This is a good look into the mindset of many modern women. This tells a familiar story to ‘evil misogynists’ like me. This is a condensed version of the article.
He’s thirtysomething, earns seven figures and lives in an immaculate bachelor pad. He drives an Aston Martin, his Amex is impervious to the most frenzied shopping trip and you’ll never have to slum it on a cut-price holiday again.
If this is your idea of the perfect partner, you’re not alone. When Prince & Associates, an American wealth-research firm, asked a sample group of thirtysomething women if they would marry for money, a resounding 75 per cent said yes. However, before you start hunting your City banker quarry, think again. The lifestyle sounds promising on paper, but – like all good things – it comes at a price.
Oh yeah, here we go. This article is all about her.
First, forget lording it at VIP tables in members’ clubs, cracking open bottle after bottle of Cristal. Serious earners just don’t do that. Why? Because they’re long since tucked up in bed. I should know – for nearly four years I had a 10pm curfew. My (now ex) banker boyfriend insisted on it. For a City trader juggling multimillion pound positions, which could bring a bank to its knees, sleep is crucial. If my boy was to crush the opposition, his brain needed rest.
Whether you’re tired or not is irrelevant, and insomnia is not on the schedule. Tossing and turning will interfere with his precious sleep, so if counting sheep fails you’ll be banished to a spare room to ensure that he gets eight hours of uninterrupted slumber.
What about sex, then? Surely these testosterone-fuelled chaps are rampant in the sack? Again, you’ll need to adjust your expectations: because if it doesn’t involve earning money, it tends to be rather low on the priority list. A seriously risky trading position will mean he’ll be so consumed by angst that not even a trio of Russian supermodels could appeal to his carnal side. And while you may have the luxury of endless lie-ins, he’ll have bolted out of bed by 6am, scanned his BlackBerry and checked the markets before he’s even got in the shower.
So, guys like that have the money women want (what happened to earning it yourself?..) but what they do not realise is that that sort of income is usually the result of much sacrifice and dedication. They don’t realise it because they’ve never been remotely interested in making such sacrifices themselves.
The author rambles on about the things that these women seem to enjoy the most.
Tangible assets. She talks about his home, his suits, the sports car etc.
We left an hour later with an armful of bags and I have no idea of the final tally, but it must have been nudging five figures. A further burst of retail madness in Bond Street, and we hopped into a taxi and headed home. It sounds like pure fantasy, and for a girl like me with a job in public sector PR, it was. Every time I put on one of those garments I feel a million dollars, and remember that heady day.
It is remarkable that women are not even embarrassed to talk in such ways! ‘Oh yeah I’d marry for money so what, I’m a woman so don’t even try to criticise me for anything!’ Complete narcissism.
The glorified prostitute also loves to name drop, Armani this, Ralph Lauren that, but eventually it appears to wear her down, as she continues:
But in the end all the cashmere in the world cannot insulate you from the cold truth that such men will always love their money and their jobs more than you. You will be an afterthought – an indulgence at best. If you can cope with that, and with a life whose sole spiritual or emotional dimension consists of worshipping at the retail temples of Knightsbridge and Bond Street, then their world is yours for the taking.
But I couldn’t, and shortly after the City superhero picked up yet another multimillion-pound bonus, I packed my things and left. No wardrobe was large enough, no jewels sparkly enough and no holidays glamorous enough to compensate for the sting of unrequited love.
Since then there have been times when I’ve waited in the rain for buses and remembered all those extravagances – my other life – and wondered if I folded my cards too soon, was too proud, too stubbornly romantic.
Too romantic? As opposed to what, a gold digger? This is common. Women prey on rich, successful men. They do not realise how these men got rich and successful. They work a lot and make a lot of personal sacrifices. The sorts of sacrifices women are, as a rule, not willing to make, which is one of the main reasons behind the myth of the ‘wage gap’.
Anyway, she meets another bloke (life is hard for women eh):
But now, as I pad around my new boyfriend’s chaotic flat, leaving stray coffee mugs on every floor, scattering newspapers in my wake, I have no regrets. We make an unholy mess in the kitchen, leave our clothes strewn up the stairs and go to sleep in the small hours. He drives a beaten up car stuffed with dirty riding gear and legal papers. And I think he’s wonderful.
I’d like to say I’m slumming it, but then Guy is a barrister, the flat is in Chelsea and he has his sights set on a career as a Conservative politician. Some habits, it seems, are hard to break.
I hope you are getting the theme here. After all the posturing, the girl power speeches, the self-victimisation, the imaginary oppression, the misandric TV shows, the ‘I want to earn my own way and be an independent woman‘ shit, when they meet a man with power/ money it all goes out of the window as they whip up their skirt and bend over for those man-made and man-paid Jimmy Choo’s.
After all, it’s easier to spend a man’s money then earn their own, and they think that actually having to do the sort of work those rich men do is more oppressive than just shacking up with one and catching a short cut up the social ladder. Makes it worse for the few decent girls, as the army of pussy-powered parasites swarm around blokes like Kryll around General RAAM (Gears of War).
I guess these women have come full circle. So much for feminism. Have a good weekend.