Five years ago, on a Thursday afternoon in June, I met a man who would change my life forever. I was working at a bank in Basseterre when one of my clients came in close to closing to make a $15,000 cash withdrawal. When I looked at his account balance and realized that that figure barely put a dent in his total savings (plus, he had a few other accounts), I looked up to really look at who it was. He looked back at me – I think he recognized the look I was giving him – and smiled. He took his cash and left.
After that first meeting, I would see him every last Thursday at the same time making similar withdrawals each visit. I liked servicing him because he was nice to look at, with a dark complexion, towering height, a fit body, and a deep, masculine voice. I’m not bad to look at either, so I wasn’t surprised when one Thursday, he asked me my name and some other questions about myself: my age, where I live, and what I do when I leave work. I answered his questions because I’m a pleasant person and intentional with my clients. Not for any other reason.
One thing that never crossed my mind was doing anything or going anywhere with this man. I was shook when I got off work that Thursday and saw him parked on the other side of the bank. He came out of his vehicle and gestured to me to cross the street. Thinking it was about something that happened in the bank, I did… only for him to ask if he could give me a ride home.
Now, readers, I am not a person who is impressed by expensive, flashy, trendy or luxurious things. I don’t care at all for big brands, but there are specific things that get me weak in the knees and wet between the legs and his Wrangler was one of those things. It was my dream vehicle, so I jumped in. He asked if I wanted to get something to eat or drink and took me to a low-key bar on the beach.
He sat across from me at the table, maintaining eye contact, occasionally rubbing against my leg, and smiling. We chatted a bit, ate and drank, and then headed out. He made it clear while we sat in his Jeep that he was interested in me but revealed to me that he had a girl. I’m not going to lie; though I wasn’t really interested, I was kind of hurt when it seemed like this conversation and night and experience weren’t what they looked like. So, I asked him what the point of all of it was and he said, straight up, that he was looking for a new girl –– me. Whew.
I was flattered but still offended by what he said (‘cause who ends a relationship like that and did he mean he was just looking for a new, additional girl, and what kind of girl does he think I am?), and I asked what he meant and what that would involve. He took my hand, rested it between his legs, looked me dead in my eyes, and said nothing. He said nothing, but I knew what he meant and while I wasn’t fully convinced, I was kind of intrigued. I wanted to see what it was like, what he was like. I wanted to feel what he was like. It wasn’t about the money.
It wasn’t long before I saw him again outside my job and we started messing around. When he handed me the first envelope, I didn’t really react. I didn’t smile or respond in shock. I just put it in my bag and left. After the second time, when he put the envelope in my bag where I could see, I asked him why he was giving me money for something we both benefited from. “I just like taking care of my girls.” Dear readers, that was good enough for me!
Every time we had sex he would drop another envelope in my hand or in my bag. Sometimes I worried that he would turn into one of those men who think that they pay for, and therefore, own you, but it never became that. And I was glad because if he did, I’d have to end it and at this point, I was hooked. I would often get wet even before he picked me up just thinking about the money I’d get when we were done. Sometimes I’d rush myself and rush him just so that I could feel the bills in my hand, and smell the newness of the paper with hints of all the sweat and spit and sweetness in the air. I never felt used but even if I did, I’d be used with a Gucci bag and that was better than feeling used without one.
On a Thursday afternoon in June, he came to my window in the bank one last time. Instead of doing a cash withdrawal, he wanted to do a transfer. He wrote his account number, the amount, and then he passed it to me for me to fill in my details. He didn’t say much, though he looked at me, and I knew I wouldn’t see him like that again. Our relationship lasted for three years, and at the end of it, I had $540,000 in savings and a mind that could only fathom having sex for money.
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