by Vivian Wood
Keeps things ticking over for you during quiet periods
They’re super grateful for your time and will tell you how hot you are and how lucky they are to have you
I’ve now got three pages of notes and URLs and questions, but I keep going. There’s way more to learn than I first thought. I discover something called a salt daddy, which are apparently the bane of a sugar baby’s life. These are predatory men who manipulate sugar babies into giving them free sex, and will disappear as soon as they’ve had it.
How to Spot a Salt Daddy
Brings up sex right away and frequently, and expects it immediately
Refuses to pay for the first date and wants you to put out on the first date
Says the restaurant you chose is too expensive, they would prefer just drinks
Asks for nudes for free
Wants to take you for a “test drive” before discussing an allowance
Tells you he doesn’t need to pay for sex (then get off SD sites???)
Tells you he should get a discount because he’s good-looking (UGH)
Doesn’t want the relationship to feel “transactional”
Do NOT!!! give anything up to a man before you get what’s yours! These men are CHEAP. They are TIME WASTERS. All they want is to screw you for free and THEN DISAPPEAR. They will brag to their friends about how dumb you are. Do you want to be a punchline in a joke they’ll tell for years to come?? These men are NOT SDs. Stay safe, babies xxxxx
I frown at the screen. There’s so much talk about withholding sex that I started to wonder whether you can keep this up indefinitely. “Finessing” a man into giving you money while you lead him on isn’t exactly honest but at this point I’m willing to consider anything.
Until I find this post:
I am seeing this question a lot: Can I be a platonic sugar baby? Usually this question is accompanied by, “Old men are gross and I don’t want to touch them.” First of all: grow up. Second of all: you may find a daddy who wants you only for company and doesn’t want to kiss, cuddle, screw etc. Good for you if you do. But 99.99% of these men want sex, and once your allowance is locked in they’ll want it every date.
Stop dreaming. If you’re not prepared to sleep with these men, stay out of the bowl.
I sit back and swirl my hot chocolate. You’re supposed to get these guys to pay for your first date and yet you do NOT—exclamation mark!!—sleep with them on the first date. You absolutely must sleep with them, but also you should withhold sex.
What the hell?
I start to question whether I should just go all in and be an escort or even a stripper for Mr. Ravnikar because surely that would be less complicated. But one thing keeps me coming back to the idea of sugaring.
It’s just one daddy.
One man at a time, maybe two, not dozens one after the other or ogling you while you dance. I haven’t had that much experience with men and I don’t know how I’d cope with several dozen looking at me or having sex with me in just a few weeks. Plus, being a sugar baby is wrapped up in seemly things like dates and designer presents. I’m not interested in the trappings of an expensive life. I’ve done that and I know how shallow it is, but when I compare sugaring to escorting or stripping I have to admit that the sugar makes this bitter pill easier to swallow.
I find a post that helps clarify things for me.
It’s all about confidence. Value yourself, hoe. Don’t fuck for free. Don’t eat for free. Don’t talk for free. You’re a sugar baby and every minute of your time is a precious luxury that these men should be paying for.
I’m a luxury.
I like the sound of that. If I’m going to do sex work I’m going to do it my way, in a manner that makes me comfortable. There’s no point coming out the other side of this debt feeling like I’ve destroyed myself for Mr. Ravnikar. I have the feeling that’s exactly what he wants, and I refuse to let him win.
I check my notebook and type the URL of the website that Bethany gave me into the browser. Up comes a page showing a glamorous couple, the woman around twenty and the man in his mid-thirties. That seems like a lie right from the get-go. From what I’ve read I’m more likely to encounter men who are at least two decades older than me.
First I take a look at the other girls on this website, and…well, they’re gorgeous. Flawless skin, nipped waists, long legs, glossy hair. Most have their faces cropped out of their photos but those who don’t are stunningly beautiful.
I get up and go to the long mirror affixed to my wall, and I look at myself. My dead mother materializes at my side in an apricot skirt suit, casting critical eyes over me.
“You need to learn how to dress for your figure. Your legs are too short for your frame. Shoulders back. Stop picking at your nails. I wish you would do something about your posture. You’ll never get a husband with hair like that. My plastic surgeon can fix your nose. You should let me make an appointment for you.”
“Shut up!” I say to my reflection. “Just shut up, you stupid bitch.”
I remember one of the posts I read on Tumblr. You can’t get into the bowl with low self-esteem. These men will smell it and they will eat you alive.
“I don’t have low self-esteem,” I whisper fiercely. I just have a judgmental mix-tape of my dead mother on a continuous loop in my brain.
I look again, and try to be more objective. What do I have to offer a man? I think if I focus one-hundred percent on my appearance I’ll go mad, so I remind myself that a good date is more than looking like a supermodel. I can hold an intelligent conversation. I have a nice smile. I can listen to someone while they’re talking without constantly glancing at my phone. If that’s not enough, well, this isn’t for me, then. I won’t let a bunch of strange men dictate how I feel about myself, especially not when I haven’t even met any of them yet.
I want to keep reading posts and thinking about it for the rest of the day, but I’ve always learned better by doing and I’m on a deadline. I can feel Mr. Ravnikar and his stripper pole looming closer, so I register on the sugar dating website and start setting up my profile.
Filling out the bio section is hard. I’ve read a lot of conflicting advice about this but the best seems to be to emphasize what you can offer the men you date and how they can feel like they’re enriching your life, rather than going on about how you love to be spoiled and treated like a “prince$$”.
It takes a few goes to come up with something that makes me sound approachable and like I know what I’m doing, but I end up with,
I’m a London-based law student looking for a gentleman to spend quality time with. I would love to share a connection and goals for the future with someone special. I’m a friendly, discreet person and a great listener.
I reread it critically, and wonder if it makes me sound boring. Am I boring? What if I’m expected to be bubbly and spoiled? I don’t know. I’m not bubbly or spoiled and I don’t think I could fake it. I read it again, and add “generous” before “gentleman”. May as well make it absolutely clear I’m expecting to be paid, and well.
That will have to do. Maybe some men will find me a snore-fest but I feel safer launching into this unknown world with a bio I can live up to, even if some of it is an outright lie. I won’t be sharing my goals with anyone and I don’t care if we have a connection or not. The only thing I’m interested in is my sugar daddy’s wallet.
Most girls seem to have a few public photos plus a handful of private ones. I find some photos of myself and crop my head out of two of them. They’re not great photos because I’m wearing jeans, not a bodycon dress with a lot of sparkly jewelry, but they will have to do. I also find a nice picture Sloane took of me last year in a bar. I’m holding a cocktail and smiling and my long hair looks nice, so I add that as my private pic.
Then I screw up my courage and hit submit.
I sit in front of my laptop, drinking the dregs of my now-cold hot chocolate. If this plan works then I’m going to have to put up with going on dates with men ol
d enough to be my grandfather. Men who probably have bad breath and who think they have the right to my ass just because they’re rich. Who won’t care if I’m comfortable, if I’m happy, if I enjoy spending time with them. Who will expect me to be in the mood for sex or to blow them on demand.
If this works. Maybe it won’t. I know my profile isn’t the most enticing on the site and I don’t have the clothes or experience or attitude that those popular “bougie” girls on social media seem to possess. I remember Mr. Ravnikar’s lethal blue eyes and it’s only the memory of him that prevents me from slamming my laptop closed and never thinking about this again.
Fifteen minutes pass. No one is going to message me. My profile is definitely the unsexiest thing that’s ever existed. If by some miracle I even get a date then I’ve got nothing to wear and almost no makeup. Why would anyone pay money to date me when I haven’t been on a regular date in—
Ping.
I start so violently that I knock my mug against my lip. I have a message. With a shaking finger I open and read it: Got any nudes?
I hit delete and sink back in my chair again. I might be new to this but I’m not a complete idiot, and I’m not engaging with guys who only want free pics.
A short while later I’m surprised to find I have a small collection of messages in my inbox. Some are just variations of “hello” and nothing else. Even more are asking for nudes. Two are along the lines of, “I’ll give you a huge allowance but I need your bank account details and you have to send some of the money back to me.” I read about those online. Those guys are scammers and money launderers and I delete them.
One message seems promising. It’s from a man who says he works in finance, and he sends me a polite message asking about myself and what I’m looking for. His profile shows that he’s sixty-two, and I die a little inside. But I try not to think about that and tap out what I hope is a fun, sexy, but businesslike reply.
Hi! You seem really sweet. I’d love to get together over dinner to see if we click. I have a few commitments this week but I’m available on Thursday. My past arrangements have reimbursed me for all my time and I’d like that to continue. Thanks, Ciara
I’m such a liar. I have no commitments and zero past arrangements, but there’s no reason for him to know that. I have no idea if I sound too blunt or “transactional,” but I’m determined to follow the “don’t fuck for free, don’t even eat for free” advice. There’s zero point in me doing this if I’m not going to get paid. I’m better off staying at home un-groped if these guys aren’t giving me what I need to keep Mr. Ravnikar off my back.
Twenty minutes later he hasn’t replied. Oh, well. Next.
Another POT shows up in my inbox. He says he’s independently wealthy and sure, he could be, but he’s suspiciously young. Only thirty-three. I open a chat window with him and he explains that he invested in a friend’s app that took off and he made lots of money. I send him the same message I sent to Old Finance Dude because I don’t see anything wrong with it.
He comes back instantly with, I don’t want this to feel too transactional.
My eyes narrow. I know I wondered the same thing myself, but seeing this echoed back to me I can suddenly see right through him. He wants a quick fuck for free. I feel my temper flare and type angrily, Then get the hell off a sugar dating website????
Mr. Anti-Transactional comes back with, I don’t need to pay for sex, my friend fucked two girls off here last month for free and one of them was a nine. You’re barely scraping a seven and you’re a rude bitch. I’ve got your IP address and private photos and I’m going to screenshot your profile and send everything to your parents, slut.
I buried my parents this week, asswipe, I reply, and add a middle-finger emoji. Then for good measure I block and report him. I stand up, breathing hard, blood pounding in my ears. It’s not fair that some faceless fuckboy has demolished my self-control with just a few words and empty threats. Maybe I’m not cut out for this life.
I go downstairs for a glass of water and a muesli bar. This is a lot harder than I was anticipating and a lot more draining, too. Just a few hours in and I’m shaking with rage.
When I come back to my computer there’s another message waiting for me, longer than the others I’ve received.
Dear Ciara,
I’m a busy man so I will keep this brief. I would like to discuss a mutually beneficial arrangement between us as soon as possible. I have little patience for mind games and I don’t have time for a lot of texting. I’m sure you have things you’d rather be doing as well.
Please reply promptly and my personal assistant will schedule in a meeting between us.
Regards,
Mr. Smith
My eyes widen as I read the message. What a peremptory asshole. Am I supposed to fawn over some dickhead while he talks to me like this? He just assumes I’ll play silly games and pester him with a lot of text messages? Am I meant to suck his dick on a schedule organized by his assistant?
I don’t have much power over my life right now but I can put up a really strong asshole barrier. I take immense delight in deleting Mr. Smith’s message, and enjoy the knowledge that I’ll never have to think about him again.
Chapter Five
Misha
Bethany appears in my office doorway at nine the next morning with a huge smile on her face. “Did it work? Can I have my sugar bonus yet, daddy?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell Bethany to get out and to stop calling me daddy. She’s being entirely unprofessional and as I glare up at her I see her eyes widen in surprise.
I’ve failed. I checked the sugar dating website twice last night and again this morning. I can see that Miss Alders has been online several times and yet she hasn’t replied to my message. I didn’t waste her time with pointless feelings and questions and I made it clear I was going to reimburse her generously for her time. What more could a young woman in her position want?
“Is everything ready for the Harrison meeting later?” I growl at my computer monitor.
Bethany comes into my office. “Wait a sec. What happened? Did Ciara not set up a profile? Are you sure you looked hard enough?”
I’m not talking about this with Bethany. She’ll get into the habit of thinking she can meddle with my private life and I’m not having that—not that Miss Alders has anything to do with my private life. “I asked about the Harrison meeting.”
But something about my tone or my manner must give me away. “She didn’t reply to you? Holy shit. But you’re loaded. What did you do, send her a dick pic? Have you got an ugly one, sir?”
Bethany comes around my desk to look at my screen, and even though it’s only showing a work email and nothing to do with Miss Alders I grip my monitor defensively. “I hardly think—”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Don’t be stupid. You need my help and this is a business communication, not a love letter. I write your emails for you all the time, so show me what you sent her.”
There’s some truth in that. I pull the message up and let her read it.
Bethany scans the screen and then puts her face in her hands. “Oh, you’re such an idiot sometimes, sir. Move.” She elbows me out of my seat. Reluctantly, I get up and she starts to type. I read over her shoulder as the message appears on the screen.
Dear Ciara,
I apologize for my abrupt email yesterday. I’m new to this and in my nervousness I think I came across as rude. Have you ever done this before? I would love to meet you and get to know you better. You seem like an enchanting young woman and I would like to take you out to dinner, if I may. Do you know La Flèche D’or?
Yours,
John Smith
She hits send before I can say anything. I gesture angrily at the screen. “How is that better? I’ve not done this before? She’s going to think I’m a fool.”
Bethany leans back in my chair and crosses her long legs, looking pleased with herself. “She’s going to think you’re a rich man with e
xcellent taste in restaurants, and that you’re someone who can admit a little weakness. Practically a unicorn,” she adds dryly.
“Why does it matter which restaurant I choose?”
“Because babies who know what they’re about are evaluating everything you say and do in terms of money and whether you have it. La Flèche D’or isn’t only wildly expensive, it’s very chic, too. People who eat there are used to spending money. Other places might look more exclusive, but La Flèche D’or is more exclusive. It’s also very uptight. You know. Like you, sir.”
I’ll ignore that. “I just think—”
There’s a ping and we both whip around to look at the screen.
“Oh, my god. She’s replied.” Bethany reaches for the mouse and before I can stop her she clicks on the message.
“Excuse me,” I say, grasping her under the arm and hauling her out of my chair.
Bethany moves out of the way. “Fine, you do it. It’s about time you learned to function as a normal human being. Ask yourself, ‘If I were a nice artificial intelligence, what would I say?’ Turn off your asshole interface for a while.”
“Shut up, I’m trying to read.”
Hey, that’s understandable. I’m new to this too and pretty nervous. Tell me about yourself? Here’s my phone number so it’s easier to chat.
I groan. I don’t want to give her my number. I just want to give her half a million pounds. Why must women be so difficult?
Bethany helps herself to my phone. “What’s your passcode again?”
“Will you get out!” I roar at her, snatching it back.
Bethany holds her hands up in mock-surrender. “Fine! Be like that. But when you get stuck in three minutes’ time I’ll be just outside the door,” she says sweetly. “Ready to tell you to go fuck yourself.”