I’ve always labeled myself a proud feminist. I’m not involved in what you might call radical feminism (which actually isn’t feminism at all), because I prefer to view men as equal rather than inferior. I think any job a man could do, a woman could do just as well. I also think that while some women are fine being financially dependent on a man, I’d prefer to make my own money, and then blow my own money on shit that I don’t need but buy anyway, because there’s no man cutting me off.
That being said, if someone were to offer me the option of having my own personal abstinent sugar daddy, I would up and quit my job faster than you could say, “What a fucking hypocrite.”
I know, I know. I preach about being independent and assuming equality, so why the hell would I ever consider living the life of a sugar baby? I might counter your question with one of my own: are you honestly telling me you wouldn’t love to have an adoring older man hand you the keys to a convertible and a limitless credit card? Stop it, liar. Do you have any idea how much shit you could buy from Target if you were on someone else’s dime?
It’s shameful, really. But once you’ve caught a glimpse of a life of employment, you can’t help but wonder how different your life would look if you had spent your student loans on a new rack and a discrete sugar baby dating profile. Working nine to six has it’s perks, mainly being able to pay rent and buy groceries that are slightly more diverse than Ramen noodles. But even the most hard-working girl daydreams about a life spent on a beach, sipping on brightly colored drinks with tiny, non-functional umbrellas that just scream “I’m packing more cash than any twenty-something should be allowed to have at her disposal.”
Or maybe not. If you spend too much time considering a life of luxurious vacations and sports cars, your mind will eventually wind up on the 80-year-old leather bag who’s funding the whole damn thing. It’s possible you’d end up with a Clooney or a Christian Grey, but unless you look like Margot Robbie or have managed to keep your virginity, it’s likely that any sugar daddy who would be willing to adopt you would be old as fuck. Sure, he might be related to the Kennedys and shit hundred dollar bills. But he also has artificial teeth and a six o’clock bedtime. That’s the only thing keeping this idea a fantasy: I’m not ready to bang an oldie, and I just don’t think I’d be able to emotionally recover from a romp that involved a guy who was my age when the Korean war ended. They say all cats look the same in the dark, but if Samantha Jones is too good to do a senior citizen, so are you. I’ve always been told to respect my elders, but if I’m being completely honest, it would take a lot more than cash moolah to get me to fuck them.
Still, it’s nice to dream. I might not be the kind of girl who could accept limitless perks from a guy in exchange for sex without seeing the whole thing for what it really is (borderline prostitution), but I can always imagine what those perks would be like while I spend my lunch break scarfing down a peanut butter and jelly and watching two grown-ass men sweat profusely over a game of ping pong. At the end of the day, I cling to the reality that I get to date men who aren’t at risk of slipping into cardiac arrest or breaking a hip every time they pop a bone dog. There’s something to be said for that, even if they aren’t able to buy me a yacht just so I have an excuse to wear my Sperry’s and channel my inner Jordan Belfort. .
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