The Daily Tug Of War Between Self-Respect And A Sugar Daddy


I’m just going to put it out there: I’m poor. Not “homeless” poor, or “I don’t know where my next meal will come from” (Taco Bell) poor, but at nearly any given moment, someone has probably lived to a higher age than my checking account balance. As I’ve come to understand, this is life in your early twenties. That Taylor Swift is full of shit, man. Until you have to go on a date just to get a free meal, you don’t know what 22 actually feels like. Although, to be fair, it does seem like she dates around to sustain her music career, so I might give Ms. Swift the benefit of the doubt.

That being said, the perks are still alive and plentiful when it comes to being a hot, young twenty-something. Your skin is in its prime, your body and personality have maintained youthful perkiness, and the cruel world of long-term responsibilities is still beyond the horizon. For some, this time in life presents a unique opportunity: the sugar daddy.

Anyone with an Instagram account is likely to stumble upon one of these #blessed girls that’s somehow managing to acquire all of the luxuries in life, yet seemingly never has a job. She’s always hopping on a private jet and flying off to somewhere exciting, checking in at the Four Seasons, or posting a picture of her fresh manicure that conveniently showcases an exotic car emblem and a gold Cartier bracelet. She appears to be living in a cloud of fresh flowers, champagne, Chanel bags, and Christian Louboutin platforms. Who is this bitch, and why don’t I have the balls to be her?


I see it every day, and would be lying if I said it wasn’t tempting. I just graduated from college, haven’t committed to a career yet, and am at the age where sexy and outrageous clothing is still semi-appropriate. If ever there was a time for me to live carelessly from beach to beautiful beach, shouldn’t it be now? That’s the thing about financial success, though — it usually comes after you’ve busted your ass in life, and have the wrinkles to prove it. Unless you were born into the lap of luxury, you may have to sit in the lap of Mr. Luxury if you want it while you’re still young.


I’ll be honest, though — I’m no stranger to some aspects of this life. My family has spent weeks resort-hopping around South Africa, island-hopping on private yachts through the Caribbean, and champagne-sipping on the beaches of St. Barths, but only out of the sheer good fortune of having the right family friend. Having personally experienced the appeal that lifestyle has to offer, would I be willing to “rock the boat” with some sleazy old geezer just to experience it on the reg? Not only would I need Dramamine for non-seasick related nausea, but I’d be permanently drier than the land I’d so desperately yearn to be on.


When it comes down to it, most luxury items are a form of expressing something about ourselves. Any watch can tell us the time, and any bag can hold all thirty-seven of my lip glosses, but we know these possessions have the potential to make a statement. The question becomes: if everyone knows I’m doing naked cartwheels behind closed doors for that Hermes Birkin bag, am I really going to be perceived in the high-class light I’m trying to put off? Nope.

Sure, I can’t remember the last time I was able to buy myself a beautiful new pair of shoes, but I also can’t remember a time when I had to negotiate how much a slumber party with me was worth (roughly six Fireball shots and a drive-thru run somewhere).

Now I’m off to continue living my life in complete denial of my credit card bill, because I can’t afford the therapy it would take to face the truth.

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Taylor Dougherty

I guess the best way to describe myself is that I’m that friend you call to confess the things you don’t even want to admit to yourself. You involuntarily came in your pants? I’m here for you. (True story.)

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