“So, what are your interests?”
“Uh, Netflix.”
I found myself staring at him from across the small table, uncertain about how to continue the conversation. Did I grasp the intent behind his question? Of course. I’m a thirty-one-year-old woman on a date with a man nearly twice my age, with five hundred dollars tucked away in my purse. I was fully aware of his motives, yet I remained caught off guard.
We had set clear boundaries and discussed payment. My first rule was a strict no to anything sexual. Throughout the evening, he reiterated that he “expected nothing but my company.”
All clear.
Right?
The bartender must have sensed my discomfort because he quickly approached our table. I ordered water instead of a drink, a choice driven by my unease. My date noticed.
“I’m sorry; I genuinely don’t expect anything,” he insisted. “I thought you might want to have a few drinks and then, I don’t know, play.”
Play.
Images flooded my mind, and I felt a wave of nausea. For a fleeting moment, I considered the possibility of vomiting right there at the table.
The bartender’s pitying gaze was hard to ignore. Was this supposed to be so humiliating?
I took a deep breath. “I don’t think so,” I replied firmly. “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 wasn’t wrong. I could have rejected him when he approached me at the bar. I could have brushed him off when he watched me deal cards that night.
When he came over to talk, I could have been cold. I could have done more than simply button my shirt when he stared at my chest. I could have doubted his interest in me.
When he asked if older men bothered me, I could have said anything. But what I actually said was: “That depends.”
Why did I respond that way? My divorce was recent, and summer in North Dakota usually meant vibrant social scenes. Work had been slow, and I needed the cash.
I had heard of Sugar Babies earning well without so much as a goodbye hug. $500 for pleasant conversation? A no-brainer.
Yet, reality was different. I was realizing that I couldn’t be a Sugar Baby, no matter how hard I tried. Some women exude sexuality effortlessly, a quality I deeply admire.
Not me.
I was an awkward girl in an even more awkward situation. If I claimed I wasn’t disappointed, I would be lying.
I needed an escape. I grabbed my phone and pretended to scroll, feigning reception of a notification while I summoned a ride. “Oh, no,” I said, forcing a frown. “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 believe my excuse. Based on his slow nod and gaze dropping to the table, it was clear he didn’t.
My phone chimed, announcing a genuine notification.
Your driver is ten minutes away!
I sipped my water, attempting to steer the conversation again. I pride myself on being easy to talk to, and I thought that was what I was being paid for.
He seemed to shrink in front of me, and my heart ached a little. He had been a gentleman until now. Perhaps I had judged him too soon; maybe he was just nervous. We had plans for another date the next day, so I tried to salvage what could still be a pleasant afternoon and an extra $500.
“So, movies tomorrow? We’re seeing The Kitchen, right? I love horror.”
“You know, when I saw you, I thought you had the prettiest mouth.”
Oh, God.
Your driver is five minutes away!
I glanced past the uncomfortable bartender toward the door, contemplating if I could make a break for it.
Sensing my panic, he pushed boundaries further. He reached out and touched one of my tattoos, and I recoiled as if it were on fire.
“They’re beautiful. Can I persuade you to show me the rest?”
I was done.
I could hitchhike if necessary. I stood up, thanked him for the evening, and cursed myself for feeling he deserved even a hint of politeness.
As I exited, relieved to see my Lyft driver from a previous ride, I felt a pull on my hand.
In an instant, his hand was on my back, pulling me toward him. His lips crashed against mine, and his tongue invaded my mouth.
You should know this is a public confession of one of the most humiliating experiences I’ve ever endured.
I wish I could tell you I emerged victorious, that I sent him reeling after he had the audacity to touch me. Or perhaps I could claim to have been a clever vixen, like the women who navigate this lifestyle with ease.
In my imagined scenarios, I would walk away feeling empowered. Instead, I froze.
Did I deserve this? Had I somehow led him on?
I didn’t think so. We had agreed.
When he finally let me go, I burst into the waiting car and slammed the door shut. I looked into the rearview mirror, my lipstick smudged, tears threatening to spill.
“Well, I can never return to that bar,” I joked, just as the tears began to flow. Alone in the backseat, I sobbed while my driver remained silent, only pausing to buy me a McFlurry from McDonald’s. Five stars.
As I calmed down, a text lit up my phone. It was him.
No movie tomorrow. Doctor called in sick. I have to go back and cover for him. You are a beautiful and intelligent young lady.
Upon arriving home, I responded to the man who had betrayed my trust and made me feel small.
I blocked his number.
I knew I owed him nothing.
Turning on my TV, I smiled as I queued up Netflix. I wasn’t lying when I said I liked Netflix.
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Summary:
In this candid recounting, Lisa Thompson shares her uncomfortable experience as a Sugar Baby. Despite initial excitement about the financial prospects, she finds herself in an awkward and degrading situation with a much older man. The evening spirals as he crosses boundaries they had previously set, leading her to a moment of realization about her own comfort and self-worth. Ultimately, she leaves the encounter feeling violated but empowered by her decision to block his number and take control of her own narrative.
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