Welcome to the age of male gold diggers also known as the gigolo. If I had a shilling for every one of them I bumped into one, I’d be a millionaire, but that’s story for another day, preferably never.

 Mr Gigolo’s best defence is gender parity , that what a woman can do, a man can do. I weep for humanity.

The ‘Gigolo’ hit maker, Nick Cannon, ended up nabbing the older, richer, Mariah Carey. So rich that at some point she was ranked sixth in Forbes 20 richest women in entertainment. Talk about what you confess being what you possess.

So where exactly can you find this breed of men? Well, the interwebs is a hub but they can also be sniffed out from exclusive clubs, predating, hoping to catch the next big break-usually an unsuspecting, much older female with no clue that little brother is watching.

Woe unto you, the big tipper, you that throws drinks around like EABL is closing shop, you that makes it rain on them, not only in the name of generosity but also because of the attention it brings you.

 You that’s more addicted to the limelight than the Kardashians is in for some real game from that lad that’s sitting across the bar, staring right at his prey, thinking, “It’s going well so far, I’m gonna get my way.”

And have his way with you he will. Come on, your significant other is as old as a dino; a romp with him must be like trying to shoot pool using a rope (for better or for worse right?), yet here is this Adonis of a man, flaunting a body so chiselled it would put a Roman God to shame. And what’s more, he’s staring at you like you’re fresh out of Vogue!

So little mister ambitious nods your way and summons you to follow him as he makes for the patio, aware of the blatantly disapproving glares of your peers.

Blinded by lust, you oblige, having already formed mental images of you two lustbirds walking barefoot in the white sandy coastal beaches, fingers intertwined, your pesky husband buried 7 feet in the backyard, and the shovel confiscated on the ocean floor...All right, snap out of it!

So you give him an audience, and he sighs soulfully into your ear, flooring you with Shakespeare sonnets that cause you to swoon, leaving you wondering whether he graduated with a PhD from a Victorian charm school.

Basically, by the end of the night you will have committed to funding his lavish lifestyle, in exchange for the goodies he’s dying to offer. Not such a bad trade-off right? Where is Jimmy Gathu and his infidelity-busting calculator when you need him?

So you think you have it all until he demands a flashier car than the Golf you gifted him, a more spacious apartment, numerous visits to the spa. In a matter of months the secret bank account your significant other is blissfully unaware of runs dry, so you attack the joint bank account, harnessing, fleecing, eventually freezing it, just to satisfy the luxury lifestyle that that little ingrate of a penny sucker has been accustomed to.

And before you know it, bankruptcy! You had it coming sweety, right from “hello.” So naturally, you reach out for your guilty pleasure. You hit his cell and BAM! “Sorry, the mobile subscriber cannot be reached.” Coincidence? You wish! Eye candy just screwed you in every imaginable way known to man. Hi, have you met Murphy’s Law? Without missing a beat, Jimmy Gathu steps out of the closet, signature calculator in hand.

wenyaajuliet@gmail.com

Juliet Wenyaa is a freelance journalist