The next weekend began Part Two of my personal saga: The Kept Man. I began sleeping at the 72nd Street apartment. It was a beautiful place. I had a balcony that overlooked Central Park, a fully furnished pad complete with giant screen televisions, leather couches, club chairs, a beautiful dining room and a fully-stocked, amazing kitchen with top-of-the-line everything. I was in heaven.
Sandy would stay there with me most nights. We would spend the majority of our time having sex and ordering in. It was nice not having to worry about Jim coming home, or having someone espy me when I did the walk of shame from Sandy’s place in the morning.
Within a few weeks, I began to move some things into the apartment to make life a little easier. At first, it was the small stuff, such as a toothbrush and a razor. Soon, I brought my two referee shirts and then my laptop. After a while, I moved in my entire clothing collection that was comprised of a few pair of jeans and some ratty t-shirts.
Before I knew it, I found myself leaving work and making a beeline for 72nd Street. I was staying there every night. Sandy would spend about three nights a week with me, and the other four nights she would come by for a couple of hours to get laid and to talk. She would tell me about her day, talk about the charities she was working on (me being one of them), and crack jokes about Jim. She was a riot after a few drinks.
When Sandy wasn’t around, I worked on my story. I would write a little, and then edit what I had done until I passed out at the desk. I was falling into a sad cycle of a kept man. The troubling part was I didn’t care very much. I had gotten to the point where I had no I idea what else I was going to do with my life?
One night, Sandy came over with two shopping bags full of clothes she had bought that day. She made a grand entrance into the apartment, dressed in a cute short beige skirt and a tight-fitting white blouse. Her tits looked great. And her legs, well, they always looked great. She had on a red, large-brimmed hat and was carrying the bags limply in her hands. She walked briskly over to the bedroom.
“C’mon,” she said, motioning for me to follow. She sat on the bed and pulled out an expensive button-down shirt and threw it at me, “Here, try this on.” I took off my ten year-old pocket T and tried on the shirt.
“You look great,” she smiled, and dug back into her bag, coming up with another shirt, “Here, try this one on, too.”
I changed into the new shirt and stood there motionless.
“Nah, too big in the shoulders,” she concluded.
She continued to pull out articles of clothing, one after the other, for me to model for her. Finally I said, “What’s with all the clothes?”
“They’re for you. I was shopping for myself, and thought I would pick some stuff up for you, too. I want you to start looking nice for me when I come over. I’m sick of your smelly, old t-shirts and referee jerseys. I want you to look classy,” she explained, as I sunk to a new low.
“Thanks,” I said, feeling anger rise up within me.
I stood there mute for a moment, and then walked into the bathroom.
I slammed the door shut and walked over to the mirror. I stood there in my $300 shirt and $200 jeans and saw someone that I was not proud of. How did I let this happen? This wasn’t me. Taking handouts, mooching off of some rich lady, messing around with married ladies. I had to find a way out. I sat down on the toilet, put my hands over my head, and stared into space. I had to get out of this nightmare. It was one thing to stay in your sugar momma’s apartment, but it was another thing when you were being dressed like a real-life man doll.
I don’t know how long I was sitting there, when I was pulled back to reality. Sandy shouted from the living room, “What’s this story here on your computer?”
I jumped off the toilet, and ran into the other room, “You’re not supposed to be reading that. Who told you that you could use my computer?” I was livid. At least the computer was mine.
“Relax, I was just going to check my email. And then I stumbled upon this. It’s really very good. Actually, it’s excellent. Did you write it?”
Was this validation for something I had actually done? I could hardly believe it.
“Really, David, this is very good. It should be published. Did you write it?” She asked again.
“Yeah, I wrote it. I’ve been working on it for the past few months.” My mood shifted from desperation back to semi-happy. “You really like it?”
“I’m serious. This is excellent. Is it finished?” Sandy asked.
“Well, I tweak it almost every day. You know, change a word here or there, but it’s pretty much done,” I explained.
“Can I show it around? I might know some people who would be interested in reading this,” Sandy was excited.
“I guess. If you really think so,” I said.
“Let me see what I can do,” Sandy said, and then she laid a red-hot kiss on me.