My name is David Adams and I both curse and celebrate every day that I won the lottery.
About a dozen years ago, I won a national lottery. After choosing the single cash payment, which reduced the size of the prize by more than forty percent, and paying federal, state and local income taxes, I netted just over twenty-one million dollars. I banked the money and spent the next three months fighting off bankers, money managers, lawyers, charitable organizations and long-lost relatives who immediately descended on me, my home, my mail and my telephone, because my state insisted on a public announcement of my winnings. They were careful to tell me I couldn't remain anonymous because the public needed to know the lottery was genuine and honest and the only way they could do that was to parade actual winners through a gauntlet of presentations and news conferences. "No public announcement, no money," was their mantra.
I disconnected my phone, had all my mail forwarded to a post office box, created a new email address and moved out of my home for the first two months. I kept in touch with important contacts by using unregistered cell phones I could buy, with prepaid minutes, at convenience stores. I also had a friend, someone I could trust, pick up my mail at the post office since some of the more aggressive money suckers began to hang around the post office to catch me if they could. It worked well since she worked at the post office and could empty the box from the rear and bring it to me in the evening without anyone noticing except the postmaster who understood the problem and wanted the lingerers gone as much as I did. Changing my hair color and growing a beard helped with those times I had to go out in public.
I spent much of the first week, confined to a hotel room, researching the histories of previous lottery winners. It was depressing knowing the fate of many of them. Most of them were broke within two years and that's the best stories. They spent lavishly, bought huge homes, and when the money ran out couldn't pay the real estate taxes or the upkeep. A few were murdered by others who wanted the money and the rest had disastrous relationships with wives and children. There were plenty of conflicting theories and research, some of which believed that most winners were still financially better off years after winning.
I was determined to act rationally and be a survivor. Simple math convinced me that twenty million dollars, invested conservatively at five percent would produce a million a year income without reducing the principle. That seemed more than enough for me and I set out to make it happen.
I contacted the only lawyer within fifty miles who hadn't tried to contact me and went to see him. He had no idea who I was or why I wanted to see him. After explaining the situation, he helped me set up a trust for the money and a schedule of monthly payments to my bank account. He also agreed to handle any other legal issues that might arise for a reasonable retainer plus expenses. He also helped me find a reliable investment bank to invest the money and manage the transactions. I resolved to remain in my own home and the lawyer agreed, telling me that if I lived a normal life without blatant displays of wealth the attention would eventually fade away, people would leave me alone and the curse of having the money would fade as well.
After two months, I moved back into my home with a new phone number, twenty million dollars invested and the rest in one of my two checking accounts. I kept none of my financial paperwork at home on the advice of the lawyer. He thought visitors might become over curious and having nothing for them to find would be unhelpful for them.
The lawyer was almost right about people. The number of folks hanging around diminished rapidly when I didn't seem to have more money than before, except for the women. Some women seem to have a sixth sense for money and nothing can dissuade them once they've got the scent.
I'd been divorced several years earlier and my ex-wife, who thought I was a good for nothing buffoon in the divorce papers, suddenly discovered she missed me and thought we could get back together somehow. She had left dozens of messages during my two-month isolation. I returned her latest call and played along with her, wondering if I could get her between the sheets and thighs again somehow. She faded away before I could get her panties off when she found a checkbook I carelessly left on the kitchen table with a balance of $384.57.
After my divorce I was feeling lonely and a little horny as well. On the advice of a neighbor, who was also divorced, I signed up on one of the couples matching internet sites. Most of the member profiles seemed too good to be true, a feeling supported by my neighbor. He said his profile was "slightly" exaggerated as well and, since everything "balanced out in the end" he encouraged me to do the same. I didn't. I decided to be honest with my profile. As predicted by my neighbor, the response was underwhelming. I contacted some of the members with mixed results. I got laid a couple of times but nothing more.
Soon after I won the lottery the number of responses to my unimpressive profile increased exponentially. I ignored them for over two months until, driven by testicular pressure, I responded to one of the less aggressive ones. I used to kid with my friends that failure to release accumulating semen would lead to what I called "the beach ball effect." Imagine a beach ball with a small amount of water inside. It doesn't roll easily and wobbles around instead. I equated that vision to how an overloaded man begins to walk, a condition only relieved by more frequent sex.
Tiffany responded to my contact within minutes, an unusually rapid response. Her profile picture was a close up of her cleavage, nothing else. I thought that was different and, since she was close by and I just wanted to drain my reservoir, I thought she might have the same goal.
I met Tiffany at a local watering hole. I was deliberately a couple of minutes late and made a point of driving by in my seven-year-old, domestic sedan before parking. Tiffany presented all the attributes of a classic gold digger. She was older than her profile suggested and struggling to maintain a younger appearance. She was a bleach blonde with quarter inch roots, too much makeup, too little clothing and four-inch heels. By far, her most attractive feature was the financed and prominently displayed, oversized melons between which her profile picture had been taken. I was tempted to end our "date" quickly but, what the hell, I hadn't eaten melon in a long time. Worst case, she would smother me between her breasts. Best case, I would walk straighter tomorrow.
After one drink, I suggested we have dinner. She quickly agreed. When she slipped off the bar stool, she needed to pull down the hem of her short skirt to avoid the embarrassment of revealing the color of her bright blue thong to the entire clientele.
We walked the short distance to my car. I could see the distain on her face as I opened the passenger door on my less than impressive ride. I took her to a small Italian pizza restaurant where dinner would cost me less than twenty dollars for both of us. Her face again reflected her thoughts about my choice for dinner.
The place did not serve alcohol but they did offer forty-ounce sodas and sweet tea. We shared a pepperoni and onion pizza and I had unsweetened tea and she sipped a generic cola. During dinner she tried several times to draw my attention to her boobs. She shook them and pressed them together with her arms. I remained indifferent to her attempts despite my desire to peel them and indulge. Finally, in desperation, she lifted them, one in each hand, and asked, "What do you think of these?"
Continuing my deliberate lack of interest, I responded, "Your fingernails are beautiful."
"Not my fingernails, these, my tits. What do you think of my tits?"
I thought I'd be honest. "They're incredible. Very appealing."
She smiled and bounced them in her hands. "Do you want to play with them?"
That was a direct challenge. I don't know any male who could answer that question in the negative. "Are you offering?" I asked.
"Do you really have to ask?"
"If you're done with dinner, I think we should move on."
"Where to?"
"My place is not far or your place if you'd be more comfortable. Otherwise, I suggest a motel I know on the edge of town." I suggested that last option, a rent by the hour establishment with a less than desirable reputation, to insure she'd choose my place.
"Let me use the ladies' room and we can go to your place."
I paid the bill, twenty-five dollars and change, including the tip and waited for her.
I was unable to imagine what she expected to see at my place since she was under the impression I was beyond rich. She was going to be disappointed. I wondered if I would get to play with her melons anyway.
I took her to my apartment. The lawyer had suggested I keep a pad somewhere so guests would not know where I actually lived. I found a suitable, second story walkup that I furnished from a used furniture consignment store. The only concession to luxury was the king-sized bed in the sparse bedroom. I kept the refrigerator filled with beer, bread and a couple types of cold cuts and the freezer with defrost and bake pizzas.
By the time Tiffany and I stood in front of the door to the apartment I could see she was questioning her decision to participate in a play date with me. Walking inside did little to boost her enthusiasm. I was careful to insure she noticed the checkbook carelessly left on the kitchen table next to the empty beer can on the way to the bedroom.
Her mood improved somewhat when she saw the oversized bed with clean sheets and she relaxed completely when I came up behind her, put my arms around her and cupped her breasts. She turned out to be a decent lover. She was up for screwing in several positions and more than once although she was reluctant to either get or receive oral sex. Suggesting anal sex almost ended the evening. Most of our time together was spent finding new and unusual ways to make use of her "girls."
