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Getting there: Short walk from the Frankfurt central railway station.
Diary Of A Sugar Baby: The Lost Hooker.
Hi, it’s Vivienne. Sorry it took me so long to get around to writing my first diary entry. I’ve been really #busy working and “working” and fucking and “fucking.” As a reminder, I’m a 26 year-old gallerina and sugar baby, and no, Vivienne isn’t my real name, but you probably get the reference…
I’ll start off by saying that I use the term “sugar baby” because the primary way in which I advertise my “services” is through a sugar daddy website. To be more specific, I have a profile on SeekingArrangement.com, which is where I meet the men that I sleep with, and occasionally form ongoing relationships with, in exchange for money. Although I also self-identify as an escort. Or a prostitute. Or a hooker, whore, call girl…whatever you want to call it. However, “sugar baby” seems to be the preferred term these days—it’s less straightforward than “prostitute,” which serves the superegos of men, and the self-regard of women. But I personally think “prostitute” sounds the most chic.
Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I’ll tell you a good story:
Last month, I showed up at 2pm on a Wednesday at the beautiful St Regis hotel in Midtown. A lot of clients (i.e. “sugar daddies”) won’t send you their photos before you meet them, for purposes of discretion, so it usually means there’s this awkward moment on the first-meet where you have to walk into a hotel or a restaurant, not knowing who you’re looking for. I’m a 5’10” redhead, and tend to be wearing bright red lipstick and something body-con, so when I show up alone at a hotel and start smiling at every man in a suit with one of those “is it you? ” looks, I might as well be holding a giant sign that reads LOST WHORE, PLEASE HELP. When I was new to the biz this made me self-conscious, but now I’ve perversely come to like it.
So I’m walking around the St. Regis, smiling at various middling middle-aged men, none of whom appeared to be waiting for me. So I walk into the bar and see a guy sitting on a bar stool, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He’s zoning out with his earbuds in, eyes closed. He looks mid 30s, pretty thin, and is wearring Harry Potter glasses—very “hot nerd,” which is exactly my type. Incredulous, I tap him on the shoulder. “You’re not Ken, are you?”
And so now I’m freaking out, because getting paid to have sex with a person who you’d fuck for free is the ultimate life con.
I learn that Ken’s in tech, and is in New York on business from Hong Kong. “I want you to get drunk with me,” he says. “Will you get drunk with me? We’re celebrating.”
“What are we celebrating?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
So we drink a couple glasses of champagne. I’m supposed to be going back to work at the gallery at some point—I had assumed this date would take about two hours; they usually do— but pretty soon, as I become increasingly drunk, horny and interested in him, it becomes clear that work probably won’t be happening.
“Don’t go back to work, please, don’t go, I’ll pay you two grand not to go back to work.”
We walk nearby to Milos, a Greek fish place, and he immediately orders two bottles of wine. He seems hell bent on getting drunk, and more specifically, on me getting drunk, which I register as a bit strange, but the combination of tipsiness and horiness is keeping my guard down.
Ken’s like a little kid. He keeps ordering things and then changing his mind. He’s sending things back to the kitchen. “You have to send at least one thing back, otherwise they don’t take you seriously.”
On the way back to the hotel he’s practically running, dragging me down the street as I struggle in my stupid stilettos. When we get to his room he begins eagerly rubbing his face into my chest, over my dress. He does this for about 10 minutes, both of us fully clothed, just passing his face back and forth over my tits in an awkward silence. I feel like I’m in that scene in Big , where Tom Hanks goes home with the woman for the first time, and just acts completely bonkers—essentially, like a 12-year-old play-acting at what sex must be like. Despite this, I’m still really attracted to him, and we eventually start kissing and get our clothes off. But then right when he’s about to put his dick in me, he stops short.
“No, wait, this isn’t right… this isn’t the right time. Get up, get dressed, we have to go downstairs.” Ugh…
Down at the bar he orders me a $300 glass of whisky that I don’t want. I’m insisting that I don’t want it, that I’m already drunk, but he tells me that I have to “embrace life.” I tell him this isn’t life. I hate when clients do this kind of thing—buy you something expensive that you don’t want, or a dress that you hate, when you’d so much prefer to just have the money. The worst are the clients who drop $2k on a night out, and then pay you $600 for sex. It’s like, I can’t pay my rent in bottle service you moron!
So now I’ve reached a combination of drunk, angry and horny, which is a really dangerous combination for me.
“I want to have a threesome,” he says with a sudden urgency. “Do you have a friend you can call? She needs to get here fast.”

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