Immersed in golden flecks on dessert strawberries is an allure that I fail to discern. To my taste buds, they add no exceptional flavor, nor do they offer any life-enhancing nutrients. And honestly, I find the aesthetic charm of a white chocolate swirl much more appealing. ‘If it cost an arm and a leg, like $48 for four, how’s that sensible?’ I press on, pretending the cost is on me. John, my sugar daddy, can only chuckle. It’s early 2017, barely into the Trump era, and we are basking in the warmth of a luxury spa tub in Richmond, Virginia, post-massage and pre-skin treatment, capping off John’s recent move to the East and his new substantial income.
He orders the sparkling strawberries as if he is merely asking for a glass of water. For a man of his new salary, it’s merely pennies. We haven’t had a spa day previously. Our meetings back in Denver were lodged in budget-friendly hotels. His choice phrase for these encounters was ‘delightful gatherings with my partner,’ and each rendezvous concluded with him providing me $1,200. ‘Assistance’ was the designated term, and not payment, as we had negotiated a mutually agreed upon figure.
A bit misguided, John was, but I appreciated his generosity. I was 24, living hand to mouth, sharing a small two-bedroom apartment with my mother, sister, and her son. I was relegated to the couch. One evening, John made an entrance into the strip club where I worked, left me a tip of $400 along with his number, including an invitation to dinner with an enticing promise: ‘I’ll compensate you.’ Out of pure desperation and definitely not talent or flair, I had become a dancer. $400 was a lifeline I couldn’t refuse; I hadn’t ever made that much money at once.
Biting into one of these golden strawberries was underwhelming—sweet but nothing else. ‘It’s not the taste,’ John enlightens me, ‘it’s the principle. The grand idea of indulging in the uncommon—like eating gold—which only the privileged few can enjoy.’ He mentions Trump in the same breath, knowing my sentiments. His remark sounded more like a boast than an observation. I struggled to conceal my disgust.
When it comes to the world of sugar daddies, everyone only inquires about the sexual aspect, overlooking all the unseen strings attached. Playacting as passionate and full of admiration, pretending care and interest for individuals whose values conflict starkly with your own—it’s a tough act to maintain.
Becoming a doting and devoted partner during our weekend-long get-togethers since John’s move is challenging. It involved keeping up appearances at dinners, allowing John to shower me with affection, talk of a future, while being seated in the lap of luxury. The unfamiliar surroundings were bathed in a sheen of affluence—pristine tiles, painted ceilings, exotic potted plants, exclusive gated communities, a sense of ease that was omnipresent.
Even though I had always been affable, this life began to blur my limits. Seeing no point in a president who eats gold, I probed John, half in jest. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to have a leader who had experienced real struggle, who knows the taste of ramen out of necessity?’ A subtle attempt to broach our differing political views, a recurring debate ever since the 2016 Presidential election results were announced.
The night Trump was announced winner, we were clothed, seated on a hotel bed, John comforting me as I shared my fear about my nephew’s reaction to the election result—he was worried his Mexican father would be sent away. John chose this moment to reveal his casting of the red vote. I was left astounded. He had always seemed understanding and kind. His first-generation Chinese American heritage and my white and Chicana, lower-class background, I thought, gave him a sense of what marginalization feels like. But soon it became apparent that John was a staunch believer in the American dream.
John’s parents were successful immigrant entrepreneurs who supported his education financially. Throughout his life, he’d accumulated wealth, degrees, and real estate, and thought he deserved everything, because he had earned it. His standpoint was that he saw what a free market did for him and so was against the idea of paying high taxes to support those who didn’t strive according to him. My attempts to make him see the struggle my family went through when we were relying on government support didn’t have much effect.
He was adamant that everything he has was because of his hard work. ‘And everyone should do the same for themselves,’ he would claim. The disparity in our incomes would often lead to intense debates. His defense was that he has a master’s degree. ‘But what if you needed to juggle multiple jobs to support yourself? Would you still have that degree?’ The conversations would usually crumble at this point.
Towards the end, he would proclaim that ‘Anyone can have what I have if they try hard enough.’ He liked to see me as a testament to his belief. ‘You worked hard before we were together. You balanced your education with your dancing. You were making your own way.’ That term ‘before’ always rankled me. He never considered our relationship labor. He refused to see it as work.
The idea that the relationship isn’t about power but romance, and Trump isn’t causing harm to families like mine but merely rewarding the winners, and wealth signifies virtue and poverty is a failure—this was the fantasy he bought into. It was then that I started to comprehend the real reason behind his MAGA support: He had an unshaken belief in his merit. This delusion made him believe that I was his girlfriend, that we had a future together, that he loved me even though he barely knew me.
John then offered a proposal that was difficult to resist — he asked me to marry him and live a life of comfort on his income. Invite my family to shift out of our crammed apartment, drive a luxury car, and let him handle my debts. All this if I could give him everything. I couldn’t accept it. I opted for my life, despite its hardships. I abandoned the sugar daddy path for good when I left John.
Choosing a career in writing and a monthly stipend over John’s weekly handouts felt more natural. As I acclimated to this new normalcy, retrospection made me thankful and not regretful. I had juggled between two realities—I utilized the financial surplus for a better life, but now, I wanted authenticity. Sugar daddies might claim the moral high ground, but the soulless world lay hidden in posh spas and glittering skyscrapers, with men eating gold-coated strawberries, oblivious to the struggles of the poor.
The post Life on the Sugar: A Tale of Gold Strawberries and Gilded Lives appeared first on Real News Now.
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