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.

It was not your regular app where the men are like, “Here’s me with a dog because I’m friendly” or, “Here I am with my baby nephew because I want to melt your ovaries”.

You had your old guys, your old old guys, married guys (lots of them), the guys that just wanted an online arrangement, long term arrangements, one-off arrangements and even guys who wanted you to host the sexy time at your place.

The most bizarre request I had was from a man who wanted me to instruct him to do mundane tasks while he watched. He wanted to pay me to let him clean my house or wash my car. Let’s all take a moment to take that in… yep.

After I screened what felt like one hundred men I decided I would meet one of them. Let’s call him Justin. He was 41, lived in a penthouse in the Eastern Suburbs of Sydney and worked in IT. He was hot. Not like, hot for a weird sugaring app but hot- hot. As I strapped on my OH&S hazard heels I realised there was a large chance he was a catfish.

I went anyway.

I was two wines deep in regret as I sat crossed legged at a small, darkly lit CBD bar.

Justin entered, and a wave of relief ran over me.

He was short but attractive. He seemed nervous. He said hello and we talked and laughed. We covered the usual topics; work, past relationships, hobbies etc. When he asked me to come back to his place Mum entered my head “Don’t go home with strangers”. I had my size 8 5”1” BFF tracking my phone, what could go wrong?

Get outta’ here mum.

We left in a taxi.

His place was amazing. I wanted to take photos and send them to my friends. I didn’t, because I’m a classy chick but, I was impressed. It had a view of the beach, high ceilings, marble benches and a large leather couch. Champagne was poured. The bubbles hadn’t settled in my tummy before we were kissing passionately, and I was sitting with my legs wrapped around his waist.

He kissed my neck, he pulled my panties down around my thighs grabbing my ass, hard. Using his teeth to pull my top up to reveal the matching bra that I spent thirty minutes choosing.

He carried me into his bedroom. I checked out the interior design. I can confirm that yes, I was still impressed. I lay naked on his bed, dripping with desire. I mean, really dripping there was definitely a wet patch. We had rough, passionate sex which ended with a mouth full of cum and a reminder that I needed to improve my fitness. I was puffed.

We lay side by side laughing and talking for a while. I told him I loved massages. He transferred $400 to my bank account so I could get one. I liked that. It was a smooth way of paying me. I felt guilty, but I accepted.

There was no romance there, but I could tell this man would be my friend.

He still is.

I went on many more sugar dates, some that I wasn’t paid for, but we had a genuine connection. Sugaring is a mask I put on for a while to help me through a painful time. Sure, it wasn’t the most healthy or conventional way to heal a heart, but do I regret it?

Nope.

Did I wear that G-String bikini?

Nope.