for money.

I married for money. I married for security. I married a rich, older, white businessman not long after I moved to Los Angeles.

Modeling paid off. I got more jobs, made a bit of money, got in with the right crowd. He couldn’t resist me. I’m tall, long, dark hair, light-brown, Puerto Rican – exotic.

He loved my accent. He loved it when I spoke Spanish while faking an orgasm during sex.

I loved how he bought me clothes, cars, jewelry. I loved how he showed me off to his hot shot friends. I loved his mansion, I loved the pool. I loved his money, but I didn’t love him.

My lust for black men was really quite random. There was no cliché story of a pool-boy, or friendly neighbor, or a drunken night of debauchery. I was bored and wanted real, pleasurable sex.

A wife of one my husband’s partners at the talent agency he ran, an older white woman, was sitting next to me at Lakers game. My husband, Preston, represented several of the players as their agent. No, I didn’t sleep with them, keeping them happy in other ways, while Preston worked to make them richer. It was far different.

The older rich woman next to me cheered for the Lakers. She was drunk. Before she was drinking, she was quiet.

“Look at him,” she whispered.

“Who?”