There have been soooo many articles in the past few months about gold-digging women, and college students who are brazenly unashamed of their “Sugar Daddies” (until they’re labeled as sluts, at which point it immediately becomes “twue wuv.”)
In the comments of these articles, men always insist that they’d never behave so shabbily, and that women are all simply evil bitches from hell who are only looking for money (and yes, some of them certainly are). They say that men are honest, and looking for love (as long as love puts out by the third date), and they’re sick of being used.
So I got a kick out of this counterpoint. The Sugar Mama:
Ricardo is a tall, handsome and suave 28-year-old Italian. Even though I’m 14 years older than him, he seems completely smitten with me. He texts me several times a day to tell me that I am gorgeous - my skin is like porcelain, my eyes are like deep pools and my hair is like golden sand. He wants to spend Christmas with me, so that he can make me feel ‘delicious all over’.
There’s just one small hitch that may prevent this beautiful budding romance from blossoming - Ricardo thinks I’m worth £20million and that I am going to rescue him from his life of drudgery working at a call centre. He wants me to be his sugar mummy - someone to dress him, pamper him and travel the world with, all at my expense, of course.
Both sides are the exceptions to the rule, of course — I really believe that — and both are equally as skeezy and disgusting, and make my upper lip twitch in an involuntary sneer. But it’s still funny, especially since the joke’s on the gigolos.
Purely in the name of investigative journalism, you understand, I set about finding out by attempting to net myself a fortune-hunting toyboy.
I receive a simply hilarious message from Giles, an Englishman based in Sydney, Australia, who wants me to fly him (first class, of course) to London and to put him up at the Dorchester. In return, he will help me run my business and, he says, boost my turnover massively.
When I fail to respond, he writes increasingly desperate emails, claiming that it was he who invented the iPod - not Apple - and Daniel Craig’s portrayal of Bond is based on him.
Then there is Kevin, a toothless roofer from Pontefract, who writes: ‘I knows how to treet a lady rite and if you pick me you wont be disserpointed.’ Oh, Kevin, I think I will.
Alex arrives ten minutes early at the Italian restaurant I’ve chosen, bringing with him a rather wilted rose. It is wrapped in brown paper, rather than cellophane, which makes me wonder whether he’s just stolen it from someone’s garden.
Unlike the previous two gold-digging men I’ve met, Ricardo isn’t subtle when it comes to the subject of my money. ‘My last lady is worth $10million, can you beat that?’ he asks bluntly.
When the men fill out their online profile, they can declare how much of a monthly allowance they would expect from their sugar mummy. Most leave this open to negotiation, but John has said that he is looking for up to £20,000 a month, so at least that’s clear.
Actually, through the giggles, maybe it is a little bit fabulous. I’m not sure whether to retch or start writing a screenplay. That pretty kid from High School Musical could pull off the role of Ricardo in two years or so, right?