Mr. President

I only found out one day because I found two cell phones in his pocket. I had no idea he had two phones and when I asked him he was evasive.

Something about the whole situation put my mind on edge and two days later, I followed him when he left the house on what he told me was a business trip.

I tailed him all the way from the Hollywood Hills where I was living with him to Malibu. He stopped at a house. He had the keys to the place and spent the entire day and night there. I know, because I watched him from my car.

As I sat there, I researched the address on my phone. And I found out so much about Robert McIntyre that I had never known before.

Turns out he was married. Wife and one kid.

He apparently also had another job at KPMG as an accountant. He was representing me and sending me to do porn to fund what I don't know, but whatever it was, my fees were paying for a double life for him.

I hadn’t put up with a man that had a 5-inch cock for this. I didn't put up with a man with violent tendencies that occasionally slapped me when he got angry for this. Fuck, I didn't put up with a man that pimped me out at porn sets for this.

I could have been a real model. I could have done so much.

I rang the doorbell that night and she answered. I can’t even remember her name but I remember her eyes widened when she saw me.

“You have to leave!” she whispered to me.

“Are you his wife?” I asked. She nodded to me and closed the door.

“You don’t want to confront him, babe,” she told me. “You need to go now!”

But I couldn't just go. I couldn’t just leave her there if she was afraid.

But she shook her head.

“I’ve been married to him since high school,” she told me. “And I know who you are. I know all of his women. He doesn't care to hide them anymore from me. He thinks he has me beaten down.”

If you want to think that I’m sort of slut or sub-human then you’re welcome to hun, but this woman was living with a true sub-human. His wife told me he had half a dozen girls working in porn at any given time. He’d use them until their shelf life expired. Then he’d move on.

“You need to leave and pretend you never came here!” his wife told me.

She went on to tell me that I wasn’t the first person to have discovered her house. There had been one other, a year ago. She had come knocking and had stormed the house during the day.

Robert had slapped her around a couple times, and then dragged her to his car.

When he came back, he hadn’t talked about her and pretended the whole thing had never happened.

“She never acted in porn after that. Just dropped off the face of the earth,” his wife told me. “I think he may have killed her, but I can’t go tell anyone because I have no proof.”

I still wanted to confront him. I could handle my own.

“Then he’ll kill me, so his secret never comes out,” she said.

And I saw desperation in her voice.

“I can take care of myself and my boy if you just leave,” she pleaded to me. “If you pretend that you never saw me. That you know nothing

of this house.”

The look in her eyes I think is what convinced me to listen to her, you know?

I remember getting in the car and driving off.

But I didn’t go back home. I just kept driving. Left Los Angeles. Ended up in Vegas that night where I emptied our bank accounts the next morning, and moved all the money into a separate, new account.

I found a guy who changed my last name from White to Roman and made me an entirely new social security number and even gave me a 720 credit score.