When I was in my 20’s, I had a very, very beautiful woman wind up being the biggest gold-digger I ever went out with. Once I fully realized what was happening, I ended things immediately, drove her back to her car and we never went out again.
So let’s call her… Julie. Julie was a fitness contestant/exotic dancer with a body that stopped traffic. And while she had this super, over-the-top body, she also had over-sized implants that made her look like a real-life Jessica Rabbit, hair and everything. She stopped traffic, and that’s not an expression, cars literally slowed down or stopped to watch her walk down the street. She gave me a picture of her in a bikini. I would show my friends and most of them were in disbelief that I even knew her, let alone was going out with her.
And… how exactly did we meet? At a strip club of course. I was young and more naive than most, but it turned out we had mutual friends in common and we wound up spending a couple of hours together talking. We “seemed” to hit it off and have a lot in common… or so I thought.
At the end of the night, being the naive numb-skull that I was, I thought I actually had a chance with her, I asked her out. To my surprise, holy crap, she said yes— I was on Cloud Nine and couldn’t beliebe my luck. I’m not sure I even slept that night in anticipation of our first date.
However, I soon realized that one we did go out, every date suggestion she made (she always shot down what I wanted to do), was over-the-top. I was OK with that for our first date, and even our second, but soon realized that there was never an offer of a quiet evening at home or having an inexpensive dinner out, etc. Every date or date suggestion she had (and we had three dates) was a extravaganza that cost me well in excess of $500-$700.
Each time, it was the same; at the end of the date, we’d share a quick kiss and she’d find some reason she needed to go home ASAP. I began to sense I was being taken for a ride and decided to stop calling her.
But she wasn’t done with me… yet.
One day, she called and asked me what I was doing and wanted to get together. I was honest and told her she was kind of breaking me. Again, I was in my 20’s at the time, not making a lot of money, and this was killing my bank account.
Then she surprised me by offering me a quiet evening at my house, claiming that she wanted to make medinner. OK, this is better, I thought. And it was better… until about two hours before she was supposed to come over, when she called to inform me that her “Favorite comedian in the wooorrrld” was in town and for only “one more day. Can we PLEEEEEEASE do that instead??” She then threw in multiple references to the wild night at home we’d have later as a result. That was always her way; insinuate that you were going to have the time of your life with her later.
She could teach fisherman how to better bait a hook, she was that good at this.
OK, you probably get where this is going, right? Unfortunately, I didn’t. “Sure!” I said. Sounds great!! What time do you want to meet?” I should have known when she wanted to meet halfway what was coming.
Of course, she tells me that now that we’re doing this instead that we simply must go to her favorite local restaurant now (She “always went there first— it’s a tradition!”), and that came to $200+. Then front row tickets to the show plus drinks, and that came to another $300.
She’s also getting progressively drunk as the night goes on and is now telling me how her dress (a tight-fitting denim number with buttons from top to bottom on the front), “just pops right off… which is going to be really convenient.. tonight. Wink, wink.”
Ironically enough, while I certainly wanted to have sex with her, I also thought I liked her and that this might be a way for us to formalize a relationship. The show ends and we drive back to my house.
We get there, have drinks and talk for a few minutes about our the night. She seems to be having fun, and then suddenly and out of the blue… she totally clams up… and needs to leave “right away…” yet again. Something about not being comfortable that her car is parked in a public lot. Ironically, for being so hot, she drove a piece of crap econobox), which keep in mind, she hadn’t been concerned about all evening… that is until it was time for us to be romantic together.
Then it hits me– I’m totally being played by this gold-digger!! %(**@#&!!! And holy crap, she’s managed to do it to me… again!
I tell her she’s damn right she needs to leave right away, and that I will take her back to her car IMMEDIATELY. It was clear to me now… even naive twenty-something me. She was just using me to live the high life, couldn’t care less about me, and then once it was time to demonstrate that she actually liked me in some way, shape or form–and by that I mean even just some kissing and being openly affectionate- ran home.
I heard from other guys later that this was not uncommon for her, but that if that if you had enough money—and I’m talking private jet money—she actually would sleep with you. I also hear that these guys—the one’s who had that kind of money—used her just as much as she was using them, and threw her away when they were done with her.
Karma’s a bitch, right?
We drove back to her car in complete silence. It had been yet another expensive lesson, but this one stuck. I dropped her off without a word in the parking lot, pulled out before I saw her get in her car, and never spoke to her again.
– Errol Greene