Part 5: Letting Go

So I'm putting the penthouse up for sale. A steal at 4.9 mil. The money doesn't really mean anything to me and the sale should be easy. Like the broker keeps harping, not that many penthouses to go around in big D. The $40,000 yearly dues is outrageous, of course. But the samurai museum is close by and I like the Harwood district. Or did, anyway.

What means anything? That 40,000 dollar figure nags me like a rock in my shoe. That's what the Woman Of Fabric grosses in a year. When she mentioned that in conversation I wanted to interrupt and say, "Hey, that matches my yearly dues!" What a jackass. It made me realize the price I've paid over the years for riding on my money. I've nothing else to point to! I felt threatened by her, she bringing out long buried insecurities. I never feel threatened by the moneyed idiots I run around with.

I couldn't stop pacing, like a caged animal I was. She drove me out of there. I can't go to her but I couldn't stay where I was. So now....what?

I'm in a hotel right for the foreseeable future because I feel so...temporary. No place is home. I keep thinking back to that tour of the homeless shelter and my thinking, "That's me! That's me!" It's trailing me around like a bad smell. What gets me most is I can't see the difference between them and me. Over and over I try. If anything, I'm the lesser.

Secretly, I'm worried. I find my millions becoming oppressive. Of course, I know the smart ass response if I tell that to anyone. I could give up my money like Jesus said to. But even that feels like just one more way of running away. I can't just go away, I need to go to.

I thought about giving money to the Woman Of Fabric. Not as an apology or restitution. I'd have to give a piece of myself for that. In that I am bankrupt. On one hand I feel it would mess up her life. On the other I feel money should never be an obstacle for her. She deserves to live. Perhaps I'll simply keep her situation monitored and step in if necessary. I did put her in my will. Perhaps dead she won't find me so objectionable.

One of the hotel maids is young and kind of hot. Took all my efforts not to show my dick to her. Having lost my taste for hookers I want to expose myself to regular people. The rich can be losers too, senorita!

I may gradually strip my way down each day. It's ridiculous but this one crumb feels like the only real thing exciting in my life. I want to stand there before her naked and erect as if it's perfectly normal, having a regular conversation. Complete role reversal. If she allowed that I'd leave her a thousand dollar tip. But you can't tell her of the money beforehand. I have to know she's OK with it first. I can imagine the story she'd tell when she got home.

Well, hell, I guess that's a direction I'd like to go into. But that's not going to lead to anything - even if it does interest me more than anything else at the moment. For a while the Woman Of Fabric thought I was a real person. Funny thing is, I felt like one in her presence. The clock always struck midnight when we parted and I turned back into a pumpkin. But showing my boner to the maid is all I really am, lady. Can you really say you want to friends with someone like that?

Or should I simply have not betrayed you and let you decide? Oh, my.