Rob Triggered

I’d been vacillating on how and when to tell this story for some time now, because regulars are a tricky group of people to write about due to the intimacy of the relationship; however, at this point this man has irritated me to such an extent I’m ready to air his bullshit.

I met this man a few weeks ago, one early Saturday evening. I approached and he enthusiastically agreed to have me sit on his lap. He looked like the type of old white man someone might use for an active grandpa commercial: white hair, outdoorsy, wearing nice exercise clothes.

Him: I didn’t even see you! Wow!

Me: Oh! Hope I didn’t startle you.

Him: Not at all. I’m glad!

Me: I’m Selena.

Him: I’m Rob! Wow you’re beautiful. Are you some kind of Latina or something?

Me: Yeah, I’m Puerto Rican and black Creole.

Him: Woooow. That must be where you get that delicious Puerto Rican booty! Would you mind letting me see it for a second?

I obliged the request, doing a little 360° turn for him. He’d latched onto the Puerto Rican thing, and I intended to profit from being exoticized.

He bought a VIP set and afterwards we exchanged numbers. I hadn’t thought much of him, because he’d only purchased a single set, and had tipped exactly what I’d demanded and not a penny more. Still, having someone regularly come in who I can count on for around $120 after the house cut, is the bread and butter of my income, so I began corresponding with him to maintain our Saturday evening relationship.

Usually, men of his age range are of the school of thought that it’s better to communicate with a phone call rather than through texting; however, I quickly realized Rob is a champion texter. The first day he sent me three paragraphs of praises for my beauty and his excitement over our blossoming relationship alongside four photos of roses blooming in his rose garden. Usually, I assume people who maintain gardens are gentle people, and I made the same assumption about Rob.

Throughout the following week, we exchanged messages daily. Rob is a hiking enthusiast. Every day he would send me pictures from the summit of one mountain or another and brag about how many miles the trek was that day while making little comments about how much he wished I was by his side trekking along with him.

Him: I wish I could be taking in YOUR beauty tonight!!! I am hunkered down by myself in my sleeping bag. Sure could use a HOT Puerto Rican to keep me warm. We have a 14 mile hike tomorrow and should see some awesome views.

I imagine a large, sweating, hairy Puerto Rican man laying down on the cot in Rob’s tent, gesturing for Rob to lay beside him for warmth.

Rob began to suggest more frequently that we hang out outside of the club. He’d bring up taking me out for dinner; taking me shopping; or “helping” me purchase tickets to see Rosalia in concert in Philadelphia. It was typical client behavior, and I had no real interest until one evening, he mentioned he had a small present for me.

He arrived at the club with a little bag and I’d expected maybe a rose from his garden, or some other gift that wouldn’t cost him and money, because men tend towards disappointing, but he surprised me. He had bought me a Patagonia sweater and some Victoria’s Secret panties. I thought to myself, “Is he trying to be my daddy?” It wasn’t an expensive gift, but it was thoughtful and I was touched. He’d purchased the Patagonia sweater because I’d noted he was wearing a Patagonia fleece during one of his visits, and I’d offhandedly joked that the kids call Patagonia “Patagucci” because it’s deceptively expensive.

He began sending me screenshots of lingerie sets on the Agent Provocateur site, asking me what I liked. AP is one of those brands I’d expected to only dream about, because it’s around $600 for a set, and it’s better to shop in person for that sort of thing. I couldn’t rationalize spending that kind of money on a bra and panties I would likely ruin, but if a daddy wanted to foot the bill, who am I to protest? I scanned the site greedily, sending him pictures of items I liked and he returned with pictures of things he thought I might be interested in. I was practically salivating when he suggested we go shopping one day at the AP store in Hollywood. Finally, an opportunity to be a sugar baby again! While the idea was intoxicating, I was hesitant because I’d played that game before.

One of the things I hate most is when women who are interested in getting into sex work ask me how to become a sugar baby, because there is no single way to find a real sugar daddy. Another reason I hate it is because 95% of these women follow up with, “but I don’t want to have sex.” That’s like asking me to find a unicorn with angel wings. To find a generous sugar relationship is already a difficult task, and most of us who have happened into one found our daddies in unexpected places-- from a tech convention, to a fetish site, to a strip club-- there are opportunities everywhere, but more often than not, the men who claim they’re looking for sugar relationships don’t tend to actually have sugar. They have Stevia and they grip it as if their lives depended on it. Additionally, I have not encountered a single sugar relationship that did not eventually escalate to some form of sexual contact, whether it’s intercourse or laying naked on top of each other. If you want sugar, you should be fully prepared to have sex with whoever you’re “dating.” The last little bit that people don’t understand is the intensity of the emotional labor involved in these relationships. The majority of men who are buying this kind of girlfriend experience are emotionally demanding, insecure, and volatile. There’s a lot of variation, of course, but to get to the point where you’re paying thousands of dollars for the company and attention of another person, there’s usually something a little off about you. As a sugar baby, you’re navigating daddy’s emotions while also balancing the intense societal taboo of being a visible sex worker. Most sugar relationships are intergenerational, so people know when they see you with a significantly older man that you are getting paid, and people react. When I was dating Ed, people constantly found reasons to come up to us to ask how we were “related,” or where we were from, as if to eliminate all other options for how we might exist together as a pair. It was humiliating at times, because there’s nothing daddies love more than to boast about how they have some young girl on their arm. My job was to smile, remain poised, and agree that yes, we were together.

When Rob asked me out for some boutique lingerie shopping I couldn’t help but consider the visibility of such an encounter. I’m a young brown woman, and he is a much older white man, and we would be going to shop for the most intimate sort of clothing. There would be no question of the nature of our relationship. I also tend to read as younger than I am, which exacerbates the appearance of our age differential. I wasn’t ready to be judged by the rich white women running the boutique. If I were to agree to the engagement, I would need a friend.

I told Rob I was interested, but asked if I could bring a friend. I’d expected him to agree enthusiastically and ask about my friend so I could paint a picture of another hot girl he might like, but that is the opposite of what happened.

Him: Great if you want to bring a friend, but it does hurt my feelings that you are concerned that I am a questionable character. That really bums me out. I thought you knew me better. Oh well. Good night.

Such Masculine Pain. He’d leapt to the wrong conclusion and was butt hurt. I couldn’t believe the audacity of this little fit; however, I did not want to sever ties with my Saturday early evening regular. Instead of doing the smart thing, which would have been to call him out for his man tears, I apologized for hurting his feelings and attempted to explain how I was sensitive about the optics of the situation, rather than concerned about my safety. Of course, I was also concerned about my safety. “Rob” is an innocuous name and I don’t even know his full legal name, address, or anything. I was considering this, when he followed up with another bitchy response.

Him: No worries Selena. I am just a very successful guy that took a liking to you and have been trying to be nice. Sorry if it freaked you out. I will stop bugging you. Keep hustling until you get that big break!!

Now there’s nuance to the levels of pettiness in this message. To begin with, he brags about himself and insinuates that being nice to me is difficult and has required some effort. He apologizes for my feelings, not for his actions. He declares he’s leaving our arrangement. Then, follows up with a very passive aggressive statement about how he hopes I get my “big break.” He flipped the switch and Crazy Rob emerged from that murky darkness beneath his outdoorsy grandpa exterior.

I’ll admit, it felt a bit like breakup. I was blindsided by the degree of barely concealed disdain he’d displayed toward me. I was disappointed that I wouldn’t be receiving any more gifts, but I consoled myself by remembering that the cost of his gifts was only a little over $100-- certainly not enough to cry about. I sent him a very generous message afterwards detailing how he was acting selfishly.

Me: As for what I said before, I hope you might have a change of heart and extend a bit of empathy toward me. It isn’t safe being a woman, let alone a woman in my profession. We experience disproportionately high rates of violence, sexual assault, and murder because we are a marginalized group. Aside from that, we bear a lot of stigma in our day-to-day lives, and that is exhausting. I appreciate your care and generosity, but I hope you can also appreciate the care and generosity I also bring to our relationship. Generosity doesn’t have to mean money or gifts, it can mean time, touch, healing, and many other intangible things. Anyway, hope you can be generous in your understanding.

Him: Thank you for that well written note. I will think about what you said. However, I still get the vibe from what you said Sunday your strict boundaries are inconsistent with my needs. I hope you have another good day tomorrow. Don’t stay up too late. Sweet dreams.

He’d dug in his heels, and I’d dug in mine. I figured that was that, and didn’t reply, however the next day, like clockwork, he sent me five new photos from his latest climb with captions, along with more pictures from the Agent Provocateur website. To say I was confused would be an understatement. Were things back to normal? I decided to play along and see how things panned out.

We continued sharing the banalities of our days, all with the intention of him showing up this Thursday to touch base, additionally because he said he had purchased a gift for me.

On Wednesday, I asked him about his job, to refresh my memory about what his approximate salary might be, and in typical Rob style, he explained his job while dropping in a mention of the current budget of his project.

Him: I am Chief Engineer on a missile warning program. I am responsible for $750M payload contract. Can’t say my job is as fun as your indie film project!!!! And I work with some “interesting” nerds that are socially awkward. I get by the best I can.

Me: I’m a big fan of nerds. Interesting is relative in my experience. As long as you find it interesting or bring vitality to your work, it’s totally interesting.

Him: I am pro-nerd, but it is difficult to interact with them. The reason I keep working is that I have a very unique skill set which they are willing to pay me handsomely for.

It was a mundane conversation, and I’d extracted the information I’d needed to ballpark how much money I could likely extract out of him given some time and elbow grease. But, apparently Rob hadn’t taken it as simple banality.

Him: After you told me you like nerds I have been depressed all afternoon because I don’t think of myself as a geek, despite the fact that I have three engineering degrees. I believe my athletic background and MBA makes me more social/normal.

The sensitivity of this cracker. I wondered if the nerds were actually antisocial, or if they simply avoided socializing with easily triggered Rob. I’m leaning toward the latter.

Still, our Thursday appointment was set, and that day I clearly communicated when I would be arriving. I sent him a message before I left my house, and updated my ETA to no response. I assumed he was doing one of his marathon workouts, but this was not the case. After I’d clocked in and stripped down, I received this text:

Him: Based on your previous text, I didn’t think you were going to hit the floor until 10, so I went to Plan B. Hey, I hear it’s “Nerd Night” at the club so you should have fun !!!!

I felt like I’d gotten sucked back in time into some 80’s movie about teens getting picked on by jocks, and was being taunted by a 16-year-old riding away on a bike. Initially I thought he was saying he had made other plans, but I then I remembered that Plan B is another strip club out in Culver City. That was it. The straw that broke this poor camel’s back. I was seething, and wanted to write back a cutting message, but I couldn’t think of anything I could say to him that he wouldn’t in some way twist to hurt me. Instead, I opted for cold silence. I had been trifled with one too many times, and I was done.