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While I listen to her motherly advice and gentle admonishments for my own previous lack of caution, I’m enjoying my own cup of Moroccan mint in Dawn’s spacious Bushwick loft, the rent of which is now paid for by one of her sugar daddies.
The living room is crowded with DJ equipment, hula hoops, racks of costumes and a “Scarface” chandelier hanging from the ceiling, declaring that The World Was Ours.
For New York college students and recent graduates like myself, word is getting out that rent and student loans don’t have to be so hard to pay off after all.
Or at least this is what Dawn, who has been on upwards of twenty sugar baby dates and held down two long-term arrangements, has found.
Nodding along, I wish I had met Dawn a few months earlier, before I tried my own hand at being a sugar baby.
I identify as straight, but after contracting a surprise STD from one love of my life and being routinely cheated on by the next, I felt like taking a break from women.
My hope was that, in having sex with a man, I might avoid the traumatic memories of vaginas past while enjoying the same release that healthy sex had once been for me.
Our more-or-less-unspoken deal was less lucrative than I had hoped for, although he did once offer to buy me a ticket to Puerto Rico to vacation with him.