Diary of a Rich Men’s Girl

15th June;

I look at the girl staring back at me in the mirror and I love her. On top of my hospitality profession I’ve cosmetology and hairdressing skills from beauty pageants I’ve entered since I joined the University of Nairobi. I even at some point entertained the idea of going modeling but it was a bad, misinformed, career move after series of débâcles on the runway and virulent censures by the judges. But I ended up with a good hand with brush, eyeliner and mascara.
I hear the soles of this week’s client’s shoes on the slate floor of the Nyali Beach Hotel suite. He had gone to the beach to banquet his lusty eyes on other women’s busts, butts and thighs. I had refused to accompany him even if he had paid me to escort him wherever he went for the whole weekend. Jeez, does he think I am Secret Service or something? His being away was the only chance I had to get his credit and debit cards details, feed them into my laptop (birthday present by some blue chip company director who had tried all his best to impress me) then activate the software that would siphon his money and credit it to my Bank of Scotland account in a matter of minutes.

I have to play what he paid me to, but of all clients I’ve had, I don’t like him in the least: he snores like a locomotive machine and farts in his sleep, his voice is like a bray, he says ‘Gosh!’ like a woman, he stares at other women’s cleavages and exposed body parts and ogles them in their bikinis (I guess it’s his right), he talks to all women as though he has slept with them, and, even if he tries, he’s not an appreciative lover. Heck, he ain’t good in bed as he thinks he is. He pretends to be concerned about me, but all what he’s concerned about is the worth he’s getting for his money from my body.
Fred’s his name. He’s a forty-five-year old geezer with a hard belly, his hair at the late thinning stage on the pate of his big head and spends his time brokering connections for political enthusiasts. He thinks he’s important, but he’s nothing.
He enters and smiles at me. Well, I do what he paid me, and what I get paid, to do. I step into his embrace and kiss him slowly, languorously. He pushes me towards the bed and I know what to do.
I lie there like a Czar, close my eyes and endure.
Copyright ©Elove Poetry, 2013.


5 thoughts on “Diary of a Rich Men’s Girl

  1. Interesting, intriguing and pulsating; the gold digger syndrome taken a notch higher. That’s robbery with(out) violence.

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