stephen

Super-fancy-business-man Stephen.

Stephen was flying in from out of state for business and wanted to take me out for dinner. He had this way of speaking which was really strange and out of the ordinary for me. He wanted to ‘spoil’ me and ‘make me happy’ or ‘treat me’. He used phrases like this so often that I just though he was trying to sound generous all the time.

Then I went all internally monologue-y and though well why shouldn’t you let someone spoil you and buy you a lovely dinner at one of those restaurants you’ve never been in, but read about in the good food guide. Why shouldn’t you date someone who wants to pay for everything and ‘won’t take no for an answer’?

Maybe you should.

You deserve this.

I convinced myself that weeny bit older than me Stephen was a good idea and I deserved to be spoilt by him, like you deserve a hot bath after a long day.

It was the kind of date that I prepared for.

As in all that stops, waxing, tanning, trimmings. Everything. And I felt great walking into the hotel lobby and following the signs to the ridiculously glitzy bar.

He was in a suit, but not a normal, guy on the tram suit, but like a visibly expensive, pocket square fancy beautiful suite. He was wearing a Rolex and had his hair strangely slicked back that on anyone else would’ve looked ridiculous but on his looked suave and debonair.

He had an array of cocktails on the table for me. A fucking selection of drinks. Who does that? I loved it. Seriously though there was one with half a passion fruit floating in it and every beautiful kind of ornate glassware you’d love to have in your house.

Pretty sure he expected me to pick one.

I drank them all.

He was charming and spoke a lot about the stock market and merges and moving his options in to forging blah blahs. He was very boring, but there was someone really intoxicating about his insanely strong aftershave and older man-ness that made him impossible to stop listening to.

I didn’t give a flying fuck about the markets in China or his recent endeavors with the Middle East. But I did like his voice. It was kind of soothing.

He was probably tice my age. I hadn’t even realized it until he paid with cash from a money clip. I mean I knew he was older and obviously from a seriously different socio-economic status. But he was ooold. And for some weird reason I didn’t care. I liked it, I kind of felt adventurous.

He had a room at the hotel and he had this lovely gentlemanly thing about him, he totally understood if I would prefer not to come up, but he would love to see me again on his next trip. I didn’t want to wait. The next thing I knew we were in his hotel room and his suuuuuper expensive suit was on the floor & I was praising my waxer for her brilliant job. Especially those last little hairs she got with the tweezers (come on ladies, you know what I’m talking about)

It was so much fun, honestly, I had this weird (obviously drunken buzz) powerful feeling. I rode that old man like my life depended on it. And he was the funnest guy. He made us shitty mini bar cocktails. Ordered us fries. And we may watched some porn (lols hotel porn it turns out, is the absolute shittest). For some reason I loved that he had to pay for that, so his check out would just be hilarious.

In the morning he had to go to work, Saturday morning meetings. So he suited up again. He looked a little older in the morning light. He kissed me on top of the head, which I didn’t love as it felt really fatherly, and left.

Beside the bed there was an envelope with my name on it. Inside there was a note that said “you’re by far these best time I’ve ever had in this fucking town.” He actually wrote fucking.

What a cool dude.

Oh and $2000.

Yeah. I may or may not have been a one night whore.  Accidental whore, which I, to this day stand by the fact that I don’t get to categorise myself that way.

Call me a prostitute and buy me a new coat. Thank you very much.

Stephen wanted to see me again the next time he came to town. But I decided although, he was great in bed and that it was a fun story, hooking was not my jam.