Secret diary of a contract whore, featuring Carlos Tevez

by Charlie Coffey

Friday, July 8th, 2011
 

Imagine, if you will, Carlos Tevez in a dress and high heels. As he struts his stuff on the dance floor his obvious assets attract the attention of certain executives and various managers. The South American player of the year and Champions league medals are pushed up together on his chest, glinting under the disco ball. He knows he’s got it, and he’s certainly not afraid to flaunt it.

A Middle Eastern man in the VIP area beckons Carlos over. “Won’t you join me for some champagne?!” He obviously has cash to burn and makes no secret of it. He wants only the best talent at his table and Carlos fits into that category.

Soon he has his arm round Carlos, whispering sweet nothings in his ear. Carlos smiles and giggles, nodding at the right time, but he can’t really understand everything that is said. Since he left Argentina he has found success because of his assets and has never really had a need to learn the language. Carlos even allows this man to rest his hand in between his medalions for a brief moment before giggling and playfully pushing it away. In broken English Carlos agrees to come back to the man’s house after the club has closed, but only if he sits up front on his own on the way back. He can’t believe his luck as Carlos kisses his badge playfully then pours himself more champagne.

After half an hour of fondling and giggling, Carlos begins to become impatient. Certain executives on the table are trying to grab his ass. They’re laughing behind his back and suggesting he’s only with the man for his champagne. Carlos’ mood sours and he gets up to leave the table. “But wait,” his suitor says, desperate that he may lose his piece of skirt, “I’ve just ordered a bottle of Perrier-Jouet!” If there’s one thing Carlos does understand it is champagne. He knows that Perrier-Jouet is worth twice as much as the Bollinger he was on before, and his worries are soon forgotten.

Carlos is laughing and joking again in no time. He’s dancing on the table, cutting some of the finest shapes of his night so far, and even getting on better with certain executives who are willing to support him if he continues to dance so well. His suitor is plying him with Perrier-Jouet and knows he’s worth it. With this calibre of champagne, Carlos will certainly be in for the long run and be his for the night. Even though there are more attractive prospects on more attractive tables, only a select few can afford Carlos’ expensive habit and they already have established partners at the front of the table with huge assets of their own.

A South American man in a three-piece suit comes over to the table. A couple of men from other tables have requested Carlos’ presence, it seems. The man with his hand on Carlos’ thigh protests, but Carlos seems to trust this man, who goes by the name of Kia. Kia took Carlos out of his Buenos Aires estate at a young age, and since then has led him on a tour of lavish clubs in Argentina, Brazil and now England. The quality of the champagne has gradually increased and Carlos has been happy to move on from club to club without ever seeing the night through.

Kia whispers in Carlos’s ear, and Carlos turns to the man, telling him that he wants to move tables to be close to his family, who have just arrived at the bar. Carlos loves his family but not so much as to sit at the bar with them because no-one there can supply the quality of champagne to which he is now accustomed. He doesn’t love them that much, it seems. He drinks half a flute of bubbly, gives the other half to Kia and starts to get up, but the man at the table holds him by the wrist. He’s invested a lot of champagne in Carlos and he won’t let him leave without a fight, not until he sees the night through with him as he had promised just minutes earlier.

Carlos bursts into tears. He admits to the man at the table that he only came over because he had been rejected by the Scottish man on the next table earlier in the night. This man had previously paid for his Champions League implant, and Carlos thought that was the start of a long-lasting love affair. In the end he had been rejected in favour of the Scottish man’s favourite, a younger man called Wayne who liked to take up the same positions as Carlos but whose assets were more pleasing to the Scottish man.

This current romance had been enjoyable, Carlos said, but in the end it was only ever going to be short-term, and was all about the champagne. He never had any intention of going home with the man. He said he hated the VIP area in which his and the Scottish man’s table were in, that he would never come back there once he had left. Carlos ran to the toilet to sort his make-up out, leaving Kia to clear up the mess.

Kia smiled awkwardly at the broken man that was left behind, and continued to drink half flutes of his champagne. The secret was now out. Everyone knew his beloved Carlos was only out for the champagne. They could not trust him anymore. The assets were still there of course, pushed up together and glistening in the disco ball, but were they worth that level of champagne, and would the table owners not now see through Carlos’s façade and into his thirsty soul? In years to come Carlos’ assets will droop. It’s time for Kia to earn his fizz.

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  • bobby

    class, great use of a metaphor!

  • http://www.joshmooreblog.com Joshua Moore

    Got a lot of time for this article. Although beginning with the sentence imagine Tevez in a dress and high heels has made me worry about going to bed with the missus tonight.

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