Nice Guys Finish First
Monica was this hot mama sex goddess I used to work with serving cocktails in college. Slinky as a feline, she was nearly six feet tall with curves galore. She had flawless skin, a magnificent, traffic-stopping face and a personality as colorful as the Bobbi Brown eye shadow she used to drop the cherry on the sundae of her magnetic appeal. Monica was ravishing enough to date famous athletes, businessmen pulling down six figures and local actors on their way to becoming Hollywood B-listers. If anyone would’ve ended up sipping daiquiris by the pool of some handsome millionaire’s mansion, it was Monica. Recently, Monica popped up as a friend of a friend on Facebook, so I clicked on her page. She was gorgeous as ever and though I wasn’t shocked to discover she hadn’t become some Tinseltown trophy wife, I was surprised to see photos of the man she married. The guy was goofy looking, a squat little pudgeball. And no Mr. Moneybags was he, as Monica’s other half apparently lived a quiet