A Charming Prince

It’s hard not to be distracted by the Supreme Court’s ruling on Roe. I have more of a right to privacy in purchasing an arsenal of firearms than I do to decide what goes on in my body. But is this new for Black folk? I think we inherit some residual body memories of chattel slavery—of our ancestors shipped, sold, forced to mate to produce more workers to build America. We have relatives enslaved by the 13th Amendment. Imprisoned people, who know what it’s like to work for $.35 (or less) per hour. Who make our license plates, Christmas toys and jackets sold at Target, or who have valiantly fought wildfires. Who have been subjected to forced sterilization by the prison system. Who are so invisible they have to hunger strike for their torture to be seen. How many of us have choices? But still, it’s hard not to feel leveled by this ruling.

Anywayyyyyyyy

I’m brushing off the mental cobwebs after taking a week long trip to New York. I’ve written about most of my clients since I began this blog. Many of my long-term customers have at some point subscribed either because I tempted them with hints of their stories, or out of an enduring curiosity to know every accessible artifact of my real identity. While I’ve had many positive conversations about my work and the way I’ve chronicled client relationships, I’ve had just as many falling outs because I do not paint romantic pictures. I’m uncomfortably observant. The number of relationships I’ve damaged by my candid writing forced me to reconsider what exactly I share, and if I share at all about the customers who financially support me the most.

Which is why I’ve avoided sharing stories about the client who is trying to buy me out of the sex industry entirely. The stakes are very high, especially now as we’ve quietly slipped into a recession. However, I don’t like the idea of omitting such an important relationship. Preserving my freedom as a writer is important. So here I go, treading lightly.

I stood in front of a little French bistro in Beverly Hills, waiting for Paul to arrive. He was walking from his office, which sits a few blocks away and overlooks Beverly Hills. His portion of the firm occupies the entire fifteenth floor, and a few offices on the sixteenth.

I visited the firm once before. Paul had led me up to the rooftop, which was home to a helicopter landing pad. He’d snapped a photo of me as I gazed up at the warm orange moon. I’d hoped to avoid meeting any of his coworkers along the way, but it was inevitable. We ran into a man in a tailored suit who appeared to be in his early forties. Paul had popped over to the man’s desk to see if he wanted anything from the sushi restaurant we were going to for our date. The man kept a respectful distance and avoided asking any of the obvious questions about Paul’s “lady friend”. Paul’s name was on the door. Whether I was Paul’s sugar baby or legitimate girlfriend was not something he intended to probe to find out, at least not while I was around. Paul gave me a tour of the office, showing me expensive art pieces made by talentless artists. He wanted me to look out from the tall office building and admire the empire he’d built, an empire I could enjoy beside him if I chose to. And he wanted to fuck me while I did it.

He turned off the light in an empty office and shut the glass door. He pulled me close and slid down my red romper. I was anxious, aware we weren’t alone. I didn’t know whose office we were defiling. I was on my cycle, which gave me an excuse to avoid penetration, but I realized as he ejaculated into my palm that I didn’t have the necessary supplies to clean off properly. There was a box of tissues on the desk. I imagined the attorney or secretary who would return to this office the next day, and perhaps blow a sneeze into a tissue that may have brushed my cum covered hands.

“Oh boy, well that was fun,” Paul chuckled, satisfied with himself.

I was grateful to avoid another visit to the office this round, even though we were close enough that I could see the building from the restaurant. I spotted Paul in the distance, balancing walking with attending to his phone. There was scarcely a moment Paul wasn’t in some way putting out one fire or another for some mega client. He represents everyone from royalty to international corporations. To call him busy would be an understatement. His marriage ended in part because his ex wife felt he was more married to his work than to her. At first, as Paul sent me bouquets of roses and late night songs serenading me, I thought maybe his unavailability was conditional. Maybe he was available, but just to the right person. I was wrong.

Earlier this year, I messaged him attempting to arrange a get together, only to be met with radio silence. For months, Paul did not respond to my texts. I felt like the bottom had fallen out beneath me. Had I done something wrong? Had I said something off putting? Had he stumbled upon my blog and decided to call it quits after learning the details of my escapades in sex work? I couldn’t make heads or tails of what had gone wrong. One minute he was telling me he wanted to grow old with me, pledging to pay for my college and offering to buy me my dream home, the next he had ghosted.

In a last ditch attempt, I emailed him. I pulled up the address listed on his firm’s website and wrote to him, asking if the promises he’d made were real or if they had been just the sorts of platitudes people make when they’re smitten. To my surprise, he responded apologetically: he’d gotten caught up in work, but still planned to take care of me. It’s funny what your mind does when you lack information. We fill in the gaps with a million potential answers, each more grim than the last. I like to imagine that I’m not one to catastrophize, but I know it’s not true. I was worried he had seen the “real me” and that that version of me was unlovable, but there was nothing further from the truth.

Paul beamed as he saw me and leaned in, hoping for a kiss on the lips in broad daylight. I wanted to turn my head to the side to preserve some dignity, but at the last second, decided to accept this public peck. I was about to ask Paul for big things, and I wanted to set our date off on the right foot. A table of people waved goodbye to the hostess as we entered the restaurant.

“That was a famous actor, but for the life of me, I can’t remember his name,” Paul whispered to me.

“I’m terrible at spotting famous people. I don’t keep up with anything.”

“I have to, since I work with so many of them. It would be rude if I didn’t recognize one of our clients.”

The hostess smiled broadly at us as Paul checked his phone.

“Reservation for Paul,” he said without looking up.

I smiled back at her, both of our faces opaque with politeness. She and I knew what was going on, and yet neither of us intended to acknowledge it.

“Your waitress will lead you to your table.”

Our waitress was a woman about my age with the steely eyes of someone who has waited on her fair share of sugar situations. Of course an over-priced French spot in Beverly Hills would attract plenty of people with lots of money, yet not a lick of taste. I’m not a huge fan of French food. Part of it is my anti-European bias. Part of it is having a disdain for my French ancestry. The other part is that French food isn’t remarkably good, in my opinion. It can be bland and uninspired, and this place was that.

“Have you two been here before?” the waitress asked.

“I have, but she hasn’t,” Paul replied.

“Would you like to start off with something to drink?”

I considered the wine list. It was the kind of eatery where a single glass starts off at $18. My heart wanted a whole bottle, and I knew Paul wouldn’t bat an eye if I requested one, but I was recovering from covid, and didn’t want to risk a day 8 relapse. Alcohol helps ease the awkwardness of dates, but that evening, the most I could justify would be a single glass.

“Do you have any white wine recommendations?” I asked.

The waitress selected one, and I rolled with it. I didn’t care what I was drinking, so long as I was drinking.

Neurotic strategist that I am, I had an agenda planned for the date, part of which I’d emailed to Paul. I had three goals:

For him to finally send over the money for my first quarter tuition payment. We’d discussed it repeatedly, but catching Paul is like fishing: it’s a lot easier to catch him with a bit of bait on the line. And I was draped across the hook, waiting for him to bite me.

To nail down the details of our New York trip. He had invited me to accompany him on numerous business trips; however, most of the locations he’d proposed were of little interest to me. New York was middle ground: I have enough friends and connections out there that I could distract myself while also making time for Paul. He had promised he would purchase first class plane tickets for me and pay for whatever hotel I wanted to stay at. The trade-off would be having to spend some of my vacation time doing sugar baby work, but I wasn’t complaining. It was also an ideal opportunity to reinforce our connection. Plus, knowing Paul’s chaotic schedule, he would realistically only be around two or three days, so it wouldn’t be too arduous.

To ask him for additional money to support this bad-luck fae! Between missing work because of a knee injury, missing a shift to work International Whore’s Day, and finally catching covid, I’d been out for over two weeks. While I am lucky to have some degree of financial security, it has not been an easy time. My impoverished inner child was having a meltdown.

As soon as the waitress brought the wine, I downed half my glass, feeling the warmth ease the anxiety in my body. I watched Paul go through his phone, his eyebrows pursed with irritation. I mustered up what little energy I had, preparing to begin my agenda, but paused. I sensed his unrest. Instead of plunging ahead, I decided to begin with a little check-in.

“What’s new with you?” I asked.

Paul looked up from checking his emails.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. Things have just been a little crazy. I thought I was a corporate litigator, but this week it seems I’m a criminal defense attorney,” Paul stood, “Gimme one second, I promise I’ll be fast.”

He hurried off to find a quiet place to yell into his phone. I sat alone, attempting not to feel self-conscious. Our table was in the middle of a little courtyard with a gurgling fountain and tasteful plants dispersed around creating an intimate ambiance. It was the kind of restaurant where celebrities went to feel invisible, and where rich locals went to discreetly people-watch.

“I like your dress,” a woman said, as she passed by my table.

“Thanks,” I replied.

My cheeks burned with the embarrassment of being seen. When I’m on a sugar date, I do my best to put on blinders and avoid noting the reactions of people around me. I like to imagine that *I* am not on the date. Selena is on the date. Selena is working, and looking fabulous. But Selena was feeling sick that day, and unfortunately *I* had to fill in. I pulled out my phone, attempting to look occupied while doing nothing. Kira, the enby cutie I’ve been seeing, had texted me.

“Have you looked at the moon? She’s full and beautiful this evening.”

I looked up, hoping I could see the full moon from the courtyard. Instead, I saw Paul, hurrying back.

“Sorry about that,” he apologized again.

“It’s fine. I know you’re dealing with a lot.”

“I am, but I’d rather hear about you. Tell me about what’s been going on. What was the event you were working on?”

Over the span of time since I’d seen Paul last, several events had come and gone. I went through my mental agenda, trying to discern which one he was referring to.

“Oh! Whore’s Day!” the lightbulb turned on, “It was beautiful. I got to meet so many sex workers who I’ve only known online. We had a table, and a member of SU was hosting it, so we were very present. I wish you could have come.”

“And what was it for?”

Sometimes I forget that I live in a happy little world filled with sex workers who speak the same esoteric language.

“It was a celebration of sex work by sex workers. The day was started by French prostitutes who congregated in a church plaza, petitioning for labor rights and recognition, so there was a lot of talk about our right to safety and dignity under the law.”

“Sounds great! Glad it went well for you all.”

“Me too.”

The waitress returned with a warm baguette and took our orders. I did my best to eat with some grace. I’m not normally a graceful eater. I prefer to go at my food like a savage: stuffing giant mouthfuls of whatever I’m eating into my face to the point where I can hardly close my mouth. I smudge salad dressing all over my cheeks and burp with gusto. But only when I’m comfortable, and I was the opposite of comfortable.

“So, tell me what your plans are for school.”

Paul is direct. He doesn’t mince words or avoid what’s on his mind. It’s something I appreciate about him, as a person who also scorns small talk. However, I’m also a person who doesn’t do well with broad questions. In the spirit of clear communication, I needed clarification.

“In general?”

“Yes. But specifically, this first semester. What are your goals? What do you intend to get out of it?”

The conversation reminded me of the ones I used to have with my grandfather as he doled out tuition payments for my Fiber degree. At the time, I hadn’t had a clue as to what I was doing or why, I just knew I needed to pretend I knew. I’d bullshitted my way through to a useless undergrad degree. But this time was different. I had a real plan, a real sense of the job market and my role in it, and a real sense of the steps I needed to take to get to my end goal.

“Well…” I considered, “This quarter, I’d like to get oriented with the program and figure out how I’ll balance my schedule. I’d like to begin building relationships with a few of my peers. And, I’d like to make a good impression on my professors. I hope that’s not too vague.”

“Not at all. Those are good answers.”

“In general, I plan to get my degree, and then continue working toward the…” I sighed, “3,000 hours of clinical training I will need before I can take the certification test. But I’m also considering going straight into a PsyD program, just to keep up the momentum, depending on how burnt out I am in three years.”

“And would you still need to get those training hours? Would that be in addition, or could you get some of them while you’re in school?”

“I should have around 700 hours done by the end of my Master’s.”

“What do they call that?”

“Practicum.”

“And have you given any thought as to whether or not you want to work while you’re in school?”

“Well… Of course I’d like to not worry about working through grad school,” I bit my lip nervously, “But I don’t know if I could afford to take a break like that.”

“A while ago, I offered to help you out if you wanted to stop working and focus on school, and just so you know, the offer still stands.”

“But what would that look like?,” I asked with more urgency than I’d intended

My heart fluttered. He had offered before, but it had seemed too good to be true. I couldn’t imagine someone both voluntarily paying for my education and giving me a living stipend. It seemed like an unimaginable amount of money to spend on someone. Paul had asked me how much I make on average each week, then done a bit of mental math to come up with what my annual income might look like. The number was almost nothing to him. He makes 41x what I make annually. He makes so much money, he’s admitted that he doesn’t even know what to do with it. It’s an incredible position to be in–something I could never imagine for myself. If I had an obscene amount of money, I know what I’d do with it, no question. But that’s not my destiny.

“Well, we would have to calculate a budget, and then I could set up a monthly automatic transfer to your account or something, so that neither of us have to think about it, and you can feel secure knowing you’ll be supported.”

My eyes welled as I blinked back tears. Cool down. You haven’t gotten anything yet, I reminded myself.

“I just don’t want you to think of me as a sugar daddy. My ego can’t handle that. I do this because I love you, and I want to take care of you. And, I believe in you. And I want you to be with me because you want to, not because of what you’re getting from me. I know I might sound crazy to you.”

And yet, it was everything that I wanted, and he was offering it to me.

“No, I get it.”

It was a complicated arrangement. Maybe he knew at the back of his mind how much leverage his financial support gave him in our relationship. Maybe he understood the reality that I needed him, one way or another. Or maybe he didn’t, and he was caught up in the happy fantasy I was facilitating. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure what he was getting out of it, besides sex every now and again. I’ve sold a lot of sex, but none of my other clients have offered to pay for anything without expecting a reciprocal return.

Recently, my partner, (who from now on has asked to be referred to by his legal name) Adam, asked me what my clients think they’re paying for. Did they just want sex? Did they want the strip club hand job? Why would someone like Paul want to pay so much? There are many answers, and only a few of them are as straightforward as wanting a handy. My customers pay for the opportunity to spend intimate time with me, with my attention focused squarely on them. Many men believe that women/femmes must be won over, that love is earned, and they hope that one day I will wake up and realize that they are the one I’ve been looking for all along. I think there’s a bit of a Disney princess in all of us, even the burly, steely eyed people who couldn’t imagine having a Grey’s Anatomy moment: crying as they demand, “Pick me! Choose me! Love me!” But we all have that in us. We all want to be chosen, against all odds, by some charming prince.

After dinner, Paul led me to a hotel around the corner from the restaurant. Along the way, we popped by a Target and he picked up a large box of magnums, and a bouquet of flowers. I’ve never understood why he consistently purchases such large boxes of large condoms. We’ve never needed more than two: one for use and one for backup in case of malfunction. But I knew Paul liked the spectacle. He liked to be perceived as a man with a big dick who was fucking a lot, who was imminently about to smash. I waited outside of the Target for him. It was one thing for him to enjoy his solo performance, it was another for people to know I was the “lady” he was about to plunge his magnum cock into.

***

It took half an hour to check into our room. In less than half an hour, we were done: showered, dressed, and leaving the hotel. The almost entirely untouched box of magnums remained on the bedside table for some bellboy to smuggle home and hopefully use.

An Uber Black pulled up and Paul opened the door for me.

“Take good care of my lady friend!” he said to the driver.

He pecked me on the cheek and turned to walk back to his office.

The next day, Paul asked me for my routing information, and my tuition was paid, my trip was purchased, and I had enough left over to tuck away and save for the rainy days yet to come.