Calling All Sugar Mommas (or Pimpin’ Ain’t Easy)

Pimp C

Like everybody else, I’m broke. If you’re not broke, and this doesn’t apply to you, whoopdie fucking doo! Stop reading now, and I’ll commiserate with my broke brothers and sisters.  Let the church say ‘Amen!’

Anywho, being the resourceful man that I am, and having a ride-or-die-bitch by my side (and for all you who may be offended by my use of the term ‘bitch,’ wifey is MY bitch, so get over it!) we’ve been talking about the different ways of getting our hustle on to make ends meet.

The Man is not too keen to have me work on the side, during business hours, so whatever side hustle I got, can’t compete with my 9 to 5 (major no-no). But in reality, without devoting at least some daylight hours to another endeavor, making more dough becomes a virtual impossibility (or at least a Herculean task).

So the wife and I have been pondering what kind of work is out there that (1) will not conflict with the 9 to 5; (2) doesn’t require day light hours to conduct; and (3) will make the kind of bread we need for it to be worth my while.

And then it came to us! Turning tricks! Of course!  How could we have been so blind. We can sell our butts on the street and make all the extra cash we need! Now the only question is which one of us are we going to put on the track?

Being the chivalrous man that I am, I’ll never ask my wife to toil. (Translation: there ain’t no way some dude is running up on my piece! No-sir-e-bob! Shut that shit down right now!)

I just need to step up to the plate and take one (or many) for the team.  That’s right, I’m putting myself on the track. (I won’t even be enjoying myself, banging all these broads, because I’ll be working)

Now, if I’m going to peddle my man package, I’ve got to set some parameters, like price.  What do I charge these ladies for a roll in the sack with Nigerian Thunderclap? I’m no cheap lay, I can assure you.  Take one look at wifey’s credit (but that’s a different story for a different time).

Anyway, we’ve been going back and forth on this price thing. I say I’m worth at least $1,000 a pop (why are you laughing?). The wife (aka Straight Pimpin’) thinks I’m trippin’ and in today’s economy, we’ve got to consider what the market will bear. She’s thinking a few hundred dollars a pop should suffice.

I say that if we set the bar too low, we’ll attract the wrong element, and how would that look for business?

She says, if we have no takers cause I’m too expensive, we’re right back where we started.

Bump her! I’m looking for some sugar mommas.  Cougars, widows, MILFs, women with philandering husbands, powerful CEO worked-so-hard-they-forgot-to-get-married-and-have-kids-but-are-rolling-in-the-dough-and-need-a-boy-toy-to-spend-it-on types, I’m hollerin’ at all y’all.

The store is officially open for business. I’m setting appointments.

If you’re hot, have dough, and are in need of some detached raw (wild, not jimmy-hat-less) non-committal sex, I’m your guy.

But if you’re hard on the eyes, but rich (c’mon you know you’re aesthetically challenged), we can go out to eat (I’m a great conversationalist). But no hanky-panky. I’ll happily sport you on my arm as you take me shopping.

Can’t you just hear them now…’oh look at that fine young thing with Mrytle..I can’t imagine what he sees in her!’ Money bitches!

Holla!