Dating a jehovah witness man
So, with fantasies of subverting societal conventions of sexual orientation, prostitution, and the best way to afford a New York night out, I strolled onto the Internet looking for some dude to bang who would pay for my time in the form of alcohol, cab fares and bar snacks.
Renato’s pictures and messages gave me no reason to suspect he was anything but an out-of-shape-ish, horny, aggressively lonely but essentially harmless, closeted and internally conflicted, cautiously masculine and emotionally racked dude. But I still wrote the name he gave me, his number, the address where I was meeting him, and the time and date on a piece of notebook paper that I placed in a very obvious spot on top of my dresser. Was my roommate going to stumble over this and be filled with questions, or was some Mariska Hargitay character going to find it and say, “here’s the answer to what happened to the late Mr. ” As an added precaution, I texted my sugar-baby compatriot, Annabel, that I was about to do something risky and would check in with her in an hour.
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.
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.
Renato would pay for my cab rides and any drinks I would get at the bar, with the expectation that I would provide sex in one form or another before heading home; not a terrible deal as long as he kept his promise to never expect anything that I wasn’t comfortable with. As the night drudged to a sleepy close, “Creep” by Radiohead started playing on the bar stereo.
The press kit was titled SBU: Sugar Baby University.
The personal would aim to satisfy a confused mix of self-loathing and curiosity about men after experiencing a string of failed romances with women.My cab honked outside and I quickly settled on a tight-fitting pair of black boxer briefs before throwing on my most elite dive-bar attire and hustling out into the damp and dirty heat of the summer night.I texted the man who would become my sugar daddy that I was “on my way, winky-face emoticon.” We would meet five or six times over the course of the next seven months, always at either his place or a dimly-lit and sparsely-populated piano bar down the street.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.