At my age, you learn the true value of time. Mine is not for wasting. I’m not looking for a boy to play games or a weak man who apologizes for his desires. I want a real man. A successful one. One who knows that a woman like me, who’s seen everything and still has fire, is a rare asset. He should be the type to push me against the wall of his penthouse, grab a fistful of my hair, and fuck my throat like he owns it—because if he’s earned that life, he can. I want to feel his gold watch dig into my hip while he takes me from behind, my face pressed against the glass overlooking the city I used to own. I want to taste his cum and his ambition, and I want him to see the hunger in my eyes that has nothing to do with love and everything to do with a transaction of pure, mutual respect. Money is the sincerest form of flattery. Show me yours, and I’ll show you exactly what this 60-year-old cunt can do with it.