When you try to pay me to love you, you can’t.  I won’t break the illusion if you don’t demand to see backstage.  If you tell me what you want, I can let you think I enjoy it, but when you want to know what I actually want?  When you ask again and again what I want to do to you while giving no hint as to what you want?  I’m not going to lie, I’ll tell you all I want is your money.

If you try to crawl under my skin with over personal questions hoping for answers you can get off to, I’ll tell you that I liked ancient Egypt and the Freemasons as a child (and asking what I was like as a child on a phone sex call is fucking creepy as fuck) and that no, I don’t get off on wearing panties and that honestly, I find them uncomfortable.

Don’t expect special treatment because you say you’re rich, all of you motherfuckers say you’re rich.  Put your money where your mouth is if you want to be remembered and remember that you can never buy my affection, only my time and my willingness to let you hold on to your illusions.  Remember that I will not ever in a million years love you.