Dipping a Toe in Sugar Read online

  Aunt Stacy really doesn't see her house the way other people see it. She sees mere clutter where any normal human being sees filth.

  The fact that I finally took my aunt up on her offer of a place to stay is a greater testament to my rock bottom status than the job cleaning shit off bathroom walls.

  And I still can't afford the roof over my head because while Stacy does OK on her retirement and Social Security, she spends a lot of money on home shopping channel impulse buys at 4 in the morning so me running the extra AC unit in the uninsulated garage room is something I have to chip in for.

  Grateful to have a cover story this time for why my eyes are red and swollen when I get back into the station to put away the cleaning supplies, I get back to my regular shift work.

  I watch a Land Rover pull up to one of the pumps outside. An older man gets out of the driver's side and walks around to the gas pump.

  Just as he pulls his credit card out of his wallet a young brunette slithers off the leather passenger seat, her high heels hitting the cement for only a second before she manages to run around to the man with her hand out and a grin on her face.

  The man smiles, reaches into his wallet and hands her a bill. The girl bounces once, sending her boobs into motion before getting on her tippy toes to kiss him on the cheek. Then she comes running into the station's convenience store, leaving the passenger door of the luxury SUV wide open.

  We're not far from Vegas. I see this all the time. I'm not even going to ask if that's her dad...it's her daddy all right, just not the biological type.

  I watch her wander around the small store, picking up candy bars and potato chips, pouring herself a fountain drink and stopping in front of the display of cheap electronic gadgets that I think is more of a shoplifting hazard than profitable.

  The girl is maybe 23. Maybe. She's wearing 4 inch platform shoes that I'd call hooker heels if they weren't $1,000 designer shoes. Even with the heels, I'd be surprised if she's 5'5".

  She's young, gorgeous, dressed in designer labels from head to toe, with a rocking little body and a set of I'm-sure-fake double Ds. And she's smiling like the cat that got the canary as she hands me the crisp hundred dollar bill to pay for her stash of snacks for the road.

  "Daniel's taking me to Disneyland," she beams while I count out her change, "I've never been so he got us a suite at the big hotel there and we're going to stay for a whole week!"

  She's part wide eyed innocent little girl and part high class hoe.

  It's weird.

  "Well have fun," I say as I bag her treats up and hand them to her.

  I mean it too. No point blaming her for my fucked up life.

  She's the smart one, I think as I watch the 60-something year old man outside hold the door for her while she climbs back into her passenger seat throne in the quarter million dollar SUV. He says something and she holds her soda cup out.

  He leans down and takes a sip off her straw. Then he makes a show of making a face and she giggles before giving him a showy smooch on the lips.

  When she hands him the change from his hundred, he waves it away and she kisses him again.

  The man is grinning like a Cheshire cat as he closes her door and makes his way back to the driver's side.

  I should have been smart like that when I was her age.

  I should have gotten a cocktail waitress job at the country club or the Elk's Lodge and found myself a rich old man who wanted to spoil me.

  Not me. I was always too busy being independent. Trying to do things my way. Utterly convinced that I needed to contribute to my partnership...that I'd have a partnership to contribute to.

  Instead, look where I ended up. I put all my money and effort into building an adult life with my partner, planning for our future, and didn't get anything out of it but a bunch of fancy pots and pans that I ended up having to sell anyway.

  Too bad I'm not young and cute enough to get myself a sugar daddy now, I think as I watch them drive away.

  I could really use one of those knight-in-shining-armor type men who want to rescue a damsel in distress by putting her up in a nice house with a reliable car and taking care of her expenses while he puts her through college.

  Or invests in building her dream business without asking for anything in return-- except maybe sex.

  I can't really think of any other reason a rich man would want to spend his money on a girl like that. And I'm sure any man who wants to be a sugar daddy wants a girl just like that one. Young, cute, and bouncy with big tits who acts like he hung the stars for her.

  That is so not me.

  But I could totally play that part for a guy who made my life better right now.

  That's how bad it is.

  I spend the last hour of my shift doing internet searches for how to find a sugar daddy and what the odds of getting one are when you're over 30.

  Brighton

  It only took one gallery opening, one charity dinner at $3,000 a plate, a very private party that took me months to schmooze my way into-- and one very, very bad date-- for me to break down.

  As I scroll through profiles on the Sugarmesweet website, I cringe at what I've been reduced to. But I've tried all the conventional methods and I have yet to find an appropriate woman to accompany me to the events I need to attend.

  All I need is a woman who can pull off a designer gown and high heels and can make small talk while having the sense to know when to shut up and smile and let the senator think he's right. Or the celebrity doctor. Or the Japanese art collector. Or up and coming artist. Or whoever the fuck needs to be in the spotlight at any given event.

  My mother's hairstylist's daughter is not that woman.

  I just hope the generous donation I made to the Art League buys me out of the humiliation of being the guy that brought the woman who gave the season's most celebrated up and coming new artist hell over using a medium that isn't vegan.

  Who knew shellac was made from bugs?

  Who cares?

  My date for the most exclusive event of the year and probably my only opportunity to get a chance to secure a relationship with Chloe.

  Oh yes.

  I also need a mature companion who understands the nature of my business and can handle seeing me chat up drop dead gorgeous drag queen art dealers without throwing a jealous tiff about her date "flirting with another woman" right in front of her.

  It's possible that I'm on a wild goose chase here, but desperate times calling for desperate measures and all that.

  Not only would it be nice to have a woman at my beck and call, but it'd be good for my image to not be seen with a different girl every time I go out to a function. I don't need the publicity and a reputation as a playboy sure as hell isn't going to do my career any good.

  My fingers hit the touch pad with more of a thump than a tap and the extra pressure sends the screen scrolling in a blur causing me to skip about 200 profiles.

  Fuck it. It doesn't matter. These girls are all the same. Barely legal girls looking for rich men to buy them shoes. Designer shoes. Handbags. Trips to Paris. I'm seeing a lot of what I expected and not much of what I'm looking for.

  As much as I don't want people whispering about my supposed commitment issues if I'm seen with a different woman every week, I hate the idea of being that guy with a woman half his age even more.

  Call it ego, I don't give a fuck, in my line of work I see plenty of old guys driving sports cars and throwing money at 18 year old girls so they feel like they're still virile. And I know what people say about those guys when they're not around too.

  I don't like the idea of any rumors starting about me not being able to get it up.

  My dick is fine, thank you. He just doesn't see much action these days. That's my choice. I may not be ready to be one of the "old men" but I am too damn old to be distracted by every wannabe artist and art groupie in the district just for the sake of getting my dick wet.

  Not that I'm ready to settle down yet, either. Eventually, sur
e. Do the whole ring and kids thing. Someday. When I'm ready.

  Which I am not, which is why I am trolling this damn website looking for a sugar baby.

  The term makes me shudder. I hate all that it brings to mind. I hate that so many of the girls here fit the stereotype, and I hate that I've been reduced to even considering going this route.

  But, like I said, I'm not ready for a relationship and it seems like every girl I meet is either looking to get hitched, digging for gold, or using me for my contacts in the community.

  At least with a bona fide sugar baby it's all out in the open. Terms agreed upon and in writing. She gets money and lifestyle, I get a stand-in woman to play the part of doting companion.

  I can certainly afford it. And with event scheduling being so hard to plan in advance-- artists, gotta love those creative personality types-- I need to guarantee I have someone who'll be available at a moment's notice.

  Of course, it's not like I have to go to every cocktail hour in the city. Any sugar baby I have would have plenty of personal time to spend my money however she sees fit-- shoes, spa days, college. I don't care.

  Because that's another thing-- I'm not hiring a hooker on retainer here.

  That was the first rule I made when I finally gave in and started looking into this type of arrangement.

  No sex.

  I need a woman on my arm, not in my bed.

  When I want to get laid, I'll get laid. I don't need to pay for pussy.

  This is strictly business.

  Now, if I can just find a woman who's not young enough to be my daughter, maybe this plan won't be as stupid as I fear it is.

  Paula

  I expected to at least meet the guy before he sent me a contract.

  Staring at the paperwork in front of me, I read through it one more time. Then one-- OK two-- more times after that.

  This Brighton guy contacted me through the website's concierge-- the service department from the Sugarmesweet site that acts as a go-between between babies and daddies. Or babies and mamas or whoever wants to get in touch and propose an arrangement or a meeting.

  It's all so new to me, I can hardly keep up with the all the lingo.

  All I know is that I'm looking at a legitimate, legal contract to become the bona fide sugar baby of one Brighton Ford; an art broker with a listed annual income of $350,000 and homes in both Manhattan and Santa Monica.

  From the profile he has on Sugarmesweet (and a healthy amount of internet stalking done after I saw his picture) he's in his mid-40s and is hella good looking.

  Which was a huge relief and very promising...until I read the clause in his proposal that stipulates that he is not willing to engage in sexual concourse with his sugar baby-- me.

  Figures.

  Some hunky and-- according to everything I can dig up on him-- entirely eligibly single dude with money who isn't even old enough to be my dad wants to move me to LA, put me up in a nice place in a great neighborhood, supply me with a "wardrobe appropriate to his needs" and give me a monthly "allowance" equal to about a bazillion times more than I'm making at the Pump and Go...and he doesn't want to have sex.

  I'm probably the only sugar baby in the history of ever that gets a sugar daddy that doesn't expect me to put out.

  Oh well.

  Maybe he's not into women but he's not ready to admit it. Or he can't get it up. Or he's madly in love with someone he can never have but will always be true to.

  OK...probably not, but I've been reading this book and well-- it's a romantic notion I guess.

  Everything is legit though. He's a real person. The people who run Sugarmesweet vet their members really well-- both the prospective babies and daddies and mamas. He had to pass a background check and verify his claimed income.

  I feel pretty safe signing the papers in front of me.

  So I do.

  Then I read the whole document one more time, just to be sure I really understand what I'm signing up for.

  I keep my copy, slip the others into the overnight mailer and set it next to my keys and purse so I don't forget to drop it off on my way to work in the morning.

  Then I realize I won't be needing to go to work at the Pump and Go much longer, so I scribble out a short "I'm quitting at the end of the week" note to give to my boss in the morning.

  Then I read through a few more "who is Brighton Ford" finds on the web-- realize I am going to be attending a ton of high profile events in the art community on both coasts on the arm of a man that looks like he was born to melt panties and break hearts and I...panic.

  No way to sugar coat that.

  Anxiety floods through my veins like a swarm of fire ants.

  Slamming the screen down on my laptop, I hop off the twin size cot that I've been sleeping on for the last 4 months and pace the narrow space between it and the pottery wheel.

  What the hell am I thinking?

  What the hell is he thinking?!

  Did this guy even look at my profile? Does he know what I look like? Does he know how old I am? Did he read my bio? Does he realize I'm not some socialite that's going to know which fork goes with which course at a fancy dinner? Or what to say to billionaire art collectors? Or how to make small talk with famous actors and rock stars like they're just ordinary people and not totally fan girl over meeting famous people?

  Once the thought worms its way into my head that this guy might not have put a lot of thought into his choice, my imagination goes ballistic.

  What if he didn't mean to pick me at all?

  What if I have the same name as some other sugar baby wannabe and the service sent the contract to the wrong girl?

  That would totally make sense-- like, what if this guy did meet the other Paula Jacobs and they really hit it off and now he's going to be super pissed off when I show up instead?

  What if I quit my job, pack all my stuff up, and move to LA and he changes his mind about being my sugar daddy?

  I mean-- the contract has an "out" clause and it says that if he terminates the arrangement early I get a nice parting settlement but...

  I think back on the money Brad paid me when he bought me out of my own business. It didn't go far.

  What if Brighton Ford boots me to the curb and I'm all alone in a city where I don't know anyone and I have to start all over-- again?

  Tears sting my eyes and my heart pounds.

  I can't go through with this.

  Things are bad where I am now. My life is a total loss, sure, but it's a total loss that I'm familiar with. It's a total loss that I'm used to. I can manage it. I mean, I'll figure it out. I'll get out of it somehow. Eventually.

  Right?

  I look around at the 8 foot by 10 foot room built in Aunt Stacey's garage with the uninsulated walls and the exposed framing on the one. The folding cot, the dusty pottery wheel, the storage boxes that contain my clothes, the yard sale dresser with my microwave on top of it.

  I can't wait for eventually.

  I have an opportunity to get out of here. To put some money in my pocket. Maybe go back to school. Save up to open my own bakery again someday or buy a house, and experience a life that I would never get a chance to live in the meantime.

  Even if it turns out to be a total bust-- it's not like I have anything to lose.

  Brighton

  Paula signed my contract without even trying to negotiate for better terms. I thought for sure she'd at least want a higher allowance or to have her gym membership and salon services included in the deal.

  But no.

  My copy of the paperwork arrived back to me within 48 hours after I'd had it sent; signed, dated, and initialed in all the necessary places without so much as a question about when she'd need to move..

  I am officially a sugar daddy.

  The term makes me roll my eyes as I check my watch.

  Not that she's late. I might be a tad early. And I don't want to risk another drink while I wait. I've already had 2 and the Scotch has done very little to calm my ner
ves.

  So I signal to the bartender to hold my tab and I step outside.

  What sort of woman agrees to pick up stakes and move to another city-- another state-- for a guy she's never even met before?

  Doesn't she have a job? Or family? Or roots where she is?

  The Sugarmesweet people do background checks on all applicants before they publish profiles, so I'm pretty sure she's not a black widow style killer or-- more likely, a junkie or a thief. But Paula's bio didn't say much more than her age and education level and some superficial personal info about her interests and hobbies.

  That leaves a lot of room for getting to know each other.

  All I know is that she's within the age range I was looking for and, based on the pictures in her profile, she's reasonably attractive.

  She moved into my old condo that I still keep as an rental last week. I wanted to give her a chance to get settled before I started overwhelming her with my needs and expectations and handing her our itinerary for the next few months.

  Out on the deck, I breathe in the cool night air and watch the dock for the limo.

  Headlights flash as a car turns this way and I can make out the lines of the white stretch I sent to pick Paula up.

  Standing up straight, I square my shoulders, adjust the waistband of my slacks, making sure my shirt is still tucked in, and run my hand through my hair-- which probably makes it worse, not better, but it's an old habit I can't seem to break.

  When I arranged to have the limo pick her up and meet me here, I thought it was a good idea. I was thinking more along the lines of this being a business meeting not a date.

  Now I worry that was the wrong move.

  Maybe I should have gone to pick her up in person?

  As I watch the car pull up to the dock and the driver get out to open the back door, I shake my head clear and assure myself this was the best plan.

  It is not a date.

  I don't not want to set up any false expectations.