I find it on Tumblr. There’s a lot of posing and bragging and crappy bathroom selfies with “DM me if you wanna be my daddy” captions, but I also find a few blogs that have a tell-it-like-it-is vibe, and I start to read.
Met a POT last night who could be my whale! He sent taxi money to my cash app along with a “little extra.” Two hundred dollars! On the date he ordered champagne. I checked the price on the wine list when he went to the bathroom and it costs five hundred a bottle. I could just smell the money all over him. He’s not a flashy dresser but dresses expensively if you know what I mean. At the end of the date he handed me the agreed upon three hundred, and didn’t even take out the two hundred he’d already given me.
Feeling so happy with myself. If men like spending and treating you then they WILL. You shouldn’t have to beg.
I figure out that POT is short for a Potential SD, or sugar daddy. A whale seems to be a sugar daddy who will spend large on you. I take notes as I go, as studious about this as I would be a homework assignment.
Last month my SD refused to raise my allowance and then complained I was wearing the same dress I’d worn twice before. I told him that if he wants me to look my best for him he needs to invest in me. I shed a few tears, too. Now I’m getting an extra five hundred a month and he’s taking me shopping on Saturday. This is how you finesse a man, ladies.
There’s something called a Splenda daddy, a man who doesn’t have as much cash to splash as a sugar daddy. Some girls say they’re time-wasters and you shouldn’t bother with them. Others love their Splenda daddies.
Why You Should Have a Splenda Daddy on the Side:
He won’t be able to give you a fat allowance but he won’t be demanding of your time either
Little cash gifts and presents add up
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.