If you want something done right, do it yourself.

I forgot to put this into my last blog post (published 15 minutes ago) so I'm just writing a new one instead of editing the other. So if you're very confused go read my last 2 posts before this one.

Disclaimer: No need to flame me for this one, though it may well ruffle some feathers. I just need to vent. This is disjointed and rambling stream of consciousness. Please know that mostly when I criticize people, I'm really criticizing myself.

Boy, I burned out on this lifestyle really fucking quick.

The one good thing to come out of the craziness with this scumbag (who lives on Mountain Road in Lovettsville VA, and who WILL try to get you to go back to his house with him the day you meet him!) is that I am 1000% more resolved in my job hunt. I am sick of waiting around for SDs to come through, sick of panic attacks and nervous crying fits when my bank account drops below 3 figures, sick of relying on other people for help. I want to spoil myself with MY OWN FUCKING MONEY. I want to put MY OWN MONEY in my gas tank. I want to take my boyfriend out on MY DIME, not someone else's. I am so sick of feeling uncertain about cashflow all the time. Sometimes you just have to hit bottom to really resolve yourself to change something shitty in your life - when I got that email, that was it. The bottom of the abyss. The end of a fantasy life that amounted to nothing but castles in the sky. The beginning of the 12 step program.

Did I say the one good thing? Cause there was another. Fuck fucking this guy. The only guy I want to fuck is my boyfriend. The last boy, I messed up a lot. I fucked other guys lots of times. I was restless, he was abusive, it was too painful to try to get away so I hid inside of affairs. By the time I was 19 I was so, so jaded. The spark was gone, we didn't love each other any more but we NEEDED each other, if you know what I mean. It was totally dependent and unhealthy.

Fuck all that drama. I'm not messing this one up. I'm not fucking another guy, even if I don't love him, even if he has money. I want to straighten the fuck up and fly right. I want to live my life with pride and with no cloud of fear lingering over me - fear of being found out, fear of NOT being found out. This is too good. I want to marry this boy. And when you get that feeling, that marrying feeling, you give up on bullshit like this because you've suddenly got a timeline for getting your shit together. I want a decent job now that will get me through college so I can get a good job in the future so I can take care of me, him, and our beautiful babies. That's how fucking serious I am.

But, dear god, this is America! And what is America without the lure of easy money around every corner?

In a way, I was very relieved when the scumbag pot said he could not do dinner + encounter. Because it meant I would not have to fake (well, semi-fake, but you know what I mean) being something I wasn't. If he had just wanted straight vanilla sex, I doubt I would have gotten anywhere near as pissed, because then I would not have spent 12 straight hours mentally preparing myself to take on a certain "role" (dominatrix). That's what was so great about Mr. Sexy - I was really, truly myself with him. If we had fucked, I wouldn't have to fake a second of it.

However, I sent him a polite email yesterday evening thanking him again for lunch and asking him if an allowance might fit into our daddy/daughter dynamic, now that we've met in RL and know we're compatible in all the right ways - I even mentioned that I was fine with the physical aspect as long as we took it at a reasonable pace. And though I am almost certain he's received that email, he hasn't responded. Does the idea of regularly helping a broke hot college girl out in exchange for her companionship really seem so abhorrent to these men that they must disappear, flake off, and otherwise ignore us? I'm getting on my fucking soapbox now. I know there are GOOD SDs out there - I've had one. Men who don't treat you like tarts but like princesses. But the liars, the manipulators, the cheats and fetish-mongers and scammers and weirdos. They make the slog through so horrifically awful. They are, in effect, con artists.

And maybe, to some extent, so are we.

I am way too fucking cynical to think straight right now. Unless a Christmas miracle comes early don't expect to see me near this blog for a long time. It's time to put my ass in gear and get a fucking job. I am applying for/following up on SEVEN job prospects tomorrow. SEVEN. That in addition to the dozens I've applied for over these last few weeks and the 3 or 4 I'll be checking in on over the weekend.

I am sick of looking for a man to take care of me. I have a great hard-working boyfriend who doesn't deserve a lazy cheating whore of a girlfriend. He deserves a bright career gal who makes her dreams (her NON-FINANCIAL) dreams HAPPEN every day and who isn't always taking the easy way out. I want to work, go to school, get my blackbelt, volunteer as a Big Sister. What kind of Big tells her Little about a lifestyle like this, or actively encourages it? Could I look into an 8 year old's perfect little face and say "Yes, that's right, you don't need to pilot the Atlantic solo or cure cancer to have a cool life, you can just get rich men to take care of you"?

No. I will teach myself to fish and feed myself for a lifetime.

Now I have nothing against escorting or sugar dating or whatever anyone wants to do. If I were any more open-minded my brain might fall out. Escorting is a job, and as the old saying goes, a blow job is better than no job. But the bizarre hybrid escorting/sugarbabying/companioning/roleplaying/double-life-ing clusterfuck I had gotten myself into was an unholy marriage of all the worst parts of being, essentially, a sex worker.

I felt guilty for messing around on my blameless boyfriend. I felt sleazy for kissing a man for money. I felt perturbed when I realized that the balance of my lunch with Mr. Sexy was the balance of my bank account. I felt ashamed for leading him on when he texted me asking if we could explore that physical theme further. I felt fear about being alone in the same room as my potential scumbag SD who I had never met. I felt nervous about contracting an STD condoms couldn't protect me against. I feel blank apathy about my "number" going up to 8, or 9, because this type of sex had become just plain work to me. I felt desperation when I didn't know where my next tank of gas was coming from. I felt a black depression seep over me when I realized I had been unemployed for 2 months with nothing to show for it because I've been living off men's money. I would say "men's kindness" but none of that money came from a place of true kindness - it all came with the stipulation that I would give a sexual, rarely seen part of myself back. Stripping would have been less revealing. And more fiscally rewarding, probably.

I thought that having no money was what was making me act like a stressed crazy person these last few weeks - I was so wrong. It was the giving up of control. While relying on SDs, I had little or no control over my life. If I had a job, even if I was just as broke, I know I would be 10X happier, because that would be MY broke, not anybody else's broke. I would own it. I would be responsible for it. I could turn it around any time I wanted by working smarter and harder, by picking up extra shifts and going that extra mile, by showing up early and staying late, or hell just by showing up at all.

Christ, this is turning into a manifesto.

There are lots of SBs out there - the majority, I would say - who do not rely on SDs for their entire livelihood. AND I COMMEND YOU. It's a trap you don't ever want to get yourself into. That's when they become more like tricks and less like a specialty dating niche. After a while the money looks so easy and fast (good lord! I sound like one of those religious pamphlets about turning from your life of sin) but it's not, really, it just feels that way when you're suddenly holding 500 dollars in your hand. At that moment your selective memory kicks in and you only remember the easy parts to getting that 500 dollars - you block out the endless dickshot emails, the creepy guys you actually considered seeing because of their insane bank accounts, the reluctant kisses and awkward hands, the stomach-churning conversations about the nitty-gritty of the arrangement, the endless lying to family and friends and boyfriends, the whiplash-inducing Freudian realization that you are basically fucking your father, for money. All that falls away in the afterglow of "set for life" brought on by those little green men in your hand.

And so even though that may be the hardest won 500 dollars you've ever earned in your life, you will probably piss a significant chunk of it away on completely frivolous material things like that money means nothing to you. Because it's for spoiling yourself. I've been there, I've done it, and I have the closet full of Victoria's Secret to prove it.

Once again, definitely not saying this applies to all SBs. This is just how I felt sometimes and I've co-opted some other girls' comments along the way to support my conclusion. There are plenty of smart, savvy, plan-ahead girls out there who ARE socking away a healthy percentage of their allowances into low-risk Roth IRAs that will make them millionaires by the time they're in their late 40's. But there are just as many who do this hard work (and don't pretend the hunt isn't work) and then blow the reward on eye candy for themselves. Why?

So in conclusion, I'm hanging up the fuck-me boots until further notice. I am disillusioned with the "game"-like aspect of this and I have got too many good things in my life that I've let slide. My energies can definitely be better spent putting my head back on straight, getting my papers (Kat William's term for making a good paycheck at a legit job), graduating from junior college this coming year, turning 21, and heaping love and adoration on my awesome fucking boyfriend and family.

Goodbye for now sugars. May the wind be ever at your back, may the sun shine warmly on your face, may the rain fall softly on your fields. Good night, and good luck.