What Having a BDSM Sugar Daddy Taught Me About Relationships

“Hey, remember that time I had a Republican, hoarder, BDSM Sugar Daddy?” became a punch line among my friends.
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Publish date:
January 25, 2015
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Tags:
bdsm, kink, Red Flags, fetish, Sex,, Sugar Daddy

In 2009, my on again/off again boyfriend and I broke up for the second time. It was shortly after this that I decided it was time to explore the local BDSM/fetish scene. My interest in BDSM sparked while in college; I was active in and had made friends in the fetish group on campus. Now I hoped to find somebody new in a much wider pond.

I found a local group and worked up the courage to attend its monthly munch. As a single 25-year-old submissive girl, it was slightly nerve-racking walking into a restaurant dining room of full of strangers, mostly 40-plus, who were already partnered off.

However, I was warmly welcomed and created a buzz. The group members were so excited to see somebody young not suppressing their sexual desires like many of them had for years. The leader of the group suggested I talk to Walter*. Like me, he was into violet wand electrical play.

Walter was somebody I would have never considered. He was tall, morbidly obese, and balding with what little hair left gray. I quickly learned he was 24 years older than me. He was smitten with me instantly, and while I was not attracted to him physically, I was intrigued.

We agreed to do a scene at the group’s next play party. He was incredibly nervous during the scene, fumbling when cuffing me to pieces of play equipment and dropping toys. I was slightly confused as these actions didn’t portray the in-control Top I was expecting. Despite this, I had fun and we played at a few more parties.

In 2010, Walter was downsized from his job just as his mother grew ill. He decided to move up to the Philadelphia suburb where she lived to take care of her. She died not too long after, but he found a job up there. He’d fly down every other month, lining his trips up with the play party schedules. While I’d never grown physically attracted to him, it was nice having somebody so smitten with me.

The first clue there was something off with him was the first time he invited me over to his house one weekend. I felt like I’d stepped into an episode of Hoarders: stacks and stacks of cases of canned food in the kitchen, piles of filing boxes all over the living room. When he showed me his room of electrical equipment (not BDSM related), I noticed there were Guns & Ammo magazines all over the floor and boxes of bullets.

“What’s with the gun magazines and bullets? Are you one of those right-winged gun nuts?” I joked.

Turns out he was a hardcore Republican Second Amendment defender. This didn’t sit well with my bleeding-heart liberal politics, but I let it slide. We were just play partners.

It was during this time that he told me about the 2011 big fetish convention that was happening soon. I told him as fun as it sounded, I could not afford the registration and two nights in a top-brand hotel. He wanted me there with him and told me money wasn’t an object. He paid for my registration and booked us a hotel room.

I had a great time at the convention. We attended workshops and lectures, ate at the fancy restaurants in the hotel, played in the dungeons, spent time with friends, made new friends and constantly walked around the vendors.

While there, he presented me with a gift: My very own violet wand kit! I was completely taken back; a man had never given me such an expensive gift. The kit he put together cost at least $600. I protested at first, insisting that I couldn’t accept such an expensive toy on top of him paying for whole weekend. He insisted, and then, for the first time in our relationship, insisted on oral sex. Before this weekend, everything we had done was strictly BDSM play in scenes. I obliged. After all, he had just spend over $1,000 on me in one weekend.

With the weekend over, Walter went back north, but constantly sent me dirty emails and texts. He lamented how much he missed me and that we should plan a vacation.

Again I told him I didn’t have the money and again he said money was no big deal. He remembered I always wanted to go to the Mütter Museum in Philadelphia and, since he lived nearby, he decided I would come to visit in a couple of months.

Walter then decided to expand the trip. He asked me if I had ever been to New York City. When I said no, he decided to add it to our plans. I was excited; I was getting a dream vacation to two cities I’d always wanted to visit in exchange for a little sex. This was going to be awesome. Or so I thought.

As soon as I got there, red flags started popping up. His truck, just like his house, was cluttered. When we got to his mother’s house, which he had inherited, it was just like his other house: piles and piles of his stuff and his mother’s stuff. Turns out his mother’s caretaker, Alice*, still lived there, not paying rent or really doing anything since his mother had been dead a year.

Alice had a cat I instantly took to as a cat lover, but I felt bad for him. For whatever reason, the litter box was under the kitchen table and it hadn’t been cleaned in what looked like forever. There was a pile of cat throw up/hair ball in front of the staircase that had been there before I got there and was still there when I left. Alice had a hip problem and needed one of those portable raised toilet seats. She had trouble lining it up over the actual toilet and the bathroom smelt like human urine.

I tried to ignore these things. We weren’t going to be at the house much. The morning we were heading to New York City, I got up early and made myself extra fancy. Walter said his truck needed an oil change and then we’d be on our way.

I thought this meant stopping at Jiffy Lube, but I was wrong. He went to work changing the oil himself. I stood in the driveway in disbelief. He knew for over a month I was coming up and he waited till I was ready to hit the road to change the oil. He ended up spilling oil all over the driveway. He retrieved the bag of cat litter from the laundry room and I watched as the cat’s chance for a clean litter pan was used to sop up oil.

We finally got to New Jersey, and then took the train into the city. More red flags. He insisted on taking cabs almost everywhere because his health and weight prevented him from waking long distances. This was the most depressing at the Met. Not even halfway through he sat down in the café and told me to find him when I was done. I told him it would be a while; this was the Met after all. I wandered the galleries, discontent as I saw other tourists sharing the artwork with their friends/partners/family. I tried to suppress it; after all, wasn’t I lucky enough to be seeing this art in New York City without paying a dime of expenses?

The more I suppressed, the angrier I got. At one point, Walter was so exhausted he insisted we find somewhere to sit and refresh. We found ourselves in the Times Square Applebee’s. I was in New York City sitting in Applebee’s. I could sit in Applebee’s back home.

When he asked what was wrong, I said nothing. How could I? The only thing I paid for that day was a shirt from the Sanrio store. He surprised me with a night at the Algonquin Hotel, knowing I was a fan of Dorothy Parker and cats.

On the drive back to Philly, the friction built. Walter said he was disappointed I wasn’t filling his needs. I was confused; I “serviced” him every night. I asked what exactly he wanted. He said he was expecting to be awakened with a blow job and that he wanted three additional blow jobs a day. I told him I wasn’t giving four blow jobs a day; even if that meant I had to come up with a portion of the trip cost. He never brought it up again.

Once back in Philly, the trip got worse. The state of the house disgusted me; I had trouble “servicing” him with five-foot-high piles of his mother’s clothes next to the bed. Alice had no sense of boundaries and busted into the bedroom to talk to Walter no matter what state of undress we were in. He got flustered whenever I asked what he was going to do about her.

The day we went to the Mütter Museum was the last red flag. I’d waited years for this and yet I couldn’t even feign excitement. He grew bored within 30 minutes then annoyed when I spent three hours in the museum. He sat in the lobby waiting for me. On the drive back, his truck died, blocking rush hour traffic. Instead of taking control of the situation, he floundered while I called my roadside assistance asking if it could be used out of state with a car that wasn’t mine.

When we finally got back to his house, Walter asked me if I was disappointed with him. I responded, “Yes. And I’m over this; I want to go home.”

I left three days ahead of schedule. He begged me not to go and cried when he dropped me off at the airport.

I would like to say that was the end of my dealings with Walter, but it wasn’t. For the next couple of months he continued to send me random emails and texts about how much he missed me, how exciting I made his life, and how he wanted another chance to prove he could be the strong Top I thought he was going to be.

I told him to stop contacting me. He mailed me a box of sex toys with a note that said they were for me. I mailed them back. He sent another box and I returned to sender without even opening it. He sent me emails and texts expressing how hurt he was that I returned his gifts. I blocked his email and his number. I eventually sold the violet wand he gave me; as much as I loved it, there was way too much baggage attached.

As time went by, I was able to reflect on what happened and learn from it. I was under the impression sugar daddies were supposed to be suave, dapper silver foxes. BDSM Tops were supposed to be like Mr. Grey in Secretary: firm, in control, and cool under pressure. Instead I got a socially inept, bumbling man who couldn’t even handle his car breaking down. While I know not every sugar daddy is like this, the experience was enough to turn me off from ever doing it again and dating older men in general.

I had several final lessons from the experience. No matter the relationship, if you’re not physically, intellectually, and emotionally attracted to them, don’t try to make it work. If something about the person rubs you the wrong way make a mental note, and if they keep piling up, don’t tolerate it. Affection cannot be bought. Communication is crucial; just because somebody else paid for something doesn’t mean you don’t have a right to express how you feel. And most importantly, all travel I do for the rest of my life will be paid for on my own dime.

*Not their real names.