The perils of dating the poor
Since I’ve now come clean about my boyfriend who’s not my boyfriend because he’s poor but who is also my boyfriend, I think it’s important to highlight some of the struggles I’ve found myself faced with.
As always, feel free to judge me. Rather, feel encouraged. I’m sure I’ll probably agree with all judgements, but please note that some stories are exaggerated for the readers’ enjoyment. And also, judging me will only make you fat.
I do like my poor boyfriend, but I’m trying to avoid these feelings. I’m not good with them, and discovering myself having emotions positions me out of my comfort zone. So I’ve found myself messaging my rotation of the uber-rich an awful lot more. In a frankly bizarre twist, I’m just messaging them to wind them up and then going silent on them, I’m not actually going through with anything. So I’m not cheating, yet. But now I know he can never afford to even taken me to a Harvester (he brought this place up once and I Googled it and can’t unsee what I saw) I’ve been led straight to the uber-rich. I don’t even like any of them, but just knowing they’re rich and text me back is of comfort.
I met his friends and brother. I sat there high and drunk waiting for Jeremy Kyle to appear. Honestly I was so fcked up I thought I actually was on the set of that popular TV show. But I was not. It’s not that these people weren’t nice; they all very much were. It’s not that they were yelling at me and asking me to take a paternity test, they weren’t. It was because I was the only girl in the room with a selection of individuals with the following credentials:
Man One: Someone who’s been shot
Man Two: Someone who got out of prison three months ago
Man Three: A drug dealer
Man Four: A shoplifter
Man Five: A dad (non-hot)
The meeting of this budget criminal underworld occurred in the dad’s flat. I never quite figured out whose dad he was, but I’m not sure it was the dad of my poor boyfriend. On the contrary, this dad was was quite the epitome of chivalry. He got me a glass for my Corona and everything. He was very sweet, but he resembled Bez and kind of spoke like Ozzy Osborne. Also it got weird at one point when he pressed a 50 pence piece into the palm of my hand. I’ll never know why. I’m not sure what my face was saying the whole time, but I imagine it was just looking around waiting for the camera crew to burst in – or the Police. One thing I will say is the bathroom was impeccably clean and they were all nice and friendly, but I was so far from my comfort zone.
You pay, yeah?
We have now ventured out of the house. Yes, that is correct, since our relationship is now picking up momentum, we’ve gone outside of my boudoir, in public, together, at the same time. We went to a place of my choosing. It is called, quite aptly, ‘The Champagne Bar’. He didn’t know I would drag him here, but it was the cutest thing. He’d made such an effort, like he was wearing all black which he knows I find the hottest, he had really tried with a Ralph Lauren top which… fine, I totally hated, and can’t wait to burn, but he actually looked too cute in it and he basically looked hot to me because of his effort making. So we got to the bar and I said to the barman “I’m gonna sit down over there,” (I pointed) and I demanded a waitress. In bars like this I take control because, well because I really feel this is my domain, my niché.
I ordered and I asked to start a tab. It’s some weird place where you have to pay for the first round, then you qualify to start a tab. I paid for the first round which was like 28 quid then the tab was opened. Fast forward to leaving time. The bill was placed on the table; it was probably 120 quid and not at any point did he attempt to pay, nor offer to pay, nor offer to pay half, nor even ask wtf it cost. As a rule, things like this don’t annoy me because when I’m pissed I can easily do the same. I can forget the bill because I’m too busy dancing on a table, or in the bathroom making out with some hot homeless looking dude/the barman, or I’m simply passed the fck out at the table. But he was doing none of these things, and I can’t help but think it’s just because he’s poor. I then paid for all the Ubers too. So here’s my question: Am I supposed to pay for everything because I earn more?
Here’s another question: How does he know I earn more?
I suppose it’s because, unlike him, I have a bank card.
I like to pay my way, I really do, but I also like a man to… fckin pay for everything. More to come on this as it develops.
They say love is blind. I can confirm it’s also poor. Not that I’m in love, of course…