"Money is an artificial construct," she said her Coutts Card carrying, diamond sparkling, fingers dancing their way up the inside of my naked and exposed thighs.

"It separates the haves from the have-nots. Keeps the rich rich and leaves the poor to sell the only thing they truly own; their bodies."

"Slaves to the capitalist system. Proferred as playthings. Your oozing desperation impaled, ravaged and pillaged for their betters' delight."

On my barstool, oozing; impaled, ravaged and pillaged in my needy poverty atop her fingers I whimper hopefully.

"Might the artificial construct buy me another pink gin and lemonade."