Page 17 of Win Some Love Some
After all this recent humiliation, it reminded me of my old humiliation. I had to wonder if I had some kind of a kink for it. A humiliation kink.
But it’s why I’d been purposefully…how did he say it? Freezing him out.
“Excuse me.” Awesome. One of the teenagers worked up the courage to talk to me.
I blinked at her.
“You’re…her? Right? An American in Paris?” She was American, from someplace in the south. One of her friends wore a University of Texas sweatshirt.
“Nope,” I said. Because the account had been deleted. No one was her anymore.
The girl looked back at her friends, but suddenly they were all looking at their phones like they didn’t know her.
Bitches. Get new friends, I wanted to tell her.
“I just…I wanted to say I loved your account. It’s why we came to Paris.”
“You came all the way to Paris because of a social media account?” I asked and the girl shrugged. That was the power of millions of followers, I could never get used to it.
“You made it look so easy,” she said and I could have cried. Because it had been really really hard.
Only I’d done enough crying over the past month, and frankly, it got me nothing but a swollen face and puffy eyes.
My days of being a social influencer were over. Now that I had some time to reflect on it, really what a ridiculous and capricious thing it had all been.
An American in Paris. Making fun of how I stood out while I adjusted to French culture. Trying new food. Shopping in vintage stores. What had started as a daily journal to chronicle my life in France, turned into viral video after viral video.
Suddenly, I had enough followers to qualify as a legitimate content creator.
Then came the stuff.
Loads and loads of stuff. Makeup, hair products, prepared meals, clothes, lingerie, shoes, handbags, jewelry. It didn’t end. I found myself reaching out to other content creators in Paris to learn how to manage it all. Eventually, I had to hire an agent to book actual paying advertisers.
Checks rolled in with more zeros then I’d ever felt possible.
So much, that I rented an apartment with original Herringbone wood floors, crown molding and a view of the EiffelTower (if one leaned way out over the balcony and craned one’s neck to the left.)
It all looked magical on social media.
There had only been one problem.
I’d been lonely as fuck.
Maybe that’s why I’d been such a sucker for Rene’s bullshit.
Hard stop!
“So the guy? Rene?” she said.
“Listen, if you’re going to tell me I’m an idiot for getting conned by him, I’ve already heard it. Like a million times. So…maybe, don’t?”
“He wasn’t even that hot.” One of the other girls from the pack chimed in. “I didn’t think.”
Yeah. He was. But it was nice for her to say that.
At first, my female and some of my male followers were obsessed with how hot Rene had been. Like that was the only thing that could be attractive about a man. They didn’t understand he’d been so fucking charming, and – on the surface – so fucking worldly. It had been like a fairy tale until it turned into a nightmare.
“You had to see him in person,” I said with a shrug.
