“So, what do you enjoy doing?”
“Um, Netflix.”
I looked at him across the tiny table, uncertain of how to respond further. Did I grasp the question? Certainly. I was a thirty-one-year-old woman on a date with a man two decades my senior, with five hundred dollars in cash tucked away in my purse. I was aware of his intentions, yet I was still taken aback.
We had previously discussed payment and established boundaries; my first condition was no sexual activity. Throughout the evening, he kept assuring me that he “expected nothing but my company.”
We were clear on the terms, right?
The bartender must have sensed my unease, as he promptly approached our table. I opted for water instead of a Jack and Coke, driven by my discomfort. My date caught this change.
“I’m sorry, I truly don’t expect anything,” he remarked. “I thought you might want a few drinks and then, I don’t know, play.”
“Play.” The word conjured unsettling images in my mind, causing a wave of nausea. For a fleeting moment, I entertained the idea of vomiting all over the table.
I could feel the bartender’s sympathetic gaze from across the bar. Was this experience meant to be so degrading?
Taking a deep breath, I replied firmly, “I don’t think so. We had an agreement.”
“Yes,” he replied, “and I paid you $500. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to be a Sugar Baby.”
He was right. I could have walked away when I first met him at the bar. I work as a blackjack dealer and could have ignored his advances. When he approached to play, I could have been aloof. I could have buttoned my shirt when he stared at my chest or not believed his feigned interest. When he asked if older men were my type, I could have given a different answer, but I said: “That depends.”
Why did I say that? My divorce was fresh, summer in North Dakota had folks out socializing, and work had been slow. I needed the cash. I’d heard stories of Sugar Babies who thrived without even a goodbye hug. $500 for engaging conversation? That seemed easy.
Yet here I was, realizing I couldn’t be a Sugar Baby after all. Some women exude charm and sensuality—a talent I truly admire. But that wasn’t me. I was awkward, stuck in an uncomfortable situation. If I claimed I wasn’t disappointed, that would be a blatant lie.
I needed an escape. I picked up my phone and pretended to scroll, feigning a notification while I ordered a Lyft. I scrambled for an excuse to leave.
“Oh, no,” I frowned. “I have to get home early. My sitter needs me to pick up my dog before she sleeps. Her cut-off is at eleven, so…”
I locked eyes with him, hoping he would buy my story. Judging by his slow nod and the way his gaze dropped to the table, he didn’t.
My phone chimed with a real notification this time: Your driver is ten minutes away! I sipped my water, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters. I prided myself on being easy to talk to.
But he seemed deflated. My heart tugged at the thought; he had been a gentleman until now. Maybe I was judging him too quickly, and we had another date lined up for the next day. I attempted to salvage what could be a pleasant afternoon and a quick $500.
“So, what’s the plan for tomorrow? We’re seeing The Kitchen, right? I love horror films.”
“You know, when I first saw you, I thought you had the most beautiful mouth.”
Oh, God. Your driver is five minutes away!
My eyes flicked past the uncomfortable bartender to the door. If I bolted now, could I catch my ride halfway down the street?
He realized my anxiety and took a reckless chance. He reached out and touched one of my tattoos. I flinched as if it burned.
“Those are lovely. Can I convince you to show me the rest?”
That was it. I’d hitchhike if needed. I stood up, thanked him for the evening, and cursed myself for even thinking he deserved politeness.
As I walked out, relieved to see my Lyft driver from a previous ride, I felt a tug on my hand. In an instant, his hand was on my back, pulling me toward him, and suddenly, his tongue was invading my mouth.
You should know this: this is a public account of one of the most humiliating experiences I’ve ever had. I wish I could describe someone else to divert attention from my shame. I wish I could say I emerged victorious, or like a clever vixen who knows how to manipulate the situation.
In my fantasies, I imagined scenarios where I would come out feeling empowered. Instead, I froze. Did I bring this on myself? Did I lead him on?
I didn’t think so. We had a deal.
Once he was done, he released me, and I rushed into the car, feeling like I needed to escape. I caught my reflection in the rear-view mirror—my lipstick smeared, eyes brimming with tears.
“Well, I can’t ever go back to that bar,” I joked, only to be interrupted by the tears that flooded my cheeks. I sobbed, with only a stranger as my company. He said nothing, opting to stop for a McFlurry on the way to my place. Five stars.
My tears had subsided, with just the occasional sniffle, when a text lit up my phone. It was from him.
“No movie tomorrow. Doctor called in sick. I need to cover for him. You are a beautiful and intelligent young lady.”
When I got home, I responded to the man who had shattered my trust and made me feel small in the best way I knew how. I blocked his number. I realized I owed him nothing.
Settling onto my couch, I turned on the T.V. and smiled as I queued up Netflix. I wasn’t lying when I said I liked it.
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- What is it like to be a sugar baby?
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Summary:
In a deeply personal recounting, the author shares a troubling experience as a sugar baby, navigating expectations and boundaries during an unsettling date. Despite being initially drawn to the idea of easy money, she finds herself in a humiliating situation, grappling with feelings of shame and disappointment. Ultimately, she realizes she doesn’t owe anything to her date and reclaims her independence by blocking his number and finding solace in her favorite pastime: watching Netflix.