Kalah Allen

You took it harder than I expected when I told you I would no longer be selling you my dirty panties. You asked why I “left” you. Honey, because I could. I’d been waiting for my divorce settlement, and I was, let’s say, not at the top of my game when I answered your ad offering cash for worn panties. This was not, as you perceived, a romantic match made in heaven. My life sucked. I was broke, addicted, and desperate, and I had nothing left to hock. So I answered your ad. We met at a park. You pulled up and rolled down your window. Our eyes met as I handed you my panties in a bag. You smiled, and I said, “Where’s my money?” You handed me 50 bucks and drove off. This became our weekly or bi-weekly ritual for a year. But my alimony just put me high enough on the food chain to afford the luxury of not having to rely on your generosity. So buh bye.—Anonymous