Sugar Baby

by Robin Roseau

  "I bet this is the cream," I said.

  "Read some of the profiles," she said. "What do you have to lose, Astrid?"

  So I picked one at random, a 45-year-old woman from Atlanta with the handle GreenLady. A new page loaded, and I was presented with several photographs of an attractive middle-aged women. In each photo she was impeccably dressed. Several were taken at her country club. A few others showed her at work.

  GreenLady was a financial planner for a major bank. For activities she enjoyed golf and travel. Her bio read like any you might find on any online dating site. Except I'd never seen an online dating site that listed net worth.

  "Shit!" I said. "She's loaded."

  "It says she values intelligence and integrity," Maggie said, pointing to the screen. "And she's looking for someone she can take care of. A lot of them say that." She cocked her head. "Is she hot?" She looked at me. "Could you see yourself cuddling with her?"

  "No," I said. I clicked back and selected another bio. And another. And then one more.

  And at that one I stared.

  "Wow," said Maggie.

  "Yeah," I agreed quietly. "Maggie..."

  "Look," she said. "You don't have to decide anything tonight. But if I were in your situation, and if I looked like you, I'd think long and hard about it. I really would."

  "I don't know, Maggie..."

  "This site is my favorite," she went on. "Like I said. Some of them are skeezy. But this one is full of information. You have to give them a bunch of information. They even make you get fingerprinted."

  "Seriously?"

  "Yeah. I guess they use some service for that. You give them permission to do a background check, but they don't do it until one of the sugar mamas is willing to pay for it. But the sugar mamas get checked out even before their profiles go live. There's a section about taxes and staying inside the law. There's another section about safety." She paused. "You're supposed to tell someone who you're going out with. You could tell me. I wouldn't blab." Her eyes darted over to Honey's desk, and I knew she was making a sort of editorial comment. "And they even have software for your phone."

  "Software?"

  "Yeah. Like. Sugar baby tracking software. It's for your safety. But if you don't want to use theirs, they also point you to others you can use."

  "You're serious about all of this."

  "I just-" she looked down and stared at her fingernails for a minute. Then she looked up. "Look. It's your choice. I just had a little time the other night, and I decided to look at it. I was curious." Then she piled up all the papers and left them on my desk. "I put a star next to the two sites I thought were best, and I like the first one more than the second one."

  "All right," I said. "Thanks, I guess."

  She didn't say anything else but headed for the door. Then she turned around. "I won't blab. If you need someone to talk to. Or to help keep you safe, Astrid."

  "Thanks, Maggie. I'll keep that in mind."

  She nodded and then slipped out the door.

  Contemplation

  My birthday came and went. For the first time in my life, I spent my birthday alone. None of my family called. No one sent me a card or even an email. They certainly didn't arrange for a birthday dinner. Of course, I didn't get a single present. I think that was when it sunk in.

  I was persona non grata. Disowned. The black sheep of the family. I wondered if they'd destroyed all signs I'd ever existed in their lives. I wondered if I showed up at home if my room would be waiting for me.

  I rather doubted it.

  It had probably been repurposed as Mom's sewing room or Dad's new man cave, or maybe just storage. But I bet all my things had made it into the trash ten minutes after they threw me out of the house.

  The next day I stopped by the financial aid office, hoping for a different answer than the first time I'd been here. Yes, the school would do as much as they could. But what they could do wasn't going to be enough. No way could I come up with the amount of money I'd need by fall term.

  I did my own research. I looked at selling blood plasma. I couldn't find prices specific to Minnesota, but I learned I could make at most fifty bucks once a month. That wasn't going to pay for school.

  I stumbled upon a site that promised five grand if I donated eggs. The site said they liked smart, attractive college women and talked about paying off college loans. That part sounded awfully good, so I looked more deeply. And it looked like I'd only be able to donate once or at most twice a year, and no more than six times total. With my financial aid, that would cover one year at school, but I wouldn't be able to get all of it for years.

  It could help, but it wasn't going to be enough.

  I looked at jobs. Of course I looked at jobs. That was first, after all. But I'd have to work for two years at a minimum wage job to pay for one year at Glendale, and that was if I lived in the back seat of my car.

  Which I didn't have, by the way.

  I looked into a variety of options. I could probably sign up for psychology experiments. That didn't sound like much fun, and it looked like the most I could make was spending money. I wasn't going to make enough to pay for school.

  The more I looked, the more I realized one simple fact.

  I was screwed.

  It was a week later I dug out the papers Maggie gave me.

  * * * *

  I read the articles. I looked at the sites Maggie had found. She was right. Some of them were kind of gross.

  I read the FAQ -- Frequently Asked Questions -- page on Maggie's favorite site. I read it three times. I read the sections about personal security. I checked with the Better Business Bureau and found no egregious complaints.

  It took me days to do it. I absolutely couldn't do it while Honey was around. The last thing I wanted was for her to get wind of what I was doing. Who knew whom she would tell?

  And then, on a depressing Friday a week and a half after my birthday, I signed up.

  * * * *

  Of course, it wasn't that simple. There was an overwhelming amount of information they wanted. I almost balked multiple times at that. They wanted, it seemed, everything, including high school and college transcripts. I stared at all of it for a while, but then I said, "In for a penny..." and gave them everything they requested.

  Then it came to the section about photos. They were clear. No selfies. If I was serious about this, I should dress to the nines and get quality photos on top of that. But they said specifically the photos should look natural. Images of me studying or engaged in sports were good. Studio photos taken by an obvious professional were fine, but any sugar daddies would be looking for something that set me apart.

  All right. I wasn't interested in a sugar daddy, but I presumed sugar mamas would want the same thing.

  I went to find Maggie.

  "You're going to do it," she said the moment she saw me.

  "Yeah," I said. "I need photos."

  "There's something you don't know about me."

  "I imagine there's a lot I don't know about you."

  "My dad's a professional photographer," she said. She moved to her closet and when she turned around, she was holding a camera with the biggest lens I'd ever seen. "And I've got some of his hand-me-down equipment."

  We smiled at each other.

  Maggie was a godsend. We got together three times over the weekend for a couple of hours each time. It was winter, so we didn't bother with outside photographs. But we spent some time in the library. And when she found out I could play the piano, we headed to the Great Hall for photos of me behind one of the concert grands. All in all she took over a hundred photos with me in six different outfits. From that we narrowed down my choices to eight pictures. And then Maggie retouched the close-ups for me besides.

  I was deeply self-conscious through the entire process. I wasn't accustomed to this level of attention. Maggie, however, really seemed to get into it. She was careful what she said if anyone was listening, but she made comments like, "You're going t
o really reel them in," and "Oh, you look hot."

  I think I blushed a lot.

  But I had to admit: when she was done, I did look pretty damned good.

  Together, we uploaded the photos. Then Maggie went over everything with me, making suggested changes to my profile. I thought they were good suggestions, so I did what she recommended. And then I posted it.

  Contact

  I received my first contact the very next day. Oh, it wasn't from a potential sugar mama. It was from a friendly-sounding woman named Jean. Jean left a voice message on my cell inviting me to schedule a telephone interview with her. I called the number she gave me and reached agreement with a receptionist for a phone call for that evening. Jean would call me.

  I had to decide where I wanted to be when I took the call. I couldn't do it in the dorm. I didn't want anyone to overhear. I couldn't do it at the library, either. I thought about one of the music practice rooms, but I was worried about cell reception. In the end I made a walk across campus to one of the academic buildings -- they were always open, it seemed. Then I found an unused classroom and simply closed the door.

  It was an easy solution.

  My phone rang exactly at 8 PM. I'd been staring nervously at it for the last ten minutes. I'd brought homework, intending to study, but that hadn't really gone very well.

  "Hello," I said cautiously.

  "This is Jean Fitzsimmons," said the voice from the voice message earlier. "Am I speaking with Astrid Ahlstrom?"

  "Yes," I said. "This is Astrid. Thank you for calling."

  "Thank you for taking my call, Astrid," she replied. "Are you nervous?"

  "Yes," I admitted.

  "That's understandable. You don't have to be. I'm looking at your profile. You look like a lovely girl."

  "Thank you," I said softly.

  She hmm'd a few times, then she said, "Well. Why don't you tell me what isn't on this profile?"

  "It seemed very complete. You even asked my ring size! She's not going to buy me a ring, is she?"

  "Many of our patrons like to buy jewelry for their girls," she replied. "We like to be complete. How long have you been considering becoming a sugar baby?"

  "I don't know. Maybe a month or a month and a half."

  "I see," she said. "What happened, Astrid?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Let me tell you a little secret to success."

  "All right."

  "This doesn't work very well if either you or your potential patrons spend too much time beating around the bush. We've found being up front with everything is far better. That can be difficult, especially for people in certain parts of the country."

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "You've heard of Minnesota Nice, perhaps?"

  "I guess."

  "What happened, Astrid?"

  "I'm gay."

  "I gathered that from your profile."

  "My cousin outed me to my family at Christmas."

  "It didn't go well."

  I laughed nervously. "You could say that. If I don't find a way to pay for school, I'll be out on the street next September."

  "There," she said after a moment. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

  "I suppose not."

  We talked for a while, Jean sharing a little more about how this worked while extracting more information from me. Then her questions become personal, very personal, most of them about my health habits. I answered slowly then finally asked, "Why do you need all of this information?"

  "It's for your safety," she said. "Just a few more questions. Have you ever had a sexually transmitted disease?"

  "What?" I screeched. "Of course not!"

  "Do not be offended, Astrid," she said. "Imagine a few weeks from now. You sit down across a nice restaurant table from an alluring older woman. You can already feel the attraction building. Don't you want us to have asked her these questions, too?"

  "She could lie."

  "Yes, but in another minute we're going to make an appointment for your medical exam."

  "Are you serious?"

  "Quite serious, Astrid. You've gotten this far. Are you going to back out now?"

  I thought about it for two seconds. "No, Jean. No, I've never had an STD."

  "When were you last tested?"

  "Never."

  She was still for a moment. "Why not?"

  "I... I don't know."

  "Well, that is going to change," Jean informed me. She asked a few more questions. She was happy with some and less happy with others. Finally she said, "All right, Astrid. I need to ask you. Are you ready to commit to this?"

  "I'm not sure I appreciate what I'm getting into."

  "You don't have to do anything you don't want to," she replied. "But the more you take off the table, the more you limit your opportunities."

  "She's going to want sex, isn't she?"

  "Not necessarily, but probably."

  Although Jean couldn't see it, I nodded. "No guys. Ever."

  "No guys. What else?"

  "I-" I paused. "I don't know, Jean."

  "Is sex on the table, Astrid?"

  "I suppose it is," I said. "I think I knew that while signing up."

  "Limits?"

  "You heard what I said about guys."

  "I heard that. What if it's a couple? Two women. How would you feel about that?"

  "I've never done anything like that. I wouldn't know how to behave."

  "Let me be blunt, Astrid. Innocent can be a pretty big turn on for some women. What matters is honesty. If you told them you didn't know how to behave, I suspect they'd tell you what they wanted from you."

  I shifted uncomfortably, but then I nodded again. "I could probably do that, but, like, we'd get to know each other first, right?"

  "Absolutely. The relationship has to come first. Otherwise it verges on prostitution, doesn't it? You establish a relationship. Do you understand?"

  "So I would establish a relationship with a couple, and that relationship might include sex." I paused. "Possibly kinky sex."

  "How do you feel about that?"

  "Would I be safe?"

  "We're very careful, Astrid, but you would use the buddy system. If you have a buddy you trust, that's great, but we can also serve as your buddy." She talked about that for a while. "We've had a few men who haven't understood when they were going too far, but we haven't had anyone seriously hurt, and we haven't had any trouble with the sugar mamas."

  "Do you ever get a sugar baby who tries to rip off her, um..."

  "Patrons. We like the word patrons."

  "Patrons?"

  "Sometimes. But we're careful about that, too. I don't have to worry about that with you, though. I can tell."

  "You can?"

  "So, how do you feel about kinky sex?"

  "I don't know. I've never done anything like that, either. It might depend on how kinky, you know?"

  "So could I safely describe you as open minded but cautious?"

  "I suppose that's fair. I can't believe we're having this conversation."

  "I suppose it's a little surreal for you," Jean said. "Open minded means if the subject comes up, you don't dismiss it out of hand."

  "Right. I get it."

  "Role playing?"

  "Like, doctor and patient?"

  "Possibly, but our patrons can be somewhat more sophisticated than that. They may want you to pretend to be something different than what you are."

  "Like what?"

  "A daughter."

  "For sex?" I squeaked.

  "Not necessarily, but it happens."

  "You're not serious."

  "Consider them separately. How would you feel if a woman wants to introduce you as her daughter or granddaughter? She might want you to call her Mom or Grandma."

  "I can't believe this conversation," I said. "I don't know if I could have sex with someone who wants me to call her Mom. That's just weird."

  "What if she wants to introduce you as a friend of her daughter
, but wants you to call her Mom?"

  "I had a friend in high school whose mom wanted all of us to call her Mom. It was weird." I thought about it. "I guess. It might take some time getting used to. It might be easier if I weren't surprised by it, you know?"

  "Definitely."

  We talked for a few more minutes, all of it just as weird, but then Jean finally said, "So, are you willing to commit, Astrid? Do you have to think about it?"

  "I've thought about it. I'm nervous, but... Yeah, I can commit."

  "I want to set up an appointment for you."

  "I can't afford a doctor's bill."

  "We cover that. Here's what happens."

  Ten minutes later, we were off the phone.

  * * * *

  I didn't have classes on Thursday, and so I dressed in my Sunday best, so to speak. It was at ten Thursday morning that my phone rang. "Hello. This is Astrid."

  "Astrid," came an unfamiliar woman's voice. "I am Melly. I'm your ride."

  "Are you here?"

  "I am just pulling into the parking lot for your dorm."

  "I'll head down."

  "Very good," she said.

  Three minutes later I stepped outside the back door of the dorm, the side facing away from campus. Idling at the curb was a big, black sedan. Standing beside it was a woman only a few years older than I was. She was wearing a chauffer's uniform, complete with a cap atop her head. She saw me and smiled. I stepped forward.

  "Astrid Ahlstrom?"

  "That's me," I said.

  "I need to verify you have your I.D. with you." At that, I showed her the purse slung over my shoulder, but that wasn't enough. "Please take it out."

  "All right." It just took me a moment until I handed it to her. She examined it carefully then handed it back.

  "Thank you, Ms. Ahlstrom," she said. Then she opened the back door of the car, and I climbed in.

  It wasn't a limousine, or at least not the kind you see in the movies. It was just a big, comfortable car. Very comfortable. Melly walked around to the driver side and climbed in, then looked over her shoulder. "Buckle up, please."

  That wasn't necessary in Minnesota. The law required children and front seat passengers to buckle up. But I wasn't going to argue with her. She watched as I pulled the belt across. Then she turned forward, buckled herself in, and a moment later we were moving forward.