“I want a sugar daddy,” says the club promoter, stirring her gin and tonic wistfully, “but I would never—like—do anything sexual with him or anything.”
“Interesting,” I say.
I chug my pineapple vodka.
I am often overcome with a feeling of horror when I realize the person I am conversing with possesses an aggressive disregard for economics, cause-and-effect, logic and the like. She may as well have said, “I want to be a professional basketball player, but I would never touch a ball. I fucking hate balls and sneakers and black people and running.”
A sugar baby is essentially a shrewd, discerning prostitute who possesses the skills to generate revenue without the help of a pimp or an escort agency.
She is gifted with an innate understanding of human psychology and uses this to supply a service tailored specifically to the client’s tastes. She is able to make him feel special and desirable all while being paid, a seemingly paradoxical conundrum few have the finesse to navigate.
Needless to say, successful sugar babies (grossing six figures) are as rare as successful entrepreneurs. Many try and most fail. The majority don’t try at all: acquiescing to simpler arrangements like escorting or investment banking. Indeed self-employment (the lucrative kind) demands a fuck-ton of faith coupled with concupiscent persistence.
“Are you serious about becoming a sugar baby?” I ask.
She’s texting someone. “What was that?”
“Do you really want to be a sugar baby?”
“Well like yeah,” she puts her phone down, “I really need the money.”
“It can’t come from a place of desperation—”
“What?” She laughs nervously.
“Sugaring is a pretty… nuanced art I think, and if your only motivation is money I don’t think you’d find it…very rewarding—“
“Are you on drugs?” She looks pissed.
“No I’m sorry—“ I hiccup, “I’m just like really fucking drunk.”