Dear Sir,

I saw your ad on Craigslist, and I am intrigued by the opportunity to become your “expensive girlfriend.”

This intrigue is, quite honestly, surprising. You see, I’ve never been the mercenary type. I’ve never looked to my partners for financial security or financial gain. I’ve never cared about how rich or poor a person was when I was dating them. Finding someone interesting, sexy and interested right back, along with other subtle and overt things seemed enough. Worrying about their bank account status was simply another step that never seemed necessary for me.

Yet why the intrigue? Well, sir, I believe it has to do with a variety of factors, not the least of which is my own bank account status, as well as a rising desire to feel more secure. I’m tired, you see. Tired of worrying about money. Tired of wondering if I have enough to cover a trip to the grocery store. Tired of thinking I don’t “deserve” some sparkly item in the store. Tired of working so hard. Tired of working all alone with these issues.

So, I’ve been fantasizing just a wee bit. About a rescuer. About a rich partner. About a generous partner. Financially generous, in addition to other kinds of generous. It’s not really been a fantasy of mine before. At least, not that I can remember. In fact, I’ve often described myself as “fiercely independent.”

But now? Having someone buy my dinner at a nice restaurant sounds appealing. The idea of someone paying my rent is seductive. The fantasy of being given a new car is fabulous. The thought of being able to buy whatever I want at Whole Foods or Target, much less Nordstrom’s, sounds like a lark. A lark I’d like to experience.

Am I simply looking outside myself for a savior? You betcha. Am I looking for someone else to solve my problems? Yes, indeed. Am I romanticizing about being what amounts to a ‘kept’ woman? Of course. Am I considering buying into the very sexist patriarchy I have spent so many years resisting? Why, yes, sir, I am. Thank you for noticing.

Of course, to have these impulses, I tell myself, is to really, truly understand the plight of women the world over. It is to really understand how and why individuals go along with a dominant culture’s oppression. And all of that? Very well may be a lofty justification for what feels like a dirty impulse.

I’d be selling myself for sex, essentially. Being pleasant, providing a service, catering to a man… all for money. The fact that the service required involves getting naked and nasty with you? Well, that’s where I do some mental gymnastics. It’s where magical thinking takes over, believing that it will all work out, sir. That we are magically sexually compatible, that I will magically be able to be intimate yet separate from you, that I will not hate myself for selling parts of my self. Parts of my self, I say, because I do not believe you are interested in me as an entire, interesting, unique, and complicated person.

Yet going out to dinner without worrying how to pay for that dinner? It sounds might nice, sir. Mighty nice, indeed. And I already know what kind of car I’d like, if you are interested in supplying such an item for my pleasure.

A conflicted applicant,
Anna