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Rule number twelve: Don't give someone an old DVD.

I and Jeanie didn't start out as complete strangers like most did. I had known her from as far back as I could remember. Her husband had been my fathers best friend since we had moved to America, and although she was much younger than him,  she could hold her own.

She was new money, so had said many people. Jeanie wasn't brought up the same way we were and the vultures of high society would pick on anything they deemed low brow.

Our relationship started after a charity ball. If you could even call it a relationship. I had too much to drink, I hated things of this sort, sick of the world I had grown up in. I stumbled down into the lobby of the overpriced hotel and saw Jeanie sitting on a couch looking out of her element.

What started out as an innocent conversation, ended with heavy groping and intense kisses in the closed bar in the hotel. We had dirty, rough sex in the deserted area while our friends and families believed that they were making a difference.

But we knew better, we always knew better.

My experience at the time had been limited but it still stood out as one of the most erotic times of my life. Over the years, Jeanie had become one of many. But I remembered her as one of the truest times in my life.

Some, like my mother, would argue that she had taken advantage of a young man that didn't know the velocity of what he had done. But I did, and I didn't care.

It went on for months, skipping school while her husband was gone so we could spend the afternoon in her bed. She wanted more, she would tell me things that showed me her true heart. But it was too much for me, something that he hadn't agreed on.

It all came to a halt when her husband came home unexpectedly. In the throes of passion, we hadn't heard him coming down the hall. He caught us red-handed, while I laid on top of her, my hands tangled in her hair while I was in mid-sentence of telling her filthy things that were sure to reserve me a spot in hell.

He threatened to kick my teeth in, to tell my father how much of fuck up I really was. This would just add to everything else I had done, skipping school, smoking pot behind his car in the parking garage.

I scrambled to collect my clothes quickly off the floor. Adrenaline coursing through my veins, telling me that I had to leave as fast as I possibly could.

But the events changed quite quickly, she soon confessed her love for me over her husband's booming voice. She begged me to tell him the truth, of how we loved each other and how we were going to be with one another for the rest of our lives.

I was a coward, I had told her that I didn't feel the same and it was a fantasy that she had thought up in her head.

Leaving the upscale penthouse in a hurry, I never looked back. I wasn't aware of the full truth until I had gotten off my flight halfway across the world.

And even then I couldn't find it in myself to care.

The world I lived in was obsessed with beauty and I loved it. I craved things of beauty and I felt I didn't deserve to be in the presence of anything less. But I hated material things, I hated how people allowed belongings to control their lives. To be vapid about "stuff", was much harder to swallow.

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