They want a piece of that adolescent meat.

“These girls, I tell you. They want a Sugar Daddy, until daddy wants that sugar!” 

I have been living in Los Angeles for almost three years now, and it never gets old seeing couples who are at least 20 years apart in age.  I used to automatically think, “What a gold-digging SLORE.”  The breed is more prominently seen in Beverly Hills or West Hollywood.  This breed I am referring to are the finely stocked collection of money-hungry bimbo’s that inhabit high-status lounges/bars.

On one account, I had the pleasure of eavesdropping on a SLORE preying on hideous man who, well, to be frank, smelled of Benjamin Franklins.  He sat at the bar sipping on fancy-schmancy Scotch, two ice cubes.  (I have this weird fascination with the way men with “status” order their drinks.) He wore a slick suit with baby blue cuffs.  He looked exhausted, the back of his jacket held deep creases from what I am assuming, a long day at the office.

Back to the SLORE- She was probably a few years older than me, with BIG hair.  I am talking BIG.  Looked to me like she had gotten into an altercation with a teasing comb.  The hair I must say was her only flaw, the rest of her was Getty-like.  She wore a thin satin-looking dress.  The color was creamy and quite beautiful in contrast to her spray tanned skin. Her eyeliner matched her get-up, electric blue- slightly smudged on her cheek.  (Sloppy mess.)

She whispers to her partner in crime, “How do my tit’s look?”.

“Girl, he’s going to confuse that rack for Kate Upton.”

At this point I started to choke on my beer, the SLORE merely had a C-cup, last time I checked, Upton had perfect Double-D’s.

The SLORE smugly grins, and begins her overly-exaggerated hip sway strut to the man at the bar.  I must add that I was sitting to the right of the man.  Looking over, I could only see the facial expressions of the SLORE.  She approaches him, and I kid you not, flips her hair right in his face.  I assume this was to be physically provocative, but it startled him shit-less.

“HEEEEEEYYYY, my name is Jordan, I could not help noticing you staring at me for like, the last ten minutes. And like, I have to admit, I have been like, staring at you too.  What do you do for a living?”.

ABOVE: The story continues, however, I primarily wanted to give an example of a young woman pursuing an older man.  But, what about the women falling into the traps and persuasions of men that hold monetary value? More importantly, the fact that the men are at least ten to twenty years their senior.

“It’s not that we are not attracted to women our age, it’s just that women in their early-mid twenties have such an appetite for life. They are happy.  Un-jaded.  Sometimes woman over thirty carry so much baggage and bullshit, they unintentionally suck the passion from the entire relationship.” -the 8 ball.

Oh, the 8 ball.  I am not referring to the Urban Dictionary’s definition of an “1/8th ounce of cocaine”.

 I met Eight a little over a year ago, and he was the first person, 12 years my senior, to have shown a romantic interest towards me.  I was partially confused and partially flattered that I could capture the interest of someone who had gone through a bit more life experience than I.  Yet, this was also the first time in my life, at 21 years old, that I could actually be attracted to an old man.  Given, he was not OLD, like tales of the Crypt old, but.. older.

Since Eight, the list of old men barking up my tree gets embarrassingly long.  The ratio of men my age to men the age of vampire’s has become ridiculously out of hand.  From married men to pinche’ famous Barsochinni’s.

And EVERY time the offer is the same.  MONEY.   They think if they drop a couple “hundies” then the undies are to surely follow suit.   I have on numerous accounts felt like that worn out hideous man at the bar, just wanting to enjoy my liquor, but instead have ancient Prince-not so charming’s trying to entice me  with compliments and persuasions that I swear to Jeebis, all sound like they were shopped for at the same store of bullshit & corny flattery.

Conclusion:  I am offering classes to the Bimbo’s and SLORE’S of West LA,


Rate: $60/hr

The Pro: By the end of the first class, you will be able to make back the $60 spent from the Sugar Daddy of choice.

The Con: By the end of the first class, you will have a Stage Five Saggy ball-sack clinger.