My Boy Toy

I mentioned before that I am not comfortable with having a boy toy. I’ll tell you why. When I hit thirty-five for some reason, younger men started following me. Ask me out or getting to know me. At first, it was cool, why not someone younger and virile and handsome. I paid most of the way, not sure why it seemed expected of me.

One guy, in particular, let’s name him Trevor. We met casually in Venice, strike up a

We had a lot of fun, but it was getting expensive — dinners, movies, amusement parks, etc. Oh, and the gas, because I was always picking him up and dropping him off, which of course was in a different city than where I lived, about an hour drive on the freeway. Anyway, it got expensive.

After a while of this and my funds were running low. I told him that he also has a job and he might want to pay his way. I have my apartment and car, he still lived at home and rode with his aunt to work.

Guess what happened next.  Guess. No really guess.


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