So, one week in and my decision to sign up to a few dating sites has started to pay dividends, or so I thought. Obviously a girl like me has to be very careful – I mean, I’m not that desperate – but no sooner had my profile gone live than I was inundated with messages; oh the power of personalised marketing.
Scanning through my inbox, one gent in particular caught my eye. Well, I say gent, but one gent pictured by his Bentley, showing off his Rolex seemed very appealing.
Now normally I find that sort of display of wealth obscene but compared to most of the pictures on MatureDating it was positively glorious. (Why do guys put up pics of their bits and think it’s attractive?)
Anyway, I got chatting to ‘Steve’ and he seemed nice enough, even though he was obviously from new money – he works for Victor Chandler laying bets for well-heeled Arabs and Asians. New money, old money, I normally don’t really care so long as they are more than willing to spend it on little ol’ Busty.
I have to admit I was slightly concerned when the first thing he asked was my shoe size, but I let it pass. So, when he asked me for a drink at celebrity hotspot Mahiki’s in Mayfair the following night, I thought, why not?
I arrived fashionably late to be greeted by Steve holding a prezzie for me. Result. He’d only gone and bought me a pair of Sarah Leather Knee High Riding Boots from LK Bennett. Definite result.
To be honest, he turned out to be a right bore; all he did was talk about his money, his sexual hang-ups and how he doesn’t have time for a normal relationship because he works a 70-hour week. But, whatever, he did invite me to the Cheltenham Festival so it wasn’t all bad.
Travelling down in that Bentley was an experience; and I’m sure he had the soft top down to make my 36DDs look even more pert than usual. When we got there, we went straight to the VIP section – hahaha, no slumming for me this year in Ian Lovatt’s two-man Blue Sheep tent with the rest of the direct marketing community, I was hobnobbing with royalty. Even Tarquin Farquhar couldn’t offer me that…
Anyway, the races came and went, so did the pink champagne. I’ve no idea what Steve was doing but he seemed to be shelling out £50 notes like confetti. Which was all rather fitting because before I knew it I was on all fours in the bridal suite at the five-star Wyastone, practising the Gold Cup, whips and all. I awoke and he was gone – apparently called back to London to explain why he’d lost the company so much money.
To make matters worse, he hadn’t even settled the bill so I’ve been forced to pawn my new LKBs to pay for the room. Guess I might have to suck up to Lovatt after all…
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