My Ex is Going to the Playboy Mansion



A girl I dated in 2007 has recently landed a job as a Playboy Live camgirl, talking to customers over a webcam while not wearing a great deal. She’s recently been invited to the Playboy Mansion by Hugh Hefner himself.


Ex is a star. A lovely girl. Things didn’t work out with her in ’07 because I didn’t believe that she wanted me, and she didn’t believe that I wanted her. The unfortunate truth was that we wanted each other. For that reason, I’m not naming her or sharing her photograph.


In retrospect, we had loads in common. I just had no idea. We were both liked to dance. We were both really good-looking. The only problem was, neither of us believed that about ourselves. We only believed it about each other. We were both two naïve twentysomethings from some shithole corner of Greater Manchester, two diamonds in a town full of rough. And we lost each other to self doubt.


Before I met her, I’d fallen out with a friend after writing a blog mentioning him. I busted him cheating on his pregnant girlfriend. She found it. He complained to my blog’s site administrators who shut down my blog, and I lost piles of writing. I should have known better, but then so should he.


I was devastated. I couldn’t face opening a new blog and starting again. All of my thoughts were pouring out of my brain into the ether, never to be reclaimed. I felt like the hostage poet in DeLillo’s Mao II (not that I’d read it, by that time.)


Just after this happened, I met Ex. We started dating. I was having all sorts of problems- with work, with tax, with money in general, and of course, with women. I was terrified. Why would she want me? I thought. Out of anyone in this town? What is it she sees?


Looking back, of course, I can see exactly what she liked: I’m good-looking, not a player, I’m intelligent and I treat people with a bit of dignity. Not many people in Oldham do. I’m a pretty fucking good dancer as well: make of that what you will.


She spilt with me, and I was more devastated than I was when I lost my blog. I wanted to put my thoughts into words. The trouble was, I had too many thoughts and too many words. I ended up spending months writing a 5000-word rant about how bad I thought my life was and how my childhood was so difficult and how all of these contributing factors had caused the situation that I had found myself in. It took months to write, and when I finally finished it I felt like Frankenstein: I’d drained myself totally and had created a monster. It was a terrible piece of writing.


I uploaded it anyway, and a few weeks later I showed it to one of Ex’s friends. He passed the link onto her and she read it all. She texted me apologizing for how she treated me (she needn’t have) and I apologised for how hesitant and untrusting I was (I needn’t have).


That night I went to a club in Manchester and met Tracy for the first time. Here she is on the right.



Two weeks later, she took my virginity.


Strange little story. I might upload chunks of the 5,000 word piece for you to laugh at. It was long enough ago. I’d have to sensor huge chunks of it, though. It was highly libellous.


I’m very proud of my ex for all she’s achieved. I’m sure she’ll have a superb time there. She deserves it, and she’s always been a fan of Hefner’s brand. Not to mention, she’s one of the few girls I’ve dated who wasn’t a violent sociopath.


It’s now about time I made something of my own life and got my own name known somehow. I don’t think getting into the Playboy Mansion is what I’ve got in mind, but I have ideas of my own. But of course, If I do succeed in life in some way, I can’t tell you what I’ve done, how I’ve done it or How it feels. Because… I’m Patrick Bateman to you. I can’t break that rule.

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