“Taylor, don’t you think it’s time to pick just one man? You’re spreading yourself too thin by screwing as many men as you can. One man can set you up. Then he can set you up for life when you get pregnant.”
My mother, in all her glorious, elegant splendor, walked around my apartment as if she owned it. Her pant suit was starched to perfection. Her heels click-clacked around my apartment, taking stock of everything I had. She didn’t know shit. The designer clothes she wore made her feel like she was someone of great importance. Hell, she was just the same as me. Or…well, it’s better to say I was the same as her. Just like she was the same as her mother.
I come from a long line of sugar babies. The best in the business. Only problem was, I never wanted this life. But it was all I knew and I did it very well. So I did. I played the game.
I guess you can say it was the family business. My mother didn’t know who her father was and I didn’t know who mine was. My grandmother was the matriarch and we had all lived in one house ever since I was born. I was bred into this life from birth. My grandmother moved from New York to California and when I was born, they settled here in Clear-Lake Houston. My mother said they moved around because when grandmother had mom, she wanted a fresh start, and when she got to California, she had enough money to retire. Until she made mom become a sugar baby herself.
However, in my case, I had several. I had a client list. Having just one man dictate to me didn’t sound that appealing so I made a business out of it. Almost like an escort…but I was more of a fuck-specialist. Yeah. That title sounds true enough. I fucked men for the right amount of money. I’d say prostitute, but that sounds tacky.
But first a little bit about why I was the way I was. It isn’t pretty, but it’s the life I’ve led so far. There’s no turning back for me. Not anymore.
I was homeschooled since the age of twelve. I was smart enough to finish high school when I was sixteen and for two years, my mother took me to ‘how to be a lady’ classes. One thing that was drilled into me, was that ‘ladies are not born, they are made’. After two hard years, I have become exactly what I was taught. But it wasn’t the school lessons that taught me how to do my job. Ha. No. Those lessons were taught in the privacy of our home; the big two story estate, by my grandmother. My mother for the most part ignored me. The things I’ve learned in that house would scare any normal person shitless.
Anyway, being a sugar baby, being sexy and not boring was how we made our living. To be these men’s confidante. To be their satisfaction when they don’t get it at home.
I learned at an early age, ‘men only want love if it’s torture. Married men are best because they already have ‘love’ at home.’
My mother had four sugar daddies in her career and the last one set her up for life. He was probably my father, but I never got his name, and mother never told me. Just said we were set and we didn’t have to worry about anything.
She loved telling me how foolish it was to have ‘clients’, but I really didn’t care. I couldn’t just stick with one guy. One old man for months, even years? My life wouldn’t be by own. No, thank you.
Not that is was now, but I had a system. They contacted me, and we made arrangements. I had a very detailed planner full of arrangements. Sometimes I thought I needed my own secretary. That would be an eye-opener. They’d probably freak and run the other way screaming.
Unlike my mother and grandmother, who wooed the men to their wiles, I made my shit into a business. Not a legit business because come on, really? How would I ever put that on my tax forms? Professional sugar baby? Yeah, no.
I didn’t trust men. None of them. My services weren’t cheap, but these men had no problem paying. Within reason and a set of rules, I gave them whatever they wanted. We set up a contract and set up dates in advance.
I don’t know how she did it but when I turned eighteen, and started in the business, my grandmother had given me an address of an expensive hotel and I met my first client. He was a dirty, old windbag that was old enough to be my grandfather, he was in his late fifties. He paid a hundred grand cash to take my virginity. My grandmother split it sixty-forty and that was my introduction into the family biz. Now, four years later, I make six figures easily annually.
I mostly live modestly. Of course I have to keep up appearances. I have to look the part. And that’s all it was for me. A part I played. But after that little episode, I moved out and got my own place.
And now, my mother came to my downtown apartment every Sunday to—wink—see how I was doing, but I knew she came to inspect my place. To make sure everything was in its place. Although she had no idea what I kept behind certain doors. My bedroom was explicitly off limits as was my office. Both were kept locked, one by several locks. The other, by a few. What could I say? I was a little paranoid and very private.
“Oh, Taylor. Why don’t you ever look together?” Her voice was like sugar. Saccharine until she shunted her venom at you.
Ugh.
The one day I keep to myself—aka holed up in my apartment and because I’m wearing sweats and a sports bra—I’m not put together. I keep up a regimen. I eat healthy. I work out every day in the apartment gym. I have a personal trainer. I was a size eight. Unlike her who was a size four. She trained hardcore when she was a sugar baby. I was happy where I was. I didn’t have fat on me. It was just the way my body was made for fucks sake. But of course it was never good enough for her. My grandmother had the same regimen my mother had. They were both petite. I was petite.
But I was a size eight. Gasp!
Insert eye roll here.
Evidently my daddy had a body because I had a rounded ass that never seemed to shrink and my breasts were just a bit bigger than your average C-cup. My mother thought my workout regimen was crap. I mean, I lifted weights, I exercised to keep that hour glass figure. I didn’t eat fatty foods. Hell, I look at a hamburger and I want to run away. I’ve never even had a hamburger. Chicken and seafood. Veggies. So many veggies I’m almost a vegetarian. And fruit of course but not too much so it doesn’t rot out my teeth…blah blah blah.
I forced down seafood, although I hated it. I wasn’t allergic to it so I should eat it, my mother always said. It’s healthy. Blech. I hated the smell and I didn’t care for the taste either.
Anyway. My mother was here looking around my apartment like she was estimating how much I was worth. I hated it. Why did she even come here? She never gave me anything but grief. She never came here to just see how I was. If I had a good week. Whatever. She knew about my day job. I wasn’t just a call girl. I waitressed four days a week. She hated the way I lived my life. It wasn’t how she wanted me to live it. It wasn’t what a sugar baby’s life was like. Well, I wasn’t going to be a sugar baby and live off of one man when I could live off many.
I know what those women were called. A call girl and I was my own boss. Of course, the money I got was tax free, so I worked as a waitress across town during the day. Had to pad taxes someway right? I was just glad I was able to work Monday through Friday and my hours were like eleven to two-maybe three sometimes. Gave me enough time to get ready for the arrangements I had on certain evenings.
How the hell did she get it into her head that I had to be with one man for a time? I know that’s how she did in the past and my grandmother, but we’re in the twenty-first century. I mean come on, it’s not like the man was going to take me out and wine and dine me. We went to hotels. One of their choosing of course, but I was a business woman first and foremost. I got paid first every time. It didn’t matter to me where they got the money from. I got paid and they got what they wanted.
My pussy was a revolving door and I wasn’t about to give it to just one guy. I was no man’s mistress. That’s why I had clients. I wasn’t going to be dictated to. They got time slots. I was cheaper than a mistress, but I got paid enough that I didn’t have to be taken care of by a man. Men were pigs. Any and all of them. Every single one of them.
My age, older, younger. It didn’t matter. Once they learned what their dick was for, they used it however they could to get what they wanted. Mainly, pussy. I’ve never called for a guy my age because one. It wasn’t allowed. I couldn’t be what I was and have a guy my age. Two. He’d want things. The one time I did…sigh.
It didn’t turn out so hot. Naïve is the one word that comes to mind. Beside stupid. Very, very stupid.
I was nineteen. My client at the time, Clement York, was an investment broker that lived in New York. He had several business meetings and shit that I didn’t care about here in Houston and one of his buddies I had arrangements with told him about me. That if he was going to come down here often that he should contact me if he was looking for a little something on the side. I didn’t give a shit, it was more money for me.
Anyway, I was going to meet with a client at the St. Regis Hotel in the River Oaks area when I saw him. Or he, saw me. I was riding the elevator up to the room when he entered the small space with me. He looked like he was about twenty-two. I honestly thought he worked there at the hotel.
The whole time on the ride, we made easy conversation. He was good looking, nice, and he didn’t seem like he had any hidden motives. That and I was also naïve back then. So naïve.
Right when I got off the elevator, he gave me an easy smile and asked if we could have coffee sometime. I didn’t really drink coffee but in my inexperience, I said yes. I was curious. You know what curiosity does, don’t you?
But I thought, sure, why not right? What could it hurt? Ha. It could hurt…a whole hellava lot