One day, while doing my usual peruse of HuffPo during Stat (yawn), I came across an article that both captivated and confused me. The article detailed the relationship between Sugar Daddies and Sugar Babies, a simple arrangement set up by websites all over the Net. The typical Sugar Daddy: An established, well–to–do professional that will “mentor” and “guide” you with lovely dinners and private one–on–ones. Penn boys were feeling so yesterday, and my frozen Stouffers dinners were not up to par. There I was. Glaring at the article while the kid next to me slyly tried to fart–sneeze at the same time. I’m young. I’m not gross looking. I’m adventurous. This is a thing I could do. No—it is a thing I would do. I was off to find my Sugar Daddy.
I immediately recruited one of my housemates and crafted the perfect Sugar Baby profile. I had never done any online dating before, but I knew from movies and commercials that there was a certain science to the “About Me.” Who was I? My name: Abbie Deelectable. I made a fake email address to match. My type: kind, smart and someone who can “keep up” with me (double entendre at work over here). My personality: bubbly, a great listener and up for anything!
“Anything” began to mean a LOT of things to a lot of men. I had no idea what I was getting into.
I’ve gotten to know the Sugar Daddy Mentality (SDM, shall we?) pretty well over the past two weeks. I encountered all types of request—none of which detailed “mentorship” and “guidance.”
Let’s take a look at exhibit A: “I want to experience being the toilet of a white girl. No sex, no drama, no risk to you. I will pay $800 each time I visit you and experience being your toilet. I don’t care who wipes. I need you.”
I definitely considered this one. It’s always nice to feel needed. But a few of my closest advisors told me my feces was definitely worth over 1k. Sorry buddy. Exhibit B: “I am 82 years old and my wife just died. Just looking for someone to release my pain and get some use out of my heart and leftover Viagra before it’s too late.” This seemed appealing: a nice elderly man to take me out for brunch, someone to tuck into bed at night, free applesauce. But I don’t deal well with criers, and I’d probably never be able to interact with my grandpa ever again.
The least frightening plea for attention that came across my inbox was sweet, but presumptuous: “No matter what you may have thought or what someone might have said to you along the way, you are worthy of being loved because it’s obvious you have so much love to give.—John.”
I’m sorry, did I sign up for a therapy site? John—you don’t know me. From your blobfish–like profile photo and affinity for children’s books, you seemed like a nice guy. You really did. Then you had to go all Dr. Phil on me and totally ruined your chance.
Sigh. I never went on a date with any of the determined contenders and have since removed myself from the site. What I’ll say is this: sure, that mildly chubby rugby player who doesn’t know your name isn’t the best thing to wake up to after a night getting drunkenly suffocated at Smoke’s. But you know what? I’d chose a slimy Wharton kid, a dumb athlete or Tri-state stoner Jew over a grown man who wants to be my toilet—even if he shelled out another few hundred.
