I strutted down the street, looking like I had a purpose. I knew I looked hot, with my designer jeans, new tote, and newly highlighted hair. The bleak gray city sidewalk was a perfect contrast to my expertly chosen clothing. I worked my bright red pumps until my feet were sore, and even then, I kept working them. I had to look gorgeous at all times, because what else mattered in life? The world was my stage. Or, more accurately, my catwalk.
A model for several years, I had gotten used to the roving stares of men, and the envious glances of women. Men wanted to be with me, women wanted to be like me. Everywhere I went, males’ heads turned. I could have had any guy I wanted; any man would gladly hold open a door for me, do practically anthing I asked. But none of these boys interested me. They were just little kids, they didn’t know anything about what I needed or felt. And that’s why I didn’t want them. Still, I was glad to have every man’s attention, to have every man want me.
Well, every man but him.