Why This Stripper Isn’t Cut Out To Be A Sugar Baby
I met him at the strip club. That’s how all these stories start, isn’t it?
I knew it was game when I saw the company he brought with him: black, female, slim, probably in her early- to mid-20s. She looked like me. He looked ancient, and not just by comparison: thin white hair he tried to comb over his bald spot, sunken eyes and protruding teeth stained by years of smoking.
The club was dead and until I saw them, I worried I was going to go home empty handed. I approached right away.
In situations like these, it’s best to speak to the woman first to let her know you’re not a threat. You don’t want her man; you just want his money—or her money, if she’s the one financing the night.
Flattery never hurt anyone and charm will take you far, maybe even to the VIP suite.
If you’re like me and memory was never your strong suit, be sure to remember their names (in this case, “Mitchel” and “Kimberly”). If the girl looks familiar, let her broach the subject first.
“Of course, I used to dance” she’ll say, “but he doesn’t know that. He’s my friend’s trick—she introduced us over dinner.”
Compliment her hustle.
“Thank you, girl. He loves ebony queens, women like us. Don’t worry: I’ll make sure he spends on you. You’ll have a good night.”
Thank her, and be sincere. Because of her, your night is secure.
After a bottle of champagne and an hour in the VIP suite, he offered to take me shopping at La Perla.
“Kimberly, take her number and arrange it.”
“But Mitchel, I want to go to AP” she protested.
“My friend is working at La Perla this weekend and she’ll make sure we have a good time.”
They both seemed to forget that I hadn’t agreed to go anywhere with either of them. But after a night of sleep, and a conversation with Kimberly, I reconsidered.
“I don’t want to go out with him only for him to expect something in return,” I whispered into the phone, trying, for some reason, to conceal my potential “sugar” date from my roommate, who was a full-fledged “sugar baby” herself.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Kimberly assured me, “He always expects something, but…he’s patient. He won’t wait forever, but you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
I still didn’t like the idea of leading some old guy on in the name of getting designer lingerie and other useless items.
“He’ll give you $500 just for going shopping with us. Of course, I’d expect you to take care of me, since I’m setting all this up.”
As I debated whether I should spend my Sunday with an older man and his sugar baby for what would equal $400 dollars and tons of shit I didn’t need, I asked my friend Jordan for her opinion.
Her advice was simple: BITCH, GO, WTF.
I texted Kimberly: “Okay, when are we going shopping?”
Per Kimberly’s instructions, I wore my nicest casual dress and high heels. I got my makeup done at Sephora—I also sprayed myself with some perfume since I had forgotten to shower. Looking lovely but feeling exhausted, I arrived at La Perla Soho.
Mitchel’s “friend,” Jackie, a high-end shop girl, greeted me with champagne. Mitchel, Kimberly and I were the only ones in the store; Jackie had shut it down for us.
Over the course of three hours, Kimberly and I would try on outfits, sip champagne and model for Mitchel, who was an amateur photographer in addition to being a renowned psychiatrist. Mitchel wanted to end the day with dinner and drinks. But since Kimberly and I didn’t want to spend the entire evening entertaining him, we insisted on a nearby hotel bar that served tapas.
The night ended easily enough. I went home and washed off my makeup. As I got ready for bed, I saw I had two text messages from Mitchel. I responded politely, only to have him call me minutes later.
His proposition was clear: I could become his next “girlfriend.” I would never have to worry about rent again, and my student loans would disappear in a few months—all $65,000 of them. The only thing I had to do was keep sex interesting; introduce him to some of my friends so we could have a three-way; look “absolutely perfect” when we went out; submit to breast augmentation and dental surgery to “fix” my gap teeth; and—of course—suck his cock.
I considered, and realized that if becoming a sugar baby meant dealing with a man like Mitchel 24/7, I should stick to stripping.