Why Do Wealthy Wives Leave?

Under the assumption that what every woman wants is to be tightly bound in love to a man she admires, while dripping in “security,” why do so many of them leave?

A consistent refrain among men with whom I have been meeting, for quiet discussions so far, nothing settled, has been their despair with regard to women who “could have had it all” and left, with a chunk of money, assets, and even fracturing whatever tree of honor and loyalty may have comprised the man’s wealth in the first place.

I also get offers to engage in casual play assuming that such would “center” or balance me in some way. Thanks. I can hook myself up and not have to shower or inspect myself for lice afterwards particularly not by a creepy man and his creepy women who want to WUV me with swarminess or “play”. I want it all or nothing and by “all” I’ll even offer one-sided exclusivity if that’s what he wants only that he doesn’t hold back, because this is life or death, boys. Oh boys. Who the Hell thinks I want a boy after what I’ve been through?

“Let’s play.”

What? Jacks? Tiddlywinks?

What I want I will ask for, beg for, but only if I find you worthy. Asking me for the job just gets you fired on the spot. Clear enough?

Any “seductive” or “feminine” behavior is also a complete no-go. For example (in a sing-songy voice):

“I think I know what you want. Wanna play?”

No you don’t. Fuck you. No. Not that way. Here’s a parting gift for you. A trophy! Yay! Be sure to tip the hat check girl on your way out.

“Do you want someone to talk to? How about I hold your hand and stroke you softly while gazing at you with big puppy dog eyes?”

No. Beat it. Scram. Watch out for the foot. Oops. Sorry was that your sad little waggy tail?

I’m also continuously told how “intelligent” I am which I have to wonder whether this is what all men tell all women who they want to see stripped naked, spread-eagled, bent over, etc., not that I’m adverse to such a scenario; however, here’s a tip guys: I don’t care to hear about your problems. The mommy-who-wants-to-wipe-your-tears door is down the hall to the left. I want to be unzipped, broken, and shredded into pieces—literally or psychologically—your choice. Let’s negotiate the How so that I can see that you will survive the process, because I cannot bear for another love of mine to not survive. I can negotiate whatever it is that you would like from me in exchange for the service of breaking me. Try me. Generally however it takes at least three meetings, which may seriously impact your schedule, so, if you don’t have time for me or are afraid to have me come drive to meet you, then, next? Have a nice day. No fucking giggles during any of those meetings otherwise I’ll assume that you’re already psychotic and can’t finish what you start. See ya! Wouldn’t want ta be ya!

Get used to it: It is impossible to fully connect with me in one or two dimensions, i.e., email, Skype, chat, carrier pidgeon, etc. It takes years to fully figure out that I am 100% truthful to the best of my ability (gaslighting does throw a monkey wrench in the process and I apologize but you can help me with that, really, with your guidance and authority not your fucking rationality.) I have physical evidence. Come take a look at my world, go through my stuff, or let me do a little “Show and Tell” for you. It’s all true. This blog has a few tiny warps in the truth only to protect the innocent. The whole truth is available only in person and only if I think you can handle it. By that I mean that in no way do I wish for my madness to be contagious.

Or like this guy says:

I make my terms for meeting pretty darned clear and refuse to engage in play-acting submission either rhetorically or—heavens no—”cam”. Tentative tentacles in my direction without even the slightest bit of consideration for my terms makes me want to take a shower under a firehose followed by a nice sandblast for good measure. Ick.

We meet we talk we touch; we meet we talk we touch; repeat as necessary until terms for the first scene are negotiated. Easy peasy. And you guys are supposed to be better at business than we are? Sheesh.

It is not as if I am going to be explicit as to my terms in writing nor would I expect his to be–on the internet! Do I want either of us to get into trouble with the authorities? No. Do I want to find myself in a padded cell or dismembered at the bottom of a ditch? No. Do I want another damaged human being in my wake (entirely unintentionally I might add and you can ask my living priors if you like about that, I have no secrets)? No! Think of this as championship boxing, with no referee (only a safeword or safesignal) and I don’t physically resist because if I did someone could get hurt, unintentionally. Let’s see where this goes. You want to go ask your Mommy if that’s OK?

Afterwards, if it goes well, then I’m going to want it regularly, and will do whatever I have to do to earn that service from you.

In the best case scenario, such would result in me being tightly bound to the man who I love who loves me. Heck, I’m willing to just be tightly bound and he can make a judgement as to his love for me down the line. How about if you’re so intelligent, and I’m so intelligent, we negotiate a way to make a no-escape clause for me? Who better than us to come up with such a device?

If such would occur, I would want some easily distributable declaration of that love (ideally recorded on tape, written and signed, and even notarized would be nice, and I’m not referring to the will or “stuff” or any of the things that women think is Love or a video of some ceremony, etc. I’m going to need regular renewed vows on demand, how about that? Ditto from me, as you like it) such that in the event such a man were to die but somehow my own exit plan were to go awry, the creepy scavenger females which probably surround him won’t be able to get anything but money from me. I walk/talk/write/breathe that I want Love, and that’s what I’m going to take with me, and no amount of manipulative, soft, delicate, “Love” from a woman is going to make me just throw all that away and say to her, “No. You’re right. He didn’t Love me but you do (you manipulative bitch.)”

I think that there’s a whole lot of wisdom to just leaping upon the funeral pyre of the man one loves. I wish that there was a way for me to have done that without strong men or women physically barring my way. Would I have done that? I don’t know. Probably not. Because manipulative women made Axel’s life a living Hell in the end and he took some of that Hell out on me such that for a moment there I was forced to doubt his love for me. However, thanks to the letters, the tape, my memories, and witnesses, I know what utter scum those women are. All of them. I know just how much he loved me. Nothing can take that away.

Traditional marriage vows say, Love, Honor, and Obey. In the end, when Axel descended into madness, I was unable to Obey. That’s because I would rather die than have yet another piece of flesh ripped from my body but to survive the ordeal. I didn’t believe that he had it in me to finish the job. If there is nothing left of me that a man wants, please, let me go. I’m ready. I’ve lived the life of twelve women, at least. Probably more like 50.

If I am of no use then fine, please, toss me in the incinerator. I don’t want to go through this again. If you don’t want to leave me anything in your will, that’s fine too, please put in a hidden rider somewhere that allows your best buddy to off me in good conscience, or leave me a cyanide pill. Don’t fucking trust my fate to the God who you don’t believe in. Consider my future crimes, in your eyes, to be a capital offence. I’m ready to meet my heavenly judge. My conscience is clear. God made me with a faulty compass but God can set it right if Man cannot. True North is to God. South is into the Earth which is also to God. To the Left is to God but darker. To the Right is to God but lighter. But if you don’t know which way is North and which way is South how would you know right from wrong, sucker? All we can do is our best through systematic point plotting. It’s known as Trigonometry. Eventually, with enough intersecting planes, we’ll get a pretty good idea of it, even if we have to smash up a few planes within that prism once in a while. Here. You can have my mallet.

Why on earth would a wealthy man even want an “intelligent” woman? How on earth is he going to trust her? Of course, a “stupid” woman, easily led by other manipulative women (and men who act like them) is no bargain either.

I think an awful lot is the difference between rational thinking ones and intuitive ones. I’m a whole lot of both, with my rationality unfortunately taking a beating in Venezuela. What kills me is how many of these guys want to convince me that there is no God and therefore I should strive for peak longevity. Doing what? Trying to be God? Huh. That explains a whole lot.

The obsession with life-extension has completely overwhelmed Love in these men, is how I see it. No wonder their women left them and went mad. The purpose of a woman is to…

Knock out my teeth, cut off my finger tips, and make me into your beach ball, but don’t fucking play with me. This is serious. This is not a game. Oh, and by the way, GOD is LOVE.

You idiots would rather that all women just Obey the Government, Honor You, while you be God. What kind of an authority on anything does that make you?

If I have to I can find my own way to God without your help. My compass is in better working order than yours even without grounding and positivity. I’ll just spin Left and Down my way to God.

Come on Mr. Milankovitch. East is Up.

[[Lighting up.]]

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