Thurston Von Moneybags not his real name was scammed once by a girl in Houston. 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. In other words: Was there chemistry? Was she blonde and blue-eyed, the way he liked them? That was very important. It was a little important. It wasn't that important.
She didn't show to the meet, and that's the last time Thurston Von Moneybags ever got hustled again. Now he meets the girls for lunch before he offers them an ahem arrangement, and he is very clear. 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? Getting scammed again? I don't think so. A thing you should know is that there are very few people to root for in this story.
Which is not to say that old Thurston is a bad guy. He went to some of the best colleges and grad schools. He loves to treat a lady well. Just ask his ex-wife—even she wouldn't say a bad word about him. I have this gene! But on all the traditional dating sites, the women didn't just want sex.
They wanted companionship and respect and a relationship with a forward trajectory. They wanted hand-holding and flowers and surprises. They wanted love. Not for me, said Thurston.
Thurston wanted sex, and he wanted eagerness about the sex. So one day when he was at the gym, he saw this old guy with a very pretty young lady, and when Thurston expressed confusion to his trainer, his trainer explained that the geezer was her sugar daddy and that the young fawn was his sugar baby. Well, you could barely keep Thurston on a lat-press machine after that.
