“No man has any success in this world unless he has a woman to back him. ” – Oscar Wilde

wedding day clip artSometimes I miss America. And never more so than when I read about cultural milestones such as Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire? Opening the morning paper, my heart filled with gladness on reading that yet another bride had fulfilled her childhood dream of marrying money.

I did, for a moment, experience concern regarding the groom’s net assets, which were only just above two million dollars. But after reading of his work as a motivational speaker and stand-up comic, I became confident that their future was secure. Alas, it was not to last.

The couple’s first date/honeymoon, it appears, quickly turned sour when Mr. Success failed to motivate or laugh his new bride into the sack – revealing a frightening deficiency in the skills of his two professions – and she realized that he would be wholly incapable of keeping her in the lifestyle she expected (She had planned to make quick work of that first two million).

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With a “poof!” her dream of leaning over the fence at her beach-front bungalow to ask neighbor Demi Moore if she could borrow some sugar suddenly vanished.

One can imagine her distress. But, thankfully, Fox had the foresight to give her an out. She would invoke the annulment clause. Yes, her fortunes were dashed. But at least she had her self-respect.

I then began to ruminate on other former wives, the ones whose charm, beauty, and good fortune had won them a millionaire with even deeper pockets. How many of these once blushing brides, still living in their prime, found themselves today alone, with no comfort for their troubled hearts except a mountain of cash; their no-good husbands having fled on the delightful arm of a young jezebel?

My eyes welled with tears. It is to these women scorned that today my heart reaches out. Ladies of the nouveau riche, you deserve a better man. And that man is me.

I come from honest stock. And although I am sometimes prone to fits of exaggeration, it is no lie that my creditors exceed the number of my digits. But this debt is not large for a man of thirty-two. To win my hand in marriage would cost no more than a very modest flat in mid-town Manhattan. Yet the rewards will be far greater.

As a man of exceptional wit and charm, I will be an enviable escort to fashionable parties and gallery openings. When needed, I can always be relied upon to deliver a good bon mot. Why just the other day I had a gathering in stitches with an epigram involving George W. Bush and a soiled baby diaper.

I also remain in good spirits throughout the evening and morning; barring any snide remarks from you regarding brandy. Rest assured, dear, I never drink more than my fill. Those parties I have been expelled from were utter bores to begin with. As a man with no meager talent in the world of poetry and letters, I will dedicate all future works to the glory of your name. It is true that my talent up to this point has contributed greatly to my incurred debt, and I remain far from achieving widespread recognition. But, money buys influence, darling.

And editors, not to mention critics, are notoriously underpaid. I have no doubt that working together we can achieve great success on all fronts; united in a single purpose like Dante and Beatrice.

In our marital bed I will be your slave (or master, if you prefer).

It pains me to imagine that on reaching the full flower of your sexual peak, you may have to settle for a five minute tussle with the pool boy. I am at an age when experience rules performance, and I shall wield it with precision, constancy, and the demoniacal passion of Dionysus. And then I’ll hold you.

But, most importantly, I will be for you a warm and tender companion. A permanent friend through weather fair and foul. A faithful attendee to your innermost desires and needs. A vigilant protector of your safety and piece of mind. Everything that your millionaire man wasn’t, I shall become. That is… after the check clears.



P. S. Inquiries from young women with large trust funds will also be considered. D. A. Blyler is the author of two books of poetry, Shared Solitude, and Diary of Seducer. He is also the author of the screenplay, The Expatriates. He lives in the Czech Republic. He can be reached at: [email protected] net, [email protected] zcu. cz
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