Back when I was in my twenties, I thought I had hit the romantic jackpot.
Her name isn’t important—let’s call her Julie. Julie was one of those women who didn’t just turn heads; she made traffic stop. A walking, talking fantasy. Long legs, exaggerated curves, hair like a shampoo commercial, and a smile that made you forget whatever sentence you were trying to finish. The kind of beauty that makes your brain glitch for a moment.
I met her at a strip club. Yeah, I know how that sounds. But at the time, it didn’t seem like a red flag. We had mutual friends, ended up talking for a few hours, and she was shockingly down-to-earth. We laughed. We vibed. I left that place thinking I had made a real connection. She gave me her number. I called. She picked up. We made plans. And just like that, my dumb, naive, early-twenties self was floating.
Our first date was extravagant. High-end sushi, fancy cocktails, valet parking, the works. But I didn’t mind—I was trying to impress her. She was unlike anyone I’d ever been with. She could’ve asked me to rob a bank that night, and I might’ve said, “Which one?”
The second date? Just as expensive. She turned down my ideas—a casual dinner, a walk on the beach, a night in—and suggested places I didn’t even know existed. Always some hotspot that required reservations and triple-digit bills. I’d swipe my card and try to pretend I wasn’t sweating through my shirt.
It was around the third date that I started to notice the pattern.
There was never a “thanks,” never an offer to split. Always the same routine: a glamorous night that ended with a quick peck on the cheek and a vague excuse about why she had to leave. Never once came back to my place. Never once invited me to hers. But I kept telling myself to give it time. I thought maybe she was just careful. Maybe she’d been burned before.
Then came the night she offered to cook for me. Said she wanted to stay in, make dinner, just the two of us. I actually remember telling my roommate, “Dude, I think this is the turning point. I think she’s serious about me.”
I cleaned my apartment like the President was coming over.
Two hours before she was supposed to arrive, she called. Giddy. Said her “favorite comedian in the entire world” was in town for one night only, and could we pleeeease go see him instead? She even hinted that afterward, we’d have the kind of night that would make the gods jealous. I said yes before she finished the sentence. I was stupid, but I wasn’t hopeless.
She suggested we meet halfway. That should’ve been my cue. But I was still riding the hope train.
Dinner was at her “favorite place,” which just happened to set me back over $200. Front-row comedy tickets and drinks? Another $300. She got increasingly flirtatious, kept touching my arm, giggling in my ear, dropping hints about her dress being “easy to take off.” My heart was pounding. Not just because I wanted her, but because I thought she wanted me.
We got back to my place. We had a drink. We talked.
And then, just like that, the switch flipped.
“I should probably go. I’m just not comfortable with where I left my car.”
Her car. The one in a well-lit, public garage that hadn’t concerned her for five straight hours.
I drove her back in silence. My face was hot—not with embarrassment anymore, but anger. At her, yes. But mostly at myself.
I realized I wasn’t dating a woman. I was funding a performance. I was the mark in a well-rehearsed routine. She had no interest in me—only in the lifestyle she could siphon from me, one date at a time.
I dropped her off, didn’t wait for her to get in her car, didn’t say goodbye. That night I deleted her number. Never called again. Never heard from her again either. It was like we both knew the transaction had expired.
Later, I heard stories. That she pulled the same stunt with other guys. That if you had enough zeroes in your bank account, she’d actually go the distance. But those guys weren’t in love. They were collectors, using her as much as she used them. Everyone got what they paid for, I guess.
But me? I paid for a fantasy—and I got a hell of a receipt.
The lesson? If someone’s affection is conditional on the size of your wallet, you’re not in a relationship. You’re in a business deal, and you’re not the one profiting.
I’m older now. Wiser, too. I’ve dated women who actually cared about who I was—not what I could buy. And those connections? They don’t cost anything at all.
But I’ll never forget Julie. Not because I loved her. I didn’t even know her. I’ll remember her because she taught me, in the most expensive way possible, the difference between being wanted and being used.
And the next time someone tries to bait me with a wink and a wine list, I’ll smile, nod, and walk the hell away.