into a temple!!
Today
I celebrate the one-year anniversary of my cunnilingual
epiphany, and as I count my stacks of money, I pat my
puss with fond glee. My little goldmine! My little mons-Venus
flytrap, dripping honey, enticing fat old men to lay gifts
at its sacred entrance, where they are promptly gobbled
up into my bank account! Clothes, perfume, electronics,
furnishings, a $1,500 Gucci watch, trips to Nashville
and San Francisco, and about $2,000 in cash and casino
chips have all come my way since I learned to value and
respect my box. And all I have to do is lie back, look
at the ceiling, and ignore the slobber.
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