I love gfe phone calls. But I have been spoiled by the real deal, so I don’t want no scrubs. No Splenda daddies can get with me. I was working at the strip club last night when this fat cat rolled in. He was running up a big tab with bottles and lap dances. I didn’t believe he was wealthy. He was bragging about his Bentley and his mansion. He had dirty fingers. Laborer fingers. His hands were dry and cracked. He had a farmer’s tan. This guy did hard labor. Millionaires don’t do labor in 95 degrees because they want too. I know how to spot a sugar daddy. I also know how to spot a poser. My girls at the club thought that just because he had an American Express card and bragged about his riches he was sugar daddy material. I am a highly skilled sugar baby. I didn’t fall for his shit. The other girls fawned all over him while I told Big Al they better run his card because he was racking up charges I was sure he couldn’t pay for. Sure enough his card declined for the $1,200 he had racked up. The bartender ran a $100 first to make sure the card was good for the tab, then she was duped by his bells and whistles too. I told Al to let me handle him. I pulled him up on the stage and tied him to the pole. It was a packed audience too. I think he thought he was getting a pole dance from me. Nope. I yanked off his pants and exposed his tiny weenie. All the girls started laughing. I knew it. I have been a phone sex slut long enough to recognize a poser. He was acting like a fat cat when he was a broke ass loser with a tiny dick to boot. All the girls took turns laughing at him and shaming him in front of the real men. Big Al may never see his money, but that Splenda daddy will think twice before trying to fake his way in between a hot bitch’s legs again.
Cassandra
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