Very little enhances a vaginal victory like a bit of kleptomania.  I’m not referring to emotional theft, most are already well aware of my sick sadistic need in that territory, nor am I painting some clever metaphor about the enjoyment of stolen virginity.  No, I’m talking about tangible items, things of monetary value, and, of course, currencies of varying denominations.  I’m talking about fucking a female, rummaging about her belongings, and leaving with a token of HER appreciation.             
            My first hoe heist, however, had little to do with enjoyment - I just needed the money.  I was a College Park undergrad celebrating Halloween at Nightmare on M Street (dressed, coincidentally enough, as a soprano’s style, jump suit wearing, wise guy).  I wooed a subpar Georgetown student on the dance floor and ended up back at her apartment.  She masturbated in front of me on the carpet of her living room.  I found it appalling; her thrashing movements recalled a childhood incident of a convulsing cat and the way it suffered after being trampled by a Toyota.  She asked me to jerk off on her tits.  “Maybe in the morning”, I said, and the night ended without incident. 
             Several hours later I awoke in her bed, examined the naked sleeping slut to my right, was reminded again of the dying cat, and decided on a hasty departure.  Upon sitting up I realized the gravity of my situation: no money, no credit card, no idea how to navigate home, and no desire to wake her up.  Then the devil presented his apple… a crisp 20 dollar bill poking proactively out from her purse on the night stand, exactly what I needed for transportation to College Park from DC.  I shook her gently to measure the depth of her slumber… no reaction.  I kept one eye on her, grabbed the cash, carefully picked up my clothes, and tip toed towards the exit.  I used part of the 20 for metro fair and with the remainder I treated myself to a chipotle burrito (double chicken).  I felt safe when I was outside the building and around the corner, but the scintillating rush of the crime lasted for hours.
             Now that I’d stolen once, the moral barrier was shattered and I was swept up in a tide of treachery.  I justified my betrayal as a necessary “bang tax”, so charging for gas, tolls, and time didn’t seem out of line.  I look back with tremendous fondness on the adventurous nature of stealing to survive and the sweet vulnerabilities I carried.  The methodology for assessing females had also completely changed; never before had the ugly girl with a wad of cash trumped the sorority slut. 
             Before long my habit evolved into a sick amusement.  I once screwed an LA production assistant in her Santa Monica studio.  I gazed hypnotically at her naked body as she swallowed some X, all the while a fantastic “Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone” remix played from her stereo… so the next morning I stole the CD.  One night I sat on a stoop with a jewish slut sipping from her fresh bottle of Absolute.  I loved the seductive look she flashed while pressing the vodka to her mouth… so when she was Absolutely lubricated, I fucked her in the ass and left with the remainder of the bottle. 
             Like any criminal or druggie, my adrenaline addiction required a consistent upping of the ante.  My thefts grew more and more brazen and the items I stole more and more valuable.  I was nearly caught on several occasions, one time with my hand literally in a purse (”I was just looking for gum… “).  I knew the score and the heat was coming down, so I abandoned petty crime before any catastrophic incident.  It occurred to me recently that perhaps I retired a few years too early.  Today’s purse styles are well suited for hoe heists: small clutches (easy to snatch from a bar top) and huge shoulder bags/satchels (filled with interesting items).  With the plethora of Ipods, blackberrys, and digital cameras, I’d imagine a contemporary collegiate Angelo De La Vega would possess an array of confiscated digital devices (not necessarily for the technology, but for the content they hold).
             The books have become decidedly unbalanced since my glory days of slut stealing.  The exorbitant cost of entertaining today’s woman has vastly exceeded the heists of my youth.  These hoes have come to collect. Lunches and brunches, bottles and bar tabs, dinners and drinks. The interest on my loans is killer; every 5 dollar “bang tax” principal now requires a 100 dollar weekly Saki/Sushi payment.  That’s why I’ve decided to return to the game - and not the petty shit either.  I’m hunting for the monster score… the final job… the last hit… the big one… I’m hunting for a wealthy DC cougar and a seven digit payout.