Tastes Like Sugar

Last weekend, a Manhattan hotelier followed me into the bathroom of Bungalow 8, and in a thick Italian accent, offered me $1,000 cash to blow lines off my nipples.

I abhor the word slut—it is loaded, judgmental, and only permissible if applied playfully to oneself. “Whore” is even worse. My deep respect for the sex industry and sex workers is only rivaled by my repulsion for the men who assume that all women are, or should be, sex workers. In my slightly boozy state of mind, I was incensed by the implication that I required payment for a sex act, and a quite innocuous one at that! A few minutes after I pushed past him back into the club, a male friend (of his own accord) posed as my brother and threatened to have him killed by “our” Venezuelan father. I started to feel guilty. As the mogul walked outside, tail between his legs, I began to pity the fact that he had inadvertently and pathetically revealed himself to me: a small man with the plumage of millions of dollars. In some sad, coked-out mating ritual, he had made himself vulnerable and I had effectively attacked. Leaving my table, I pulled his business card from my bra and texted: “sorry abt that.” The reply came frighteningly fast: “its ok- i waiting 4u outside.”

I have heard of sugar daddies. I’ve fantasized about the older, ruggedly handsome millionaire—too busy to be married—who gives me my own two-bedroom apartment in exchange for a few public appearances together per month. Dinners at Cru, help with my Econ problem set. The psychological implication of the fantasy is obvious, however I actually have a fantastic relationship with my father and wish I could have him around all the time. The reality of having a sugar daddy is apparently a little less classy. One can never have enough of dad, but daddy texts at 4:15 in the morning, “come 2 my hotel,” at 4:17 “come now,” 4:45 “hard 2 get.” I feel like responding, “not happening,” but he owns a resort in St. Thomas; I’m keeping my options open.

Is being a ‘kept woman’ akin to prostitution? The first warning sign is his insistence that these offerings of cash are “gifts.” When I refer to them as payment, he protests too much. And this is a slippery slope. I could have easily taken the thousand dollars, but then it becomes easier to take $2,000 for something else. I tested him a day later. “I raised my prices.” 13 seconds later, “to what level?” $1,000 for recreational drugs on the breasts... $50,000 for a night at his hotel. Can I trust myself not to go that far?
I consult a friend who has dabbled in the somewhat seedy world of paid male-male companionship. There was the chef that let us eat for free every night at his 4-star restaurant in exchange for drinks after the kitchen closed, the psychologist who left $100 to be picked up from the doorman for phone sex, and of course the lawyer who was generous with blowjobs and bills. “I don’t exactly regret it,” he reports, “but it changes you. There’s no going back... sometimes I think I would do it again.” And it is this last part that scares me. There’s almost nothing I regret from my past, but whatever I’ve experimented with, I’ve always been able to chalk it up to experience and walk away. After all, drugs, boys, clubs, girls—the excitement wears off. But money is different. The stakes just keep getting higher.

After a week of his nightly booty-texting failures, I stop hearing from him. One, then two nights go by. I start to worry. Days ago I began to fantasize that maybe he will give me a job owning hotels; if he’s gotten over me, he is now effectively ruining my future. Logic suggests that he is out of town on business, but it had better not be St. Thomas or else I’m pissed I wasn’t invited. I suddenly become aware that the tables have turned. I went from laughing at his first ridiculous proposition to actually anticipating a business arrangement with him, whatever that may be. It is time to purge all of his messages from my inbox. I never go so far as to delete someone from my phone, but at least without the 50+ messages as a reminder of him, I can close his chapter and walk away.

The author is a Barnard College junior.