I am tired of boys.
My Tinder is littered with ripe, cut, baby-faced boys, and it bores me so. Their hollow minds, sexy smiles and empty checking accounts offer no appeal to me at this point in my life. They exchanged flirty emojis for unwanted dick pics, believing that those alone will win my heart. The casual Netflix-and-Chill dates do not fulfill me as well as the deep IHOP-and-Blow job encounters. I don’t need a godly boy, a fuck boi, or a man for that fact: I need a daddy.
I am done with dating. At this point in my life, the trifling games and casual sexting has me feeling fatigued. I am 20 years old, a grown-ass mature adult, who can afford to pay half her rent and a 60-dollar tab at the bar. This single, slightly above average individual, is seeking a sugar daddy, preferably over the age of 65; can be any shade of the rainbow. He needs to be before the Viagra stage of life, and is limber enough to contort and control me in bed like a Cirque de Soleil acrobat.
This dream daddy should be well-off enough, either a retired pathologist or an entrepreneur-turned-millionaire, to buy me an apartment where the rent isn’t 300 dollars a month, and Pay. My. Tuition. Swinging on that pole for hours at a time really throws off my sleep schedule, plus I can’t afford the boob job I need to make some real money. If I prostitute myself, I wouldn’t want to fuck ugly people, which is the Catch-22 because most “Johns” are ugly. I am bad at math, science, dealing with bullshit, cooking things without scorning them, and taking care of children for longer than 45 minutes. On the other hand, I look great in a red dress, can charm any person with a funny joke and a smile, do your taxes, and give phenomenal head. I think the good outweighs the bad in order for this relationship to flourish.
So dream daddy; if you are out there, and you are reading this, and I’m the sugar baby of your dreams…