A Very Good Place To Start

They say living well is the best revenge. When I look back at a certain chapter of my life, I was most definitely living well though I really didn’t have a target for my spiteful spending. As for what happened next, I feel I need to explain how all of this happened, where it began, and how it ended. As Julie Andrews once sang, “let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start”.

I found myself broke. I don’t mean broke in the “looks like I’m drinking beer this weekend” way, but broke in the “I’m sure I dropped 20c down the side of the couch last weekend” way. Having scoured the house from top to bottom for any loose change that may have become separated from my person during the drunken undressing process, I plopped on the couch and admitted defeat.

I had credit card statements that had long left gentle reminder territory and were continually becoming more hostile, no doubt spurred on by a particularly salubrious afternoon on Fifth Avenue which culminated in high tea at The Plaza and a trip to Tiffany & Co. As I fingered the delicate chain holding the small rose gold horseshoe sitting neatly at the base of my throat, I wondered whether that $50 tulip of pink champagne was worth it after all.

I worked hard, but after paying my rent, phone bill, various household bills, groceries, and the million other incidentals that worked their way into my finances there did not seem to be a lot left over. My weekend job tending bar at a sports club was over for the season, and cash seemed scarcer than ever.

Feeling miserable and strapped, I decided that the only logical way to break the cycle of work-bills-work-bills was to find myself a rich benefactor. Maybe there was some lonely billionaire out there who simply wanted to help out a girl about town? I had always been curious about the world of the sugar daddy/sugar baby, no doubt spurred on by the real life nightmare that was Gabi Grecko and Geoffrey Edelsten, and decided to explore it for myself, while hopefully making a little bank at the same time.

I roamed through the app store and found one that looked legit, the home page featured a pretty Eurasian woman lustily clasping the tie of a panting dark haired man. I clumsily set up a profile, featuring what I thought was a terrible porn star sounding nickname, little did I know how soon that ridiculous name would become entwined with my world. Had I had even the slightest inkling I would have come up with something much cleverer, or elegant, or even believable. In addition to the name, I uploaded several headless photos of myself leaning against my wardrobe in a low cut white shirt and a tight black pencil skirt, angled just so to hide my encroaching beer gut (bonus points for the bag of kitty litter visible in the background). I introduced myself, as “smart, sexy, and classy” though the truth skirted a little a closer to broke, bored, and gassy. Looking around, it was my word against the cat’s, and until she had opposable thumbs and a data plan, she wasn’t saying anything.

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