A lot of my friends say Valentine's Day sucks. I say they just have bad attitudes. One friend refuses to call it by its actual name and instead refers to it as S.A.D. – or Singles Awareness Day. Another calls it F.A.D. – or Forced Affection Day. But me? I call it pure sugar.

You see, unlike most of the population, I'm physically gifted. I won't go into gory details; no need. I'm sure your imagination is already firing on all cylinders. In addition to my physical superiority, I'm also really nice. No, really. I mean it. I'll charm your pants off before you can say "Nice to meet you".

So, yeah, back to sugar. I've never actually been in a relationship on Valentine's Day – well, not an official one anyway. Not that it matters. You don't have to be in a relationship to hold, or be held in someone's arms. Come to think of it, I actually can't remember a Valentine's Day went I wasn't in someone's arms, or breathing in sync with someone else as our lips are pressed together for that matter.

I know, I know… it sounds like I'm bragging. Well, that's only because I am. In addition to my looks and charms, I'm also in pretty tight with Maggie Richmond. You've probably never heard of her, and that's by design. Suffice to say that she's wealthy enough to be able to afford anonymity. I'm her right hand person, and she pays me accordingly.

So yes. Looks, charm, and money. Are you turning green? Don't. You haven't heard my story yet.

It's February 14 and Ms. Richmond tells me I can take the afternoon off. She gives me a little wink and slaps my butt as she skips out of the office. I really don't like it when she does that, but I'm not about to bite the hand that feeds me. I fire off a few last minute emails and then head for the door.

I hit ignition on my Tesla Model S and silently glide out of the underground parking. "Why don't I own a rocking sports car," you ask? Have you ever engaged 'insane mode' on a Tesla Model S? I can keep pace with a corvette and still have a luxury interior. That and everyone has a sports car. Tesla is the new cool in my books.

Enough about cars, they're really not my thing anyway. I get home in less time than it takes to get home. I shower, shave myself, decide to put on 'the good stuff' and then slip into a custom tailored little number. I won't bore you with specifics. Just imagine me looking good enough to eat.

I toss my keys to the valet and stride into LA's hottest watering hole while oozing confidence. At least a dozen men and women stop to look me up and down. That's just the way I like it. I give a nod to the ripped guy in the tight black Tee with the club's name written across it. He returns a smile and motions for me to follow him.

He leads me into the back where the private rooms are. Men and woman lounge around and on top of each other as they smoke, inhale and drink whatever pleasures their money will buy. A rather busty young thing comes and presses her chest into mine. The look in her eye says she's after a good time. I return the look, but tell her "not tonight".

There's a puddle of people already on my preferred bench. Most of them are familiar to me, so I pile on top without hesitation. It's hard to say where one person starts and another ends, but we all manage to laugh and have a good time regardless.

Some slicky-dicky that smells like he had a tragic mishap at the cologne counter runs a hand through my hair. He gives me a little wink. I stifle a giggle and tell him where he can keep his hands from now on. Without missing a beat, he repeats the same move on the person to my left.

Much to my surprise, I start to get really, really bored. Nothing there actually changes, it's just the same dumb thing over and over again. The pleasures are fine but the people are scum. They only like you if you're into the same thing they want that night. If you're feeling a different vibe, they tell you to take your feet for a walk.

And to my amusement, that's exactly what my Italian shoes decide to do. The regulars ask me where I think I'm going. I make a grand motion with my arms, shrug my shoulders and walk out through the curtains with a grin. I always leave them wanting more. That's how I keep the power and control in my relationships.

A chunky kid with bad skin roars to a stop in front of me and steps out of my ride. I toss him a single bill to let him know that he's not good looking enough to be working Valet at my favorite club. Ugly people always need to be punished like that. That way they never forget how inferior they are.

I drive by a few more of LA's hot spots, but nothing twigs my interest. It was Valentine's Day, after all. I wanted something new. Something different. Something exciting! I heard Tom Cruise was inviting his 'have more' friends to jump out of a helicopter with him later that night. I should have said I'd go with him, regardless of the fact that he's an insufferable little twit. At least that would have been memorable.

I pass a little joint called "The Grease Spoon". No, that isn't a spelling error. It's a dinky diner dive full of Travolta memorabilia. For some inexplicable reason, the steering wheel turns into the parking lot. I catch myself fixing my hair in the rear view mirror. It was habit. I make a face and laugh. I'm pretty sure no one is going to measure up to me in that joint, so in this instance, I didn't cares if I wasn't one hundred and ten percent.

I burst through the door and strike a pose. A handful of pedestrians with food on their faces look up briefly, then turn back to the porcelain troughs on the tables in front of them. I'm immediately annoyed that they don't pay proper respect, but decide that I'm above making a scene.

A young, squirrely looking waitress dressed head to toe in mustard yellow asks if I would like a corner booth. I assume the poor dear was trying to pay her way through college, but didn't possess the body to slide down a pole so she got stuck there instead. I decide to stuff my dirty water glass full of bills at the end of the night to help her out a little. I'm not a monster after all. I like to give back once in a while.

Again, it's Valentine's Day, and I'm bored, so I decide tonight is going to be a cheat night and order a chocolate shake. My little charity case nods her head and writes down my order. Her cute little bangs bob up and down as she does. It amuses me.

I attack the straw as soon as the frozen treat lands in front of me. I'm instantly surprised by how much I have missed milkshakes. Suddenly, I'm back in high school again.

My waitress smiles a little at my enjoyment and asks if there is anything else she can get me. I glance around to see if anyone else is waiting to be served. The diner is mostly empty now, so I invite her to sit.

She's a little taken aback by my request and hesitates, but I flash my winning smile her direction to reassure her. Soon enough, another smile crosses her face and she slides into the other side of my booth. I learn that her name is Sandy and that she's got a daughter named Sam. Her scumbag boyfriend got her knocked up and then hit the road with the stripper he'd been chucking dollar bills at. Strangely, I can kind of sympathize with both sides of the story.

After Sandy finishes her tale, she starts taking an interest in me. I tell her in general terms about my employment and social status. She's understandably intrigued as to how the better half of society lives. I don't know why, but I can't help but picture how good she'd look all dolled up and lounging with my usual crowd.

An overweight, used up version of Elmer Fud plods through the door and Sandy rushes to get him seated. I watch as she hurries to see to his needs and does her best to brighten his day. Despite the drab, working class attire, her body appears firm and in good condition. I note with interest how her caves are tight and cut as she reaches up high for a bag of coffee. I might just be dealing with a diamond in the rough here.

Fud's slop is placed before him and he immediately begins to oink-out. Not even a thank you for my lovely little flower. Sandy dutifully stands behind the counter and waits for the next consumer to step through the doors. Apparently she felt like our little visit had come to an end. I raise a toned arm to signal that I was done my milkshake. She approaches again and smiles when our eyes meet. Our fingers touch as I hand her the canister. I enjoy the contact. Her cheeks flush a wee bit and she smiles again. Rather than pull away, she maintains the touch and asks if there's anything else I want. Something comes over me and I reply that I want to know when she's off work. She flushes a little more and walks back toward the kitchen without another word.

Several minutes pass and I'm pretty sure I've been rebuffed. Apparently the 'have less' crowd thinks it's amusing to shut down their superiors from time to time. I toss a couple bills on the table and then stand to leave. I consider my earlier plan to fill the water glass with a generous tip, but then think better of it to teach the young girl a lesson in manners.

I'm almost to my car again when the sound of high heels quickly approaching from behind grabs my attention. I whirl around to see my young waitress completely transformed. She's dressed in a tight top designed to give her a lift and a short skirt that shows off her penchant for jogging. Her painted toes rim the front of her leather stilettos and ankle wraps. Her hastily applied make-up was passable, as was the impromptu updo.

Apparently, the diamond wasn't quite as rough as I had first thought.

She presses her body into mine and whispers that I seem like a really nice person. I play with those adorable bangs for a moment, then smile and press my lips to hers. Her lips are soft and passive. This is a woman that is used to being told what to do and how to be.

The night is still young and apparently this was going to be the 'something different' I had been craving, so I went with it. I tell her to hop in my car and I'd take her where ever she wanted to go. Unsurprisingly, she said "my place". Of course, 'my place'. At least she had the good sense to know I wouldn't be setting foot into the rat's nest that was probably the one room apartment she shared with her daughter.

I half watch as she applies a liberal amount of lotion to her legs and feet as we drive. It gives her fabulous skin a kind of magical shimmer that makes my toes point.

I see her glancing my direction ever so often as the streetlights wash over us over and over again. The little grin on her face confirms that my mojo is firing as per usual. Poor little thing. I decide to give her one night in ecstasy before sending her scampering back into the dump that is her life.

Sandy tries to engage me in small talk. I respond by turning on the radio. She takes it as me being playful and gives my shoulder a little shove. I smile with a little wink, even though the real reason was that I was pretty sure she was out of interesting things to say and I wanted to spare myself the boredom.

She sings along as best she can while looking out the window and fiddling with the necklace that disappears down her cleavage. Even over the music, I hear her oohing and awing over the houses that line the street of my neighborhood.

Her big, blue eyes practically pop out of her pretty little head as I pull up to my little piece of heaven on earth. My place was a very modest three thousand square feet, but the lavish landscaping and pool helped to elevate the property. In my mind, my home is the jewel of the block.

My little Sandy and I exit the vehicle and stare at each other over the hood of my car. A little glint in her eye sends a shiver down my spine. The next thing I know we're in each other's arms and mashing our lips together. Her fit little bod feels good against mine. It turns out our kissing technique is a good match as well, so I'm pretty sure that the evening is going to be a success.

We manage to separate and step back from each other, both heavily breathing in the night air. It dawns on me that the neighbors might see us standing in my driveway, so I take Sandy by the hand and lead her toward my front door.

I punch in the keyless entry code, but before I can get the door open, she's got her lips pressed into mine again. Our hands take on minds of their own and begin exploring. I'm not sure how long we stood there making out like teenagers under my porch light, but it was long enough for a passerby to let out a loud hoot in our direction.

I smack the door with my butt and we stumble inside, still locked in each other's arms.

Sandy disengages from my lips long enough to give a harsh whisper in my ear and detail just what it is that she would like to do to me. That was a little more forward than I had been expecting, but at this point I was in full go-mode and wasn't going to turn her down.

We start pulling and tugging at each other's clothing, but she stops and manages to push away from me with a little grin. She says she needs some alcohol first.

I look my prize up and down and try to decide what year I'm going to open for the occasion. I decide not to completely cheap out and start rummaging around for a three hundred dollar bottle.

And then I woke up naked in the ditch, Officer.