A Break Up Letter to My Sugar Daddy
So, although it has taken me a couple months to catch on, I realize now that we have stopped seeing each other. That texts about your houseguests, financial woes, and stomach viruses were code for: “I’ve moved on to someone who actually enjoys drinking my piss” instead of what happened with me where I made up a story about how I loved the taste of your urine, but unfortunately drinking pee gave me flashbacks of drowning as a child. Or maybe you did buy that tale, and just the idea of paying someone to date them made you insecure and ultimately disinterested. It could be that the tension of having condomless sex with someone who couldn’t shut up about HIV got to be too much. Or just, that human interest in one another will always wax and wane, and it was just our time.
Despite the fact that our meetings were dictated by financial exchange – I want to say that I am pretty pissed that I didn’t get a proper break up. I’m not sure how that would have happened. A respectable break up is one that happens in person, and you would have had to pay me to do that. So I could see how that wouldn’t have worked for you. However, at this point, even a text message would be helpful.
After all for you I dropped my overnight rate down from an, already bargain basement, 800 rate to 3 hundred dollars. I was embarrassed to tell my friends. I would tell them I was doing it for 500 and they’d be like, it’s ok – you really enjoy your time with him, it’s alright that you aren’t getting paid very well. To divulge that I was getting paid 25 dollars an hour for prostitution was not something I could say without feeling shame. But the point is, I feel like you owe me a little respect here.
This month would have been our one year anniversary. I wonder what would have happened if we’d been on the same page throughout our relationship. At two months, while I was still in the ‘getting to know you’ stage – when you were talking about legally adopting me as an adult child– maybe I should have just gone with it. Maybe when you wanted me to be in love with you, I should have just said it back, after all I got there eventually.
Of course, in reality, the way things happened was the only way it could of. My love for you was more a love for safety, perhaps ironically, as it was you who doubled the size of my city clinic folder. You represented a break from my life. An alternative character I could inhabit for whom workplace drama, political anxiety, sexual insecurity, and financial edge walking still existed but was compartmentalized into stories I told but didn’t feel during our overnights. That you would pick my dog and me up on the corner of 25th and Folsom and you would drive us to your house. Then our familiar routine would begin.
- After car time small talk, once the door was shut and the dogs settled we would make eye contact and I would say – I’ve missed you. Then we would make out like long lost lovers. You never quite learned how to kiss me the way I liked, but I didn’t mind your devouring tongue, eventually I would tear up from your moustache scratching my nose so I would drop to my knees and take off your pants. Bury my face in your nasty underpants then pull out your dick to suck.
- You would ask me if I wanted to take a shower. I think most of what you wanted from me was to shower and sit around naked. It was me that wanted to fuck. I remember once you made a date with me and warned me that you weren’t feeling very sexual and might not be able to put out, that made me feel a little weird, I gotta say.
- I would undress completely. I’d probably already lost my pants at the door, leaving a pile of shorts, shoes, and fanny pack. I wonder if you ever read my ID while I was sleeping?
- I’d pull the top blanket down and spread my legs while you dove between and sucked me off. You were as sloppy at that as you were at making out,
- I’d draw you over me and then sit on your dick. That moment always gripped me. We’d barebacked since I started seeing you, because I wanted to prove I wasn’t scared of you, of you being poz. And because I knew that was a way to keep you as a client. And because it felt good. And because I felt the risk was probably low, but undetectable viral loads are a barrier you can never count on. Unlike condoms you can’t hold them to the light and stretch them between you. I knew that you always held back when I was fucking you, concentrated on not coming. I wanted to give you permission to come inside me but I couldn’t get the words out, they sat on the edge of my throat and I would rock back and forth harder and try and tell you with my eyes but my mouth stayed shut. When you did come inside me, by accident, we didn’t talk about it – I’m not even sure it happened.
- After fucking until I fake came once and real came once, we would talk. This is where you got me, you were someone who I assumed would be conservative in that way that people who own houses are, when their taxes seem more real to them than other peoples lives. This is the rule of tricking, never talk about politics, relationships, or religion. But you never let me down. You were an AIDS activist before you were poz, could talk to me about the drug war in Mexico even though you were sober, wanted a class war even though you had traveled the world first class as a business man. I would talk about how frustrated I was at my pozphobic community, at the AIDS industrial complex I work in, at myself for being so politically uncompromising and how much it limits me. You would play father, tell me I was a good person and that I should take care of myself. You were interested in me being trans, didn’t shy away from my breasts when I had them or try to politicize my pussy. You just said my body was made for your body and that was that.
- We would go back downstairs and you would make me greasy southern food and get me stoned so I wouldn’t gay boy count how many calories were in the cornbread. After our first overnight you always had three types of hot sauce in your house for me, and didn’t laugh when I put it on fettuccini. After your dog died I brought you gazpacho soup and salad and you ate it even though I could tell you were wondering what the point was of eating my rabbit food.
- Watching a movie or listening to you detail the history of the English monarchy I would doze off with my head on your thigh. Then I would go upstairs with my dog, who once licked the tip of your dick and when you told me I wasn’t sure what direction things were headed so I just laughed uncomfortably and started talking about the artistic merits of Rihanna. After I was in bed, you would clean then crawl in next to me. After an hour of your snoring, I’d go to the other bedroom and wake up 7am to shower and drink coffee and get dropped back at home while everyone still slept. Like nothing ever happened.
This is what happened every week, then every two weeks, then every month and now not for two months. I texted you when I was in NYC that I was drinking champagne at Christopher St Piers, where once there were hustlers and street kids but now there are bike cops and straight people doing tantra. I was shaky from going to a hotel with someone who ended up crying in the bathtub because he was so upset at the discovery that I didn’t have a penis. I missed you, that safety. I’m thankful to you. Thank you for being a proud faggot who adored my complicated body. Thank you for being a father figure even though whenever I called you daddy it came out flat and emotionless. Thank you for giving me a gift of 500 dollars in front of the Safeway the day before I left for top surgery. Thank you for being a rock for safe intimacy during what was, otherwise, a particularly dry spell. I wish you well.