You ever notice how single men (especially the ones in their fifties and above) just sitting in their rooms all day have enough money to be doing so much more? Yet they just can’t seem to because they lack the “proper motivation”? Yes, you guessed right: that proper motivation is a woman. And that woman is me. Though maybe I should clarify/rephrase about the “all day” part of sitting in their room. The more accurate description is that they like to sit in their room during the many “non-working” hours available to them as a result of having no social life or anywhere else to go except work. Ergo, they’re perennially making stacks on stacks without ever really spending any of it. And this is mostly because—and it’s going to sound sexist or whatever (or maybe not, it’s hard for me to know sometimes)—they have no female presence in their life to help them spend it. I like to be that presence once I home in on my mark.

I first stumbled upon my gift for targeting the kind of lonely (and, let’s face it, incel) men that withered away in their rooms when I happened to be smoking outside of one of their windows on a random Tuesday in the middle of the week. And yes, I was hungover and coming out of a non-incel dude’s apartment elsewhere in the complex. One of those quintessential kinds that are all over L.A. If you know L.A., you know what I mean. If you don’t, well then, I feel sorry for you. Any who, I had kind of thought whatever exterior wall I was standing against while I lit up was, like, the “manager’s office” or something. It certainly didn’t seem to be an apartment-type structure. I soon learned that it wasn’t. That the guy who lived in there had worked out a deal with the actual manager to live inside a structure that had once been considered nothing more than a maintenance room.

As it happened, Len (as I later found out his name was, once he started to berate me for smoking outside his window and then immediately stopped when he realized I was a “hot bitch”) didn’t mind inhabiting such a “bare bones” space. Not even bothering to set up makeshift “walls” with partitions that might create at least the illusion of having different rooms in there. No, as he told me on our first date, all he needed to “get by” (a.k.a. merely survive) was a room, a TV and a hot plate. Even a bathroom wasn’t necessary for him—he would’ve been “content” to just use a bedpan. I tried not to choke on the piece of sushi (a spicy salmon roll) I had just started chewing when he so freely admitted that (because of course I was going to milk him for an expensive dinner right out the gate, let him get accustomed to what he would need to start spending on the regular). I had no idea how deep the degradation ran in men like him. The total lack of understanding on their part that they were living an existence that was not only shameful, but barely living at all.

And, of course, if a woman chose to live that way, she would be deemed such derisive terms as a “spinster” or a “cat lady” or an “unfuckable old bag” (even if she was in her late twenties, because that’s the way ageism against women works). Instead, men get elegant, euphemistic words like “hikikomori” to describe their “hermitude.” Even though hikikomori was too extreme of a term to categorize what men like Len were doing in the U.S. And that was mostly still managing to afford to live on their own by way of holding down a steady job (however depressing it was). Whereas the Japanese men that inspired the word generally still lived at home with their parents. So sure, maybe American single men had a more “competitive edge” in that regard. Some “last bastion” of being “successful” that didn’t totally make them want to blow their brains out. And then, when I came along, I gave them even more of a reason not to. Len was just the beginning of my “work.” And while that work might not have paid me in “conventional” ways, it did secure me all the free food and lodging that I wanted. Not to mention the many vacations I cajoled these men, just sitting on their gold coins prior to moi entering their lives, into taking with me. Or rather, “taking me on.”

Some people might try to tell me I’m a “bad” or even “evil” person for “abusing” men this way. But from where I’m sitting (which is usually on one of their faces), I’m letting them “abuse” me. Or, more specifically, my body. And that’s worth something. Which is why I essentially charge them to use it. To fuck it. Since so few (if any) other women before me allowed such a “miracle” to occur. How is that bad or evil at all? It’s just two people getting something out of each other, which is what all relationships—“romantic” or otherwise—fundamentally are. It just so happened that I put the transactional nature right out there in the open (along with my tits and ass). Which was much more honest than trying to pretend that I would ever voluntarily be with any of these men without getting something in return (more to the point, something at least mildly expensive in return). And, in truth, they should be aware of the value of what they were getting. That way, they never ran the risk of letting their egos get inflated the way other men who had been able to fuck their whole lives (okay, most of their lives—hopefully not before, say, the age of fifteen, but let’s not be naïve) without any issue so often did.

In this regard, too, I was performing a public service. Ensuring that, even after I inevitably abandoned these men once I got bored of them (though mostly, their cocks and the banal manner in which they used them), they wouldn’t have some newfound sense of self-superiority. Which meant that if they did, by some form of divine intervention, manage to meet another woman who genuinely wanted to fuck them, they wouldn’t be ruined for that person after me. No, instead they would be improved. All while still remaining humble. It was a win-win situation for everyone.

Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s an apartment in Glendale I’ve been casing for the past couple of weeks, and I think I’m about to employ my “smoking a cigarette outside the window” gambit to lure in the next loser who has nothing but time and money on his hands.