Tell Me Lies, Tell Me Sweet Little Lies

"there is a light that never goes out" by Zoe Navarro

Men think they are such hard-nosed realists, such truth-seekers, such no-nonsense, straightforward, take-no-guff individuals.

The truth is, men love being lied to. They like to be told things that are simply not true, in order to maintain a fantasy world where they are the most desirable, wonderful, awesome guy in that world. And that goes double for when they are pigs.

Men with money particularly want this fantasy world to hold up around them. It’s the reason they go to strip clubs and pay hookers to sleep with them. Because nobody else would. Because money is all they have, along with a mistaken sense of entitlement–that feeling that everything is theirs for the taking, with enough cold hard cash to back them up.

Not everything is for sale. Money can’t buy my love. Oh, sure, maybe for a night, but for a lifetime? You must be out of your goddamn mind.

Rings on the finger are typically symbols of the woman who has been bought. Her price has been set, paid. She no longer has any value, once purchased. Not unless she is in the bedroom or the kitchen, where she belongs. This is why you’ll never see a diamond within 40 feet of my little finger. I ain’t nuthin’ to nobody. Least of all some man who’s gonna call me “sweetie.”

I ain’t sweet. And I ain’t bitter. I’m far too spicy for you, darlin’.

Thing is, I never lie to the ones I love. Or even the ones I hate. I just keep my mouth shut, and let ‘em think what they want. When their theories get too much to bear, as they inevitably do, I just heave ‘em out the window of another fast-moving vehicle and change lanes, change gears, change cities and states.

Change is inevitable, except from a vending machine, they say.

So you’ll never know the real Val, and you’ll never get close enough to see right through me, but that’s just fine with you, because you think you like mystery. You think you’ve got me all figured out. You think what you want to think, and I let you go on thinking it. If you really knew what went on in this purty little head of mine, you’d probably lose your lunch.

Everybody loves a hustler, baby. And I’m the best of the best.