I never really realized how fortunate I was until I turned thirty. By this time in my life my social circle had morphed from close childhood friends and High School buddies, into one of men that could afford the things that I liked to do. I had nothing against my old circle of friends, it was just tiresome hearing them complaining about being broke, and how much they hated their jobs. It was also getting old picking up the tab, every time we did anything, so it was not surprising that I surrounded myself with wealthy guys, who had a lot of free time to do fun shit.
I was a trust-fund baby, and I was fortunate enough to get my first dividend on my eighteenth birthday. With little parental guidance, and the restraint of a typical teenager, I bought an ocean-front condo in Newport Beach and a bright orange Lamborghini. My car insurance was eight thousand dollars per year, but I just didn't give a fuck.
I did have access to a financial planner, and after I met with him a couple of times, he assured me that the way my trust was set up, would make it virtually impossible for me to run out of money, unless I got heavily into drugs or gambling. In addition to a huge monthly stipend, the trust stipulated cash payouts at five-year intervals, until I turned fifty years old, at which time the balance was available to me.
I didn't spend money because I enjoyed spending it, or even because I enjoyed the lifestyle it provided me. I spent money, solely to try and get laid. Which is why my Lamborghini was fluorescent orange, and my condo was a breathtakingly modern panty-dropper.
I hadn't always been a confident kid, even though I grew up in an affluent neighborhood, and I was reasonably good-looking and athletic. My confidence soared when I had money, especially as I quickly realized that women viewed me differently, once they knew I was rich.
I had a very wealthy uncle that I had always been close to, and after my parents died, he tried to mentor me. His advice often seemed counter-intuitive and off the wall, but the more I followed it, the more I got laid. He was in his late forties, and always had a different young woman hanging from his arm, so it seemed like any advice he gave was probably worth following.
My uncle sat me down shortly after I got my first trust-fund disbursement, and advised me to get a really flashy car, a panty-dropper pad, and a vasectomy. What the fuck? I had just turned eighteen, and he wanted me to get the snip? When I gave him some pushback about the idea, he sat me down and made a compelling argument for it.
"First of all," he began, "I love you like my son, and I would never intentionally give you bad advice. A lot of what I am about to tell you, will make sense when you are thirty. Women are going to want you to have sex with them, because you are good-looking and very wealthy. However, their end goal is for you to impregnate them, so that they can claim child support. If you eliminate that possibility, you can have casual sex with as many women as you desire. In fact, you can tell them that you want to have their babies, and they will let you fuck them more often."
This made no sense to me, at the tender age of eighteen, but I trusted my uncle implicitly.
"What if I meet someone that I want to have kids with?" I asked.
"Then, there are specific steps that you take, in the right order," he advised me. "First of all, you get married with an iron-clad pre-nuptial agreement. Once you are married, and have enjoyed all of the practice sex that you can handle, you get a reversal of your vasectomy. You will need to wait three to four weeks after the procedure to have sex, so schedule a business trip to avoid any unnecessary embarrassing conversations."
"This seems like a bit of a hassle," I said, naively.
My uncle was quite a patient man, and took the time to explain to me how much hassle having unwanted babies with a gold-digger was, compared to his scenario. His last piece of advice?
"Don't have any physical contact with anyone, unless you are one hundred percent certain that they are over eighteen."
One month later, with my vas-deferens severed, and a very realistic fake-ID, I started trolling the bars of Newport Beach in my Lamborghini, with varying success. I had learned much through trial and error, but also took any feedback that was offered, particularly from guys that had game.
For me, I operated at my best level when I was sober and appeared busy. Most socializing in Southern California is done outside, and many bars have outdoor patios, utilizing overhead heat-lamps in the winter months.
I would drive to a bar or nice hotel that had such an outdoor patio, ensuring that my arrival was viewed by the majority of the patrons. I avoided the upscale places, as I wasn't looking for women that were used to dating wealthy guys. They had their own game going on, and it was expensive. I was looking for beautiful women with regular mundane lives and jobs. Airline hostesses, beauticians, nurses, waitresses, women that would view me as a potential way out.
Pretty much anywhere I rolled up to, would end up valet-parking my Lamborghini right up front, which meant I had an audience both when I arrived and when I left. I stayed sober for several reasons. First of all, my car was my conversation starter, and I needed to be able to drive it. Secondly, I found that while alcohol lowered my inhibitions and made me a little more talkative, it also lowered my standards, and I was trolling for tens.
As I mentioned, I had varying amounts of success when I first started bar-hopping. I had no trouble attracting the attention of young women, but most of them were so obviously gold-diggers that it was very off-putting for me. I also got propositioned a couple of times, young girls working their way through college, offering sex in exchange for a few hundred dollars. I had only ever been with two women before, and the financial component, coupled with the expectation that a hooker would have way more sexual experience than me, made the prospect very intimidating. For this reason, most nights I would buy a few drinks for various hot chicks, before leaving alone.
I have fond memories of my first successful night out, even though it was baptism by fire. I didn't have tons of game, hadn't worked out my back-story, unaware that everyone in Southern California had one, and wasn't sure of the etiquette in a bar, having just secured my fake-ID. After I entrusted my Lamborghini to the High School age valet-parking attendant, I even asked for my keys back, such was my level of naivety.
I entered the patio with my phone glued to my ear, having followed my uncle's advice to always appear busy. Like I said, I wasn't brimming with confidence, but I noticed several of the women in the bar were checking me out.
One of them made a move right away, a great-looking older woman, well, relative to me. She was probably in her late twenties.
"I love the color of your Aventador," she opened with, instantly impressing me with her knowledge of exotic cars.
Most women in the Newport Beach area understood the correlation between exotic cars and wealth, some could even tell a Ferrari and a Lambo apart. However, it was rare to find a woman that could identify the model of Lamborghini, without seeing the nomenclature. I was impressed.
