But it soon becomes clear that all of them have the same problem.
They don’t have any fire in them. They talk to me how they think I want them to talk to me, all submissive and coy, but I can tell it’s an act.
Perhaps the problem is that everything they do is an act. They think I’m one of those rich, absent-minded men who will pretend not to know that his woman is only with him for the money.
I’m not some old billionaire who needs to buy a trophy wife. But these women are just—vanilla, I suppose. They’re bland. I’m sure they are pleasant people. I am sure they’re as kind and generous and empathetic as they want me to believe they are, and every bit as gymnastic in bed as they seem eager to convey.
Or maybe they’re not. Maybe they’re mean and spiteful and would try to take everything I’
