Not Proud, But Poor Is Worse

Once I was married, with a home, children, a good job, insurance. Middle class. But that was then. A divorce, a lost job, a bad choice, spendthrift, I went from middle class to poor. So when I met this man, retired officer with a pension, a consultant with a good firm, I latched on. I needed relief and he was my ticket back into the middle class. He had his ways, military authority, masculine, he saw the opportunity to get his socks washed and his bed made. He used me, I used him.

Sex was not really something he was interested in, not with me. He liked them young, and he paid. Suck it up, wash his socks. One of those girls worked at the cleaners. He sweet talked her into seeing him, sex. He didn't pay her, he paid her rent instead. He spent the night with her, bought her a car, and gave her nice g*fts. He moved in with her. But she wasn't going to wash his socks, so they had a fight. And he brought his socks with him when he returned.

My story, my confession, is that we do things for money, have sex for money, or wash sox for money.