On the subway this evening I got hit on by a rich guy. His name was Serge and he worked in a bank.
Maybe it wasn't a bank, but it was something financial. He worked at King and Yonge—my milieu of yore—and did something involving charts and graphs and tables of numbers. I know because he showed me them. And then he said, "I'm not bullshitting you—this is really what I do."
He told me several times that he worked in finance. He told me about how he had two bachelor's degrees, one MBA, and was working on getting his CFA. After he got that, he said, he would go back to school and get a second master's in finance. "I want to be more competitive," he told me, "so that I can get a nice seven-figure salary." He said this several times—the part about the seven-figure salary, that is. I wondered if perhaps he'd meant to say six, but I didn't bother asking.
Then he gave me his business card and told me to email him sometime. "I might do that," I said, politely. To which he replied, "If you do, I just might respond."
I briefly toyed with the idea of contacting him. In a world of careful image construction, you've got to respect someone who wears his toolishness on his sleeve. I'm quite sure he would make a show of taking me somewhere lavish, and, you know, I don't mind putting out for a free meal.
But, not surprisingly, I decided against it. I would have a lot more casual sex if I didn't dislike people so much. I am far too misanthropic for a life of sin.
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