One hundred twenty dollars.
One hundred twenty dollars to buy me, to feel justified in doing what you did to me. The way you thrust those twenties into my hand, eagerly whipping out your wallet as you would so eagerly whip out your cock just a few hours later.
Did you always think that I was a whore?
I remember you always making jokes about girls "ordering the lobster" on dates. Jokes...but this is truly the way that you think, isn't it?
It's no wonder I threw up most of the meals you ever bought for me. They were laced with entitlement, poisoning me like cyanide.
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