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I’d degraded myself to hang onto a man, and it didn’t even work. But once I met the right guy, it was easy and clear.

Maybe I was cheating myself by not believing I deserved a man who could give me the support and attention I craved. Before Jeff, I was convinced that dating was as stressful as piecing together a complex puzzle.

But you know how it is, the fires dampen, and he wanted a lot of sex—“I'm Italian! ”—and eventually they divorced, and Thurston wanted something, mainly a lot of sex without having to beg for it, and to be found attractive again.

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Also what kind of tuna are they eating in Georgia, cause I do not want to try it.

Thurston Von Moneybags (not his real name) was scammed once by a girl in Houston. She didn't show to the meet, and that's the last time Thurston Von Moneybags ever got hustled again.

My heart is pounding as I stare at the twinkling Manhattan skyline.

After he promised he would, I made him cuddle me for hours. We’d look deeply into each other’s eyes at a fancy restaurant where they comb your tablecloth. We had great sex, and I didn’t turn into crazy Marilyn.

This went on for a year until he cheated on me with a waitress at Steak and Shake. He’d want to have sex, and I wanted to do it too, now that I’d been defiled. He’d start spending lots of time with his friends at Paddy O’s, the perfect place to complain about your crazy girlfriend over a pint of Guinness. When we were together, Liam acted like I was the most important person in his life. I fooled him into thinking I was the calm, laid-back girl of his dreams. I try to call her from the bathroom, but she doesn’t pick up.

But after we’d have sex, I’d feel like a slut and become that needy girl every man is afraid of. And before long, he’d stop calling and break up with me. That’s when he asked me to spend New Year’s with him.

He was my best friend, and he accepted the real me. And I didn’t have to take it up the butt to get it.

Jeff wanted to be with me, and I wanted to be with him.

He had arranged to meet her so that he might size her up and determine whether he wanted to give her a monthly stipend in exchange for regular sex and sometimes maybe dinner. Was she blonde and blue-eyed, the way he liked them? Now he meets the girls for lunch before he offers them an ahem arrangement, and he is very clear. A thing you should know is that there are very few people to root for in this story.

Was she thin “but not anorexic, a shapely body, you know? He doesn't give them money until their second date, when they're in the bedroom, which sometimes feels bad, which sometimes chips away at his this-isn't-prostitution line—Thurston was raised Catholic, after all—but what's the alternative? Which is not to say that old Thurston is a bad guy.

We drove through Harvard Square, blasting through piles of red and orange leaves.

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