Falling in Love with an SD.

I haven’t wrote anything recently because it’s been a confusing time for me. Never did I realize when I signed up for that website, could I find someone so remarkable. Someone that makes every day a good one. More than a good one. A sunny, Seattle day with ice-cream and scotch. He makes every day a perfect day and I am very grateful for that. For me, I can’t decide how I feel about someone until I’m completely alone with my own thoughts. And I’ve been alone a lot since this SD has been on vacation. Even as a girlfriend, I’ve never thought about another man so much. “I wonder what he’s doing?” “Hopefully he’s not banging some japanese bitch in a kimono.” I’m worried and sad and I feel like I’m going through caffeine-withdrawal. 


But it can’t be real. It doesn’t have the option to be. I’m young and dumb for even developing these feelings for someone that can never reciprocate them. He does his best to keep a slight distance. He’ll end an “I miss you” with “But I miss fucking you more.” I mean, as endearing as that sounds, sometimes just “I miss you” can bring me to happy tears. Even as a SD, he still treats me better than any boyfriend I’ve ever had. His personal life is a complete mystery to me. Sometimes I’m ok with that, because knowing his background might change what type of person I think he is. And maybe I want to live in this web of fantasy for just a little while. 


I might be in love with a lie. But what an incredible journey of love and self-doubt this is. 


I’m back, bitches.

Wow. What a month.

I really slacked on the blog posting. I was so excited, too. The most blogging I’ve been doing is Yelping the fuck out of the internet. 

“Favorite non-pornographic site to masturbate to?” “Yelp.”


There’s no subtle way to say this. The past month has been a roller coaster of thought and inner conflict. School got overwhelming, sugaring got overwhelming, yadda yadda. I ended everything with every SD and POT SD, except for one. Goldman. We’ve explored the city, explored each other’s bodies, and these nearly two months feel real. The other day, a close friend of mine discussed a conflict she had with her boyfriend to me and I made a remark about Goldman. After I said this, she said, “There’s a difference. I’m in a relationship. You’re an arrangement.” Like it’s some sort of pseudo, fragile thing. And it is. And that scares the fuck out of me. I’m human, and I may not be crazy, but I’m still a lady. Despite how powerful I am, it’s still completely possible to feel weak in the knees and vulnerable to a man who wants me merely as his object. The way this man came into my life, convinced (and possibly manipulated) me into doing things I didn’t know I would ever consider has irrevocably changed me and the way I see myself. I am a prize. I am important. I am much dirtier than I thought. Like wow. Whoa. And I know there is no use saying this out loud to you, but this statement is good for me, y’know? (egotistically speaking) There is a deep, gut-feeling that you feel in the pit of your stomach and the back of your throat, that makes you suffocate and drown all at once. That. It’s the only way I can describe the feeling of wanting someone to love you so bad it hurts.


You can fall in love with the wrong person. They can be a bad person. This is not your fault. 


Anyway, that’s where I’ve been the last month. Becoming a scotch connoisseur at Seattle’s finest lounges and salivating over Sicilian food, and breaking all the sugar rules. I’m thinking about switching up this blog… Turning it into everything sugar. That means, including some of my favorite sugary sweets (I bake), sex tips, Seattle’s finest desserts and the occasional sugar tips/dates/being in a sugar relationship advice. 










Here’s a short story about “Northface”:

About a month ago on SA, this older man kept messaging me, telling me I was funny, yada yada. My roommate and I would joke that if you covered up his face he had a really youthful body. IF ONLY I could just put a paper bag over his face. 

We exchanged emails, and eventually phone numbers and I was involved with too many things to handle, so an arrangment/meet-up was out of the question. BUT Friday night, before the dancing, this old man with a body of a 16-year-old soccer star texted me and asked me out to sushi. This was his LAST attempt, he says. I agree to an early sushi dinner in Belltown (can’t think of the restaurant) on Saturday. I am clearly too much for this man to handle. I am raunchy, honest and I don’t give a fuck about how thin your other sugar babies were… If I want to eat a whole plate of california rolls by myself, then I will. I think being a little chubby is fair trades for having to deal with what I do. If anything gives you experience in customer service, it’s sugaring. 

I feel like I’m talking to a grandpa who is trying to stay with the current trends. I think he even mentioned Justin Bieber at one point. And he didn’t quite catch my sarcasm in, “Nice popped collar on your Northface, bro.” 

The reason I went out with this man is he’s a “diamond sugar daddy.” He makes over a million dollars a year and is willing to give a substantial amount to whatever sugar baby. If I could just deal with this man for a month, I could pay my rent for the summer. He kissed my cheek and said he would love to get coffee soon. Gulp.

After I had dinner with him, I went to a spoken word poetry event in Capitol Hill. I do a lot of spoken word and slam poetry nights, so I went to that with a few friends. After the event, an acquaintence asked my friend and I if we wanted to get dinner with her and her “boyfriend.” Dinner pt. 2. Whoa, I was a fat kid yesterday. We had dinner at a place called Purple in the financial district. This place is ritzy as fuck: glass everything, dim lighting, sugar daddies for miles. I am kind of offended I haven’t been taken here before. As dinner progresses, I get the feeling that this guy isn’t my kind of friend’s “boyfriend.” He’s an SD. He asks me about my life, what I like to do, etc. We exchange glances and we both just share a look that knows. I exchange phone numbers with this girl and her SD. I’m not saying potential SD for me… But he’s young and could be a good connection for me or a business connection for Goldman. 


I write this from a coffee shop called Assembly Hall. Above Assembly Hall are swanky apartments. The lobby I am near is full of young, exotic women and men 20 years their senior. I will live here someday. I will be a slam piece trophy wife. And MAYBE I will poison your dinner.

I’m a Slutty Rum Drunk

I’ve been drunk for what feels like 2 weeks straight.

But Friday, Goldman tells me we are getting wasted and hitting the clubs. My utmost favorite part of meeting up with Goldman is that first moment when he sees me. It’s a look of awe and complete happiness. His face says, “I am so happy to see you, but I cannot to wait to take that dress off with my teeth later.”

We went to a bar in Ballard and had a few rum cocktails and I had 2 double shots of Sailor Jerry’s. Total… 12 shots. I had a fucking salad for dinner. Little spinach leaves do not, in fact, soak up pirate’s poison. This was my first time dancing in Seattle and goddamn. Everyone is so passive. I may have been the drunkest, and the rum definitely made me the sluttiest, but I was so aggressive on the floor. I was in this skin-tight leather dress and men were trying to pick me up all over the place. I told Goldman, “Hopefully I don’t leave with one of these guys tonight.” That would have been a good story, yeah?

Goldman leaves for a second to use the restroom and I somehow make friends with a group of 40 year-old women and some ladies from a bachelorette party and we broke it dowwwwn. Dropping it low isn’t the problem. It’s the bringing it up part that I’m still trying to master. When I’m drunk, I can hold an intelligent conversation, but I can’t stand to save my life. At one point Goldman was holding me up so I could dance. When Goldman came back from the bathroom, I was sandwiched between an Usher-esque dance veteran and a middle-aged man wearing a polo. What the fuck.

He rescued me and we sat down to talk. We agreed to go back to my place since my roommate was gone. He carried my shoes. I was white girl wasted and he carried my shoes. When we arrived at my place we had slow, passionate sex, and he calls me beautiful and takes his time. My time with him is like nothing I’ve ever experienced.

Money doesn’t make you happy. It makes you pretty.

A couple days before I hung out with Sergeant on Saturday, I saw Goldman for a couple of hours. We drove around in his porsche. My curly locks flying out the window and his dark eyes melting into mine. You know that vulnerability you feel in your stomach when someone’s eyes make you feel like smiling? That.

We got brunch at Boat Street Kitchen, and he said he had a surprise for me. The first time he met me he said “don’t expect me to take you shopping. I’ll give you money, but fuck. I hate shopping.” I’m not a fan of shopping (ok, maybe online) at a store. But, Goldman broke his rule. He took me shopping. Records, comic books, and the sexiest leather dress from American Apparel for our dancing date in the near future… which I’ve been working my ass out for. Literally working out my ass. Squats for days.

He gave me a long kiss goodbye, and went back to work. I know when someone likes me if they want to see me during the day, doing normal people stuff, AND sober. Wow.

Ok, now I’m going to do something weird. I’m going to write about ANOTHER Goldman date in the SAME post. I’m feelin’ saucy.

Sunday night, on the day of our lord Jesus Christ, Goldman and I got high. THIS IS GRAPHIC, STOP READING. We got a hotel room, smoked weed in it, and made sweet love (fucking) all over it. I love the touch of another’s skin when I’m stoned. I really enjoy that he can be such an established business man and be so normal at the same time. After a couple rounds of sex (sorry I make it sound like a sport?) we got Dick’s hamburgers, and he even got a shake for my roommate. We both decided that we should go on some less ritzy, casual/divey places, to make the ritzy places seem special.

Sergeant told me I was too black and white as far as the lines between an arrangement and a relationship, and he expected our arrangement to turn into a relationship and to see me more often. Pfft, not for only $1,000 a month. I wanted to tell him, “you can’t afford me.” but I just ended it. I cross the line at saggy balls more than once a week. I think I will be fine with $2,000 a month from Goldman. At least until summer.

Maybe, JUST maybe, I’ll post a picture of me in my dancin’ dress on Friday.

Cheers, dears.

Sergeant Saturday

I’ve been swamped with schoolwork/emotional work/getting in top sugar shape.

So, my apologies. The agreement with Sergeant is every Saturday however long he wants to hangout. Never at night, which is perfect for my social life. I think Sergeant is inaccurately named. He’s kind, quiet and the only way I can describe him is “cheesy dad.” He makes dad puns and calls me Sweetie. Which kind of makes me want to puke in my mouth. Pet names. Ah, the affection of sugar daddies and the inner-hatred I have for it.

Sergeant and I started the day off with Louisa’s. Coffee, coffee, coffee, and a nice veggie omelet. We moved to Seattle center and after being here for months, I still haven’t done the space needle. He said it was a must for any Seattleite, so up we went. (I wish I was as high as the space needle right now.) We held hands and got more coffee, and eventually lunch, in the spinning room of… wow. Wow. I think I could have sold my kidney and I still couldn’t have paid for our meal. Sergeant also bought me various touristy things at the center. After we stuffed ourselves, we waddled our way over to the butterfly exhibit. Sergeant began holding my hand and using disgusting pet names, and recommended we go to the Imax theater. Don’t, I repeat, don’t go to a place close to where your friends live, if you’re trying to be a discreet sugar baby. Especially a college sugar bay like myself. I ran into someone that I work with often at my school and is a huge connection for me. I had to play it off like I was seeing a movie with my uncle/relative. Whew.

After the theater, we got coffee (surprise) once again, and watched a yoyo competition. He then offered to drive me home and I accepted. In the car he turns on a cheesy 80s Heart song. gay

Then he proceeds to attack my face with sloppy kisses, and hand me $300 cash. First thoughts about this man: he’s cute, he’s quietly interesting, and I’d enjoy hanging out with him. After 2 times of hanging out, I’m just not sure anymore. Being a sugar baby IS empowering. You get paid because someone else thinks you’re interesting and beautiful, and in turn you give them life experiences, genuine attention and a companion without a deep emotional attachment. Getting to know new people is thrilling, but the feeling of seeing fulfillment in someone else is remarkable.

Sergeant texted me/emailed me multiple times after the date. He had quite the time, clearly. More with the pet names. Ayayaye. He told me that he would like to see me more often  and that the feelings are quite strong and he wants to know where I am. I understand that I am being paid to hangout with someone essentially, but I am not being paid for a serious relationship. I don’t even want to be in a serial relationship in non-sugar life, let alone a committed relationship with a man as old as my father. Sometime today I will email him back and we will define the boundaries of an arrangement vs. a relationship.

Feelings are definitely developing for Goldman. And I have a couple stories about him since last week. I have to be focused. I can’t fall in love. Cue the good sex and fancy clothes.

To be continued.


I will NOT call you “Professor.” And I will not be your naughty school girl.

For the last couple of weeks, this older gentleman around 45 has been emailing me. The email titles began with “Dominant SD seeks Raunchy Southern Gal.” I should’ve fucking known. This is one of those moments where you just do something for the experience that comes out of it. I MAY appear to be this total badass, but I take the precautions of an intelligent sugar baby. (Always letting my best friend know where I am/sending him my location, calling when I leave, etc.) Any way, this man asks me to dinner at a restaurant called Lola, and eventually I say yes.

I show up to dinner, as this man is somewhere in the restaurant waiting for me, and I have no idea where he is. It takes me a couple minutes to find him, because he looks NOTHING like his pictures. Well, sort of like himself looked 10 years ago, clearly when those pictures he sent me were taken. We make small talk, then he starts talking about how he’s going cross-eyed like that’s supposed to fucking turn me on? This man then talks about his career in software engineering, and how he travels to New York and Paris often for work and he’d take me some time, blah blah blah. I am expert of all lies. He never once makes good eye contact with me, makes this painful-looking smirk, and twitches his eye (maybe it’s from the cross-eyes?) from time to time. He asks me about school and tells me he also teaches an engineering class at the university. Then this guy has the nerve to tell me to call him “Professor”, and states in a joking matter that I can be his naughty school girl. At dinner. While I’m eating brussel sprouts. 

I choke on vegetable and run to the bathroom and hide out there. When I wash my hands, I accidentally get water on my dress. I return to “Professor” and tell him that it’s not what it looks like…. I didn’t pee on myself. After he says, “I didn’t think you did.” I say, “you’re not into that?” He doesn’t see the humor. To add to the situation, I tell him it took so long because I tried to sneak out of the window.

Topic changes, not that we have much to talk about. We exchange stories, and he makes a racial remark about the Indian men on SA. I’m offended. One of my arrangements is Indian and he’s a wonderful guy. Color and personality of a person don’t correlate. Fun fact, apparently all Seattleites aren’t liberal. I am told once again that I am the coolest person on SA. Well, let’s see…. I do have 5 stars in wit, dragon slaying skills, harmonica skills, and I play dungeons and dragons every Tuesday night. I tell Professor about the abundance of married men on SA and he tells me he is technically married and his wife and him are “separated.” Separated, but she still lives on his, out in the middle of nowhere, estate. But won’t fuck him… 

Maybe it’s because you tell young college girls to be your naughty school girl and spend thousands on coke-addicts needing to feed their habit. I am clearly being not my nicest at dinner, and Professor already makes me an offer for an arrangement. 3,000 monthly plus travel and gifts. When safety is in danger, money is not worth it. Saggy balls aren’t worth money. Sex with droopy skin slapping against your naked body isn’t as great as it’s hyped up to be. (not that I would know.) Know your worth. If I’m romanticizing sugaring, and I don’t mean to be, don’t settle for old, skeevy men. If you’re pretty and interesting, you can get a young, established man who will treat you just lovely.

I tried to record this date because it was so ridiculous. Best chockolata (dessert @ Lola) of my life, but worst human being I have encountered since I moved here. To make sure the coast was clear, I headed to the Dahlia lounge across the street for a 10 yr Glenlivet, and waited for my best friend to pick me up.

On a positive note, I am stoked to see Goldman tomorrow. Booty skills too bomb. 

I don’t know why I said that. We’re going dancin’. Goodnight, dears.