Ms Perth Gold Digger

Ever since Nat caught her year 11 teacher having a forbidden stare, she knew she would never be shackled to the world of gainful employment. In her world, smelling like coconut butter and smiling at the right big bellied businessman is the ticket to living lavish in a vodka-infused world of superficiality.

Early on, Nat made some masterful moves on the hoe-chessboard. She landed a Mining & Gas Executive who had all the charms of a forced redundancy email and the sexual allure of a Liberal frontbencher’s bukake party. She spent her days shopping for dresses that would boost his ego at official shindigs and he made her his. Of course, when one marries for proprietary interest rather than love, shit is going to get greasy. Long story short, Nat is now divorced and has a beautiful little Applecross apartment. Cupid’s arrow penetrated his balls and when it came out through his back pocket it pinned his wallet to the wall of wilful naivety.

It’s Thursday, so Nat slips into her sexiest Victoria’s Secret and drapes a back revealing Balenciaga dress over her fake tanned body. Her large Prada glasses pair effortlessly with her bright red botoxed lips, that only a viagra’d peen will ever know. She invites her best friend Cindy over for some Pol Roger and to discuses their Raffles game plan. Her friend can be described as a Yves Saint Laurent smelling Malaysian honeypot that manages to pout her lips like an unimpressed catfish.

Tonight, the girls are simply after their drinks paid for, a meal and a future invite to a large-arsed property developer’s boat. They sit at a table and order a bottle of Prosecco to share. It doesn’t take long for a sweat-patched knight in sleazy armour to ride over on his credit carded horse, “aren’t you girlies just gorgeous, why are you drinking that crap?” He turns his booze-reddened face towards the bar, “Krug, now!”. He invites his mate over and the pair of Jabba the Cunts start trying to impress their hot young delights.

Nat invites Cindy to the bathroom to discuss whether to catch & release the cashed up man-whales. “Oh my god Cindy, did you see his Patek Phillipe?” Cindy shrugs in conceited jealousy, “uh, my dirty old man only has a TAG, how disappointing”. After the skank-conference, Cindy decides to call it a night and Nat decides to let Mr Patek rest his man-gunt on her back while he gives her a forgettable chode-pump in his penthouse apartment. The nights passion is crooker than the underlying bestality themes in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast.

The next morning, the love birds merrily chirp over breakfast. Nat notices that her new man has a Hublot on now. “Wow you have such good taste in watches baby”. Scrambled eggs come snorting out of his mouth, “ha ha thanks darling, nah between us, just fakies my mate brings back from Thailand, thats whose apartment we made love in too”. The blood drains from Nat’s face, “what, you don't own that penthouse and your watches are fake?” His nod of agreeance sends her into a napkin chucking rage and she storms off, “ew gross! Delete my number you pig”.

Jabba leans back, rests his hands on his belly and smiles, “girls like that are just too easy”.

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