What it’s really like to date a rich guy.
I dated a rich guy. How rich was he? He’s sitting on a cool million dollars at present — hard-earned money. He didn’t inherit his fortune, and no one gave him a dime. Through hard work and shrewd investments, he built himself a sweet little nest egg.
Fortunately, his money was never the reason why I dated him. He was cheaper than Ebeneezer Scrooge, and he knew how to pinch a penny until it cried and begged for mercy.
That’s right. I dated a millionaire. What was it like? I always tell everyone, it wasn’t that great. Trust me. We were together for seven years. I know what it’s like to date a rich guy. It’s not all Louis Vuitton and Louboutins.
Despite having money, my ex-boyfriend always worked full-time. He didn’t believe in squandering his investments; he liked to watch his money grow.
I think that’s admirable. More people should have such a good head on their shoulders. What I didn’t think was admirable was this — for the last five years we dated, he exclusively wore socks and underwear that he found in the trash.
He had a job working overnight in a hotel laundry room. Hotel guests regularly left random socks and old underwear tangled in the dirty sheets when they checked out of the hotel. My ex-boyfriend collected those socks and underwear, washed them in the hotel laundry — and then wore them. For years.
When the lost socks and underwear that filtered down to him through the soiled sheets weren’t enough, he started going through the guest laundry room and collecting the socks and underwear that people threw in the garbage — as well as those left overnight in washing machines and dryers.
As one might imagine, the socks and underwear that people lost, left behind, and tossed in the trash weren’t necessarily of the highest quality. He regularly wore stained and mismatched socks that had holes in the heels and toes. They were gross.
The underwear that he salvaged from the garbage was what I called “pre-stained.” The vast majority of lost-and-found underwear was of the tight white variety, and that made the stains even more pronounced. The elastic waistbands were either stretched beyond their limit or torn halfway off the underwear proper.
Although I begged him to stop wearing other men’s used and stained underwear, he insisted it was smart. A penny saved is a penny earned.
He frequently gifted me with tiny spandex underwear and lacy bralettes he found mixed with the dirty sheets in the hotel laundry room. These tiny undergarments were large enough for me to use as dental floss — or perhaps a hair-tie — but it didn’t matter. I prefer my underwear new and without stains.
My millionaire boyfriend frequently referenced the tiny used underwear he brought home as gifts. Furthermore, he accused me of not being appreciative enough of all the used underwear, bras, and other flotsam and jetsam he brought home from the garbage for me to use.
In reality, I tossed them in the trash where they belonged, but I had to praise him and thank him profusely for his romantic efforts. If I didn’t, he would storm off in his stained and threadbare underwear and threaten to take his love and his gifts of stained undergarments elsewhere. Finally, I let him.
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