I fell in love with my sugar daddy

“I’d been a practising sugar baby for two years, so I felt pretty disillusioned. I thought that nothing could surprise me anymore.”

Laura Roscioli is a sex writer based in Melbourne. Her fortnightly column on Fashion Journal is here to make sex (and the conversations around it) more accessible and open-minded. She believes that the best learnings come from lived experience, and she’s here to share hers — and other people’s — with you. You can follow Laura on Instagram at @lauraroscioli.

Being a sugar baby is something I tried in my early twenties. I needed to pay for uni and my expensive taste in wine, and I was curious about the relationship dynamics of rich men. I went on a few dates and had some fun but truth be told; I found the whole thing really exhausting. The constant texting, the heaviness, the emptiness surrounding people that have ‘everything’ but are fundamentally unhappy.  

Alana Heart was also a sugar baby in her early twenties, but she stayed in the game for longer than I did. She says it was “one of the most challenging” periods of her life, but that it made her the strong woman she is today.

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She now has knowledge that other people don’t. She can tell you what it’s like to peek into the world of wealthy, beautiful people and be their muse. She knows what it looks like to hide your desires and insecurities for decades and exercise them in secret. 

She also knows what it’s like to fall in love with a sugar daddy.

Alana: We met online on a website curated for sugar relationships. At first, it was an interaction like any other; sterile and transactional. A bit of small talk, asking what we were each looking for, seeing if our desires and boundaries matched up. I’d been a practising sugar baby for two years, so I felt pretty disillusioned. I thought that nothing could surprise me anymore.

He told me he had a partner, but they were ethically non-monogamous. This was pretty standard too. Most men I met were in relationships, but they were all looking for something (or someone) outside of their regular life, something that made them feel seen. 

We organised to meet up before starting a sugar relationship, and honestly, I was dreading it. We’d chatted online for about a week or two with no flirtatious banter, just super short and questions and answers. I was ready for him to be another version of every other man I’d met: arrogant, selfish and boring. As I said, I was disillusioned. 

We’d agreed on a daytime picnic — brave, I know. I couldn’t believe my eyes when he walked over to me. I was expecting the usual – someone I wasn’t physically attracted to, but served a purpose for me as I did for them. But he was different. Tall, soft eyes, cute curly hair and a cheeky smile. Within minutes of talking, I knew I was in danger. His charisma and quiet confidence drew me in. He made me laugh, he was charming in an intellectual kind of way that made him seem considered. 

“You’re great to talk to,” he told me at the end of our date, dusting the grass off his linen pants. “You’re different from the other girls on the site. I’d love to see you again.” I felt the blood rush to my face as I realised his validation was something I already desired. Shit. 

Getting into the sugar baby business was something I did because I wanted money to travel and freedom. I was sick of dating below-average men and getting nothing in return and I thought being a sugar baby might make it easier to keep clear boundaries. I had clear intentions that allowed me to compartmentalise the work and my real life, the number one no-go being developing feelings for a client. And up until this moment, it’d been easy to keep my emotional distance. 

I told myself I wouldn’t let it get to me. I’d had crushes on men before — this was nothing new or special, I tried to convince the voice inside my head. I’m sure you can guess how that went. I spent the next week feeling stressed, checking my phone every 30 seconds and drafting messages in my notes app, putting myself to bed early instead of waiting up for a response that was never coming. But after a week of agony, he came online and the three dots emerged, reeling me back in.

“Hey,” he wrote, “are you ready for our second date?” I marvelled at the casual tone, as though I hadn’t been waiting for his message all week. Surely he knew. After one hour and a dozen reply options later, I settled on “Sure. What were you thinking?”

He sent me $500 prior to our date, for me to buy a dress that said ‘potential girlfriend’ not ‘sugar baby’. I’d receive $500 more for the date itself and then an additional $2,000 to “explore our relationship” at the hotel. This wasn’t something I’d usually do — explore intimacy with a sugar daddy — especially not for such a low fee. But this one was different. The money felt like a bonus.

I’ve never experienced a date so intoxicating. It was something out of a Pretty Woman dream. I loved how he smelt, how he’d subtly touch my hand across the table in a restaurant I’d never be able to afford, his brooding dominance mixed with unexpected moments of softness. He knew what he wanted and he knew he could have it, but he seemed somehow vulnerable too. I’d never met a man like this, who I felt this giddy with. We had the physical chemistry I’d been longing for in a partner for so long, but this was a business transaction.

Truth be told, I didn’t let the reality of our dynamic enter my mind at all that night. I just wanted to live in the moment. Which was a big mistake.

“I’ve wanted to do this all night,” he whispered into my hair as we entered the hotel lobby, buzzing from champagne and sexual tension. He leant down, almost bending a knee due to our stark height difference, grabbed my face and kissed me. 

I don’t know if I actually fell in love that night, but I fell in something. Whether it was real love, an obsession with the lavishness he’d laid out for me, the idea of what our life could look like together, the possessiveness of wanting to have a little piece of him to myself — I’m still not sure. 

As we fell into the hotel bed sheets, I forgot all about his relationship outside of this. I think my subconscious thought that if this night was magical, he would want to be with me more than his partner and it would become my reality. 

We rolled around in the sheets making love until 4am. That’s right, making love. I wanted that date, the date I’d been paid to go on, to be my reality. But that’s the thing with this kind of work, the client is paying for the fantasy. And I knew that. I just seemed to forget myself around him, on this one beautiful, surreal night. 

It came crashing down weeks later. 

Just like in real world relationships, my obsession with the fantasy of him, with the date, with our potential life, took over mine – but not his. I’d send him messages throughout the day asking what he was up to, only to get a response that detailed a story of something he and his partner had done that day.

Eek. I’d forgotten about her. 

And while I spiralled into despair that he was, in fact, more in love with her than I’d hoped (and definitely not falling love with me), he told me how they were off for a romantic weekend staycation and were trying for a baby. 

The life they were building together got to me more than any other of my relationships had. Each time I’d see a message from him that mentioned her, I’d sting with jealousy and have to walk away from my phone. But there was something else too: longing. I wanted to be with him. I wanted him to be mine. I wished she didn’t exist. Or rather, that she was me. 

Each time I’d try to organise a date, he’d tell me about her. It was like some cruel game. He must’ve known this, but his tone was so nonchalant he seemed entirely unfazed. Cold, even. Maybe a part of him enjoyed it? It was crazy to think that only a week earlier, he’d been nestled up to me in a hotel bar, drinking martinis and whispering things like “I wish I could just be here with you forever” into my ear at 30 second intervals. And now, who was this man? It was worse than being ghosted. It was a slow, painful rejection. 

I had a moment of strength where I decided to move on, mute his chat and dedicate more time to finding other sugar daddies to take his place. But it didn’t last long. As soon as the wall had gone up and I was starting to feel better, he reached out. 

“Hey I’m free this weekend. Want to get an Airbnb?”

At first I ignored him. I wanted to teach him a lesson. I felt angry, even though it was technically unjustified.

“I can do it tonight, but I’ll need to know in the next hour.” He double texted, this time sounding kind of annoyed. Maybe even a little insecure? The scramble for power was apparent, but the fear of missing out swayed me and I agreed. Without payment. 

When I got there he smelt of sweat. He was distant and cold, just like his texts. Without meeting my eye, he wanted to get down to business. And it wasn’t even business I was getting paid for. I allowed it to happen thinking that maybe he’d soften afterwards, maybe he’d remember the connection we shared during our last date, maybe he’d change his mind. But he didn’t even want to touch me afterwards, falling asleep almost immediately. 

When he woke up, I broached the idea of a date at a fancy restaurant like the first time. He said he’d “be in touch”.

The ‘used’ feeling kicked in after he’d left. Sugar baby relationships are usually protected by the payment, which creates a somewhat physical barrier between business and pleasure. Sure, the lines are literally blurred — but it creates a world where sex and intimacy aren’t to be taken to heart. I’d already let that barrier down with him. He knew how I felt, and he’d used it. I felt empty.

We saw each other one more time. His partner wanted to meet me, because I was the longest sugar baby relationship he’d ever had. This made my heart skip a beat. Perhaps our connection was still there, enough to make his partner ask questions? Perhaps the woman who’s house, holidays and partner I wished were mine, was actually jealous of me?

I was more nervous than I’d ever been for a date with just him. This was either going to make me feel more confident in our connection, or much much worse. He got there first and seemed more like the first time: connected, calm, kind. But then, when she turned the corner with their dog and he got up lovingly to greet her, I became a shell of myself.

The narrative I’d built in my head shattered right in front of my eyes. He would never love me like he loved her. I was simply someone he’d met online for a bit of fun. That’s what rich people do, right? They get bored and spend money on something they think they’ll like. But no loss if they don’t. They just move on. 

I sat there and complimented their relationship, exchanged pleasantries, asked questions and avoided sinking into a pit of jealousy for as long as I could bear. I excused myself about an hour in, I could feel the tears and the shame incoming. 

I texted him shortly after: “Hey, it was so nice to meet your partner but I don’t think I can see you anymore. I’ve realised what I’m looking for is what you and (partner’s name) have, and I need to give this some space. Thanks for the time we had together and all the best.”

“No worries. All the best to you too.” He replied.

And just like that, it was over. No begging for me to reconsider, no kind words about how I was beautiful and worthy and would find someone someday. No care.

Alana Heart has written a book about her experiences, Sugar: Tales from a Sugar Baby, that you can shop online at Fiend Bookshop.