Here I was walking into a bar in my shortest skirt meeting a man twice my age and wondering why the hell I was doing this.
So, I dated a fuckboy.
By dated I mean saw each other every week for a year. By fuckboy I mean an evil, sex addicted narcissist.
We broke up.
He had another girl waiting in the wings. He was dick deep in hot-model girl insurance and I threw my laundry basket across my living room. If you’re wondering, yes, I had to get a new laundry basket.
He made me believe that I wasn’t good enough.
On a rainy Tuesday at my 9-5 job, I found a great emotional band aid.
I was tired, uninspired and grieving my pseudo relationship.
I came across a documentary on “sugaring”, who defined a ‘Sugar Daddy’ as: ‘a rich older man who lavishes gifts on a young woman in return for her company or sexual favours.’
The idea of a transactional relationship played on my mind for days. I fantasised about myself wearing labels, eating caviar and walking across the beach of a tropical island in a g- string bikini. No, I never wear G-string bikinis but, obviously if I was rich I totally would.
I could finally move countries and run away from my problems.
I downloaded a popular app.