Sex, Money and the City
The Sex eZine - Relationships


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A survey reveals that 75 per cent of women would marry for money

By Andrea Cecile - January 2008.

The perfect man is thirtysomething, earns seven figures and lives in an immaculate bachelor pad. He drives an Aston Martin, his Amex is impervious to the most frenzied shopping trip and you’ll never have to slum it on a cut-price holiday again.

If this is your idea of the perfect partner, you’re not alone. When Prince & Associates, an American wealth-research firm, asked a sample group of thirtysomething women if they would marry for money, a resounding 75 per cent said yes. However, before you start hunting your City banker quarry, think again. The lifestyle sounds promising on paper, but – like all good things – it comes at a price.

First, forget lording it at VIP tables in members’ clubs, cracking open bottle after bottle of Cristal. Serious earners just don’t do that. Why? Because they’re long since tucked up in bed. I should know – for nearly four years I had a 10pm curfew. My (now ex) banker boyfriend insisted on it. For a City trader juggling multimillion pound positions, which could bring a bank to its knees, sleep is crucial. If my boy was to crush the opposition, his brain needed rest.

So, by 9.30 every night we’d be brushing our teeth in separate bathrooms, and by ten the lights were out.

Whether you’re tired or not is irrelevant, and insomnia is not on the schedule. Tossing and turning will interfere with his precious sleep, so if counting sheep fails you’ll be banished to a spare room to ensure that he gets eight hours of uninterrupted slumber.

What about sex, then? Surely these testosterone-fuelled chaps are rampant in the sack? Again, you’ll need to adjust your expectations: because if it doesn’t involve earning money, it tends to be rather low on the priority list. A seriously risky trading position will mean he’ll be so consumed by angst that not even a trio of Russian supermodels could appeal to his carnal side. And while you may have the luxury of endless lie-ins, he’ll have bolted out of bed by 6am, scanned his BlackBerry and checked the markets before he’s even got in the shower.

High flyers crave order and control because there’s enough chaos at work. So, be warned, he’ll expect his home life to run on rails – smoothly, quietly, flawlessly. His wardrobe will be a temple to minimalist efficiency: slabs of pristine shirts arranged by colour, bespoke suits, £500 shoes in clear boxes for fast identification, cufflinks and collar stiffeners ready to go. Underwear tends to be identical, white, usually Calvin Klein or Armani. Watches are to City boys what alpha handbags are to women. Expect him to have a collection worth more than a semi in South London. Patek Phillipe, IWC, Franck Muller – for day, night, sport and everything in between.

When I first entered my ex-boyfriend’s house, I had the feeling that I’d walked on to the set of American Psycho. “Are you sure you actually live here?” I asked. It was a quiet, immaculate space, no clutter allowed anywhere. The boy sweated blood to afford the place and, since he spent no time actually living in it, he liked it to look as if it was awaiting a House & Garden shoot. Shoes, toddlers and red wine were all inconceivable.

So all week you’ve slept like a mouse, scurried about ensuring that the household runs without a hitch, and by Friday night you’re aching to hit the town. He’ll feel too guilty to refuse, and you’ll find yourself in a Michelin-starred restaurant, chattering away, while he stares into space, craving sleep as badly as a junkie needs heroin.

Bankers’ girls find their lives mirroring market trends. When he does well, you’ll be swept along on a tide of champagne and adrenalin. But when things go wrong – and they usually go spectacularly wrong – you will find yourself in a darkened room, murmuring soothing words while he fights off a nervous breakdown.

Yes, you’ll get to sink into the cushioned depths of a grown-up sports car that draws envious glances at every traffic light. But you’ll soon start to resent the thing when you have to remove your shoes in case you soil the upholstery. Add the stress caused by scratches and damage, the endless search for safe parking, and keeping it out of the hands of vandals and joyriders, and you’ll soon long for a battered Golf.

And what about those promised holidays? Well, they do exist and your friends will be gnashing their teeth at the brochures, but you’ll need to be happy in your own company. I wandered the streets of Marrakesh and Florence solo while he spent all his time with the BlackBerry jammed to his ear, or bashing away at its keypad. Then there were the days spent Lost in Translation style at one of Dubai’s most opulent hotels, because he had to fly back to London to deal with a crisis at work.

If you’re confounded by why bankers keep working long after they’ve accumulated millions and millions, the answer is simple: it’s not about the money. Really. After a few years, the cash becomes irrelevant. Instead, it’s about winning, about annihilating your opponents, whether it’s on the trading floor, the squash court, in the bar or in the boxing ring. These guys have an insatiable appetite to win at everything, so don’t try to compete.

And if it happens that he’s not winning, not out-earning his boss or his colleagues, you’ll be expected to keep schtum. Having a few too many glasses of champagne and blurting out how disappointed he was with his last bonus could see you hurled out the door. Bankers’ girls should remember it’s all about image: that means silent, smiling supportiveness, and never, ever revealing what he earns – especially not to other bankers’ WAGs, because the news will be around the City before the first espressos have been drunk on Monday morning.

If this makes it all sound like hard work, then fear not. When I was taken to Selfridg-es and cocooned in a cream-carpeted boudoir with a personal shopper, while a pair of flunkies rushed around the store finding me a new wardrobe, I wasn’t exactly suffering. As I cooed over a perfectly fitted Armani jacket and an immaculately cut Ralph Lauren suit and the bill soared ever upwards, the boy never flinched.

We left an hour later with an armful of bags and I have no idea of the final tally, but it must have been nudging five figures. A further burst of retail madness in Bond Street, and we hopped into a taxi and headed home. It sounds like pure fantasy, and for a girl like me with a job in public sector PR, it was. Every time I put on one of those garments I feel a million dollars, and remember that heady day.

Yes, there were perks, and good ones. The ease of knowing that you can take taxis without a thought, of never having to check price tags on anything. The luxury of going to the opera or the ballet without scrimping for months for a seat up in the stratosphere.

I wanted for nothing – nothing that could be bought, anyway: La Perla, Crème de la Mer and acres of cashmere after every business trip, my 30th birthday party for a crowd of friends at Home House, the nights out that now make me wince at their unabashed expense; the £1,000 dinner in Paris, the seven-course tasting menus with matching wine flights at any number of Michelin restaurants; and the bouquets so large they could hardly fit through the door, which had even the courier gawping in amazement.

But in the end all the cashmere in the world cannot insulate you from the cold truth that such men will always love their money and their jobs more than you. You will be an afterthought – an indulgence at best. If you can cope with that, and with a life whose sole spiritual or emotional dimension consists of worshipping at the retail temples of Knightsbridge and Bond Street, then their world is yours for the taking.

But I couldn’t, and shortly after the City superhero picked up yet another multimillion-pound bonus, I packed my things and left. No wardrobe was large enough, no jewels sparkly enough and no holidays glamorous enough to compensate for the sting of unrequited love.

Since then there have been times when I’ve waited in the rain for buses and remembered all those extravagances – my other life – and wondered if I folded my cards too soon, was too proud, too stubbornly romantic.

But now, as I pad around my new boyfriend’s chaotic flat, leaving stray coffee mugs on every floor, scattering newspapers in my wake, I have no regrets. We make an unholy mess in the kitchen, leave our clothes strewn up the stairs and go to sleep in the small hours. He drives a beaten up car stuffed with dirty riding gear and legal papers. And I think he’s wonderful.

I’d like to say I’m slumming it, but then Guy is a barrister, the flat is in Chelsea and he has his sights set on a career as a Conservative politician. Some habits, it seems, are hard to break.

Looking for millionaire love (in all the wrong places)

“Sounds like an escort agency.” This wasn’t exactly the reaction I was expecting from my flatmate Claudia when I told her about the millionaire dating club I was joining. What could be wrong with signing up with an agency in which all the eligible bachelors were lonely, time poor but cash rich (net disposable assets of at least £1 million essential) and who paid £10,000 for a service in which all that was required of me was to be a “well educated, goal orientated and attractive professional”?

The company insisted that it offered the opportunity to find a partner for “long-term relationships for both ladies and gentlemen”. After all, I told Claudia, who doesn’t want to marry a millionaire?

Alarm bells should have sounded when the online application asked only for my name, age, e-mail address and photo. Didn’t they want to know what I did, or what my interests were? But it wasn’t until my face-to-face consultation that reality set in. Despite an hour-long intensive review of my likes (road trips), dislikes (flashy cars and bars), relationship history (two serious boyfriends), future goals (house and kids in the country) and preferences (someone about my age, tallish, laid-back, with a taste for spit and sawdust pubs and camping), it was clear that my interests were secondary to the paying clients’. I was presented with two potential dates whose interests bore no relation to mine: the first was short, mid-forties, liked fine wines; the other was tall, my age, liked luxury holidays and jet-set clubs. My dismissal of both was met by exasperation: “But they’re multimillionaires.”

Maybe, but I’m not for sale.

Modern Nepal Girls And Marriage

By Rekha Acharya - January 2008.

Because of women's lib many modern girls are rejecting marriage as they do not want to be subjugated by men, or do not think marriage is a must. Seeing some of them enjoying life and sex as free birds or having live-in relationship with no commitment or encumbrances is also encouraging them to do so. Some even shun motherhood and do not want to spoil their bodies or careers because of the children.

The idea of living life according to their own whim and wish, without the bondage of marriage, propels many working girls to remain unmarried. They are keen to experiment and shape their lives under western influence. Many among them either pass their life as fast, low-moral women or as someone's keep or pass years in multiple live-in relationships, with no anchor or rudder to steer through life in the later years.

Today, women yearn for money-earning careers and a fast life. They do not mind going to any extent of achieving it, and in the bargain are repeatedly cheated, with loss of dignity and self-respect.

Some realise that work has kept them too busy to look for a mate. Marrying late should not be a knotty affair. One needs to reach out to others, to find a companion by jumping the age barrier.

There is no harm in nurturing dreams, but one should not wait endlessly for the man of one's choice to come and marry her. Compromising on some expectations is the answer, and who knows, the low profile may achieve height in the near future and prove a ?better man" than those with richer looks and a high profile.

Marriage is a must and that, too, as far as possible at the right age, definitely below 30 and preferable by 35. But those who cannot do so for any reason can still rectify their mistake by marrying even now, although it may look odd or risky to take the plunge and go against the wishes of the parents.

All women who have remained unmarried feel sorry in the long run and miss the companionship of married life. Some of those who decide to marry and are lucky to get a mate in advanced life, find that their libido has gone. One often gets a second-hand partner who has fixed ideas, and adjustment may not be that easy. Although they try to pull on, their union is due to compulsions like loneliness and insecurity.

It is not that unmarried women are not comfortable and not enjoying life. Modern girls want to select their own life partners as and when they decide to marry, but still parent-arranged marriages have not gone out of fashion.

No one is too old to marry if not for anything else but for the never soothing companionship. However, one should be lucky even in this alliance to find a caring person who listens, gives respect and support to you.

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