Silver Fox #1

A night out with the socialites. Soho House.

The rich. The famous. The well-connected. It Girls. Cougars. Sugar Daddies.

The exclusivity of it all was fiercely thrilling.


I caught the attention of a much older gentleman.

He beckoned me over and ordered champagne.

His striking looks were disarming.

I tried to keep my cool. I code-switched.

“Well, I must say, for such a young woman, you’re quite the conversationalist.”

“One might even say, ‘not just a pretty face’. Amirite?”

Evidently, his perceived disconnect between my expansive expression and my ethnic origins, intrigued him.

“Indeed. May I ask for your contact details? I’m in desperate need of a dinner companion next week.”

I scribbled it down on our bill.


I googled him.

I stared open-mouthed at the screen. He was revoltingly rich.

His net-worth was listed as a nine-figure sum.

The vulgarity of it all was nauseatingly arousing.

I fantasised about all the far-flung places I’d make him take me. All the beautiful things I’d make him buy me. And all the cheques I’d make him write for the causes I believed in.

I came hard.


I spent the next evening writing, editing, deleting – then ultimately re-writing – a series of smart, and suggestive, texts.

I was convinced I could charm myself into his lavish life.

We set a date.

The fantasy was fast becoming a reality.

I came often.


Date night.

The anticipation was unbearable.

My underwear was sticky by the time I went to meet him.

The food was delicious, the wine full-flavoured and the venue beautiful.

He was captivating. Bonus.

But, we were both stunned into silence when we revealed our ages. It was three decades.

“Oh. Right. I didn’t realise. Hmmm. This is far from appropriate.”

“Says who?”

I stretched out my leg under the table, placed a stockinged foot in his lap, and stroked his crotch.

“Ah. Umm.”

I’d rendered this charismatic, older gentleman, speechless.


He walked me to a black cab and kissed me.

It was a soft, sensual kiss. One that made me think of endless possibilities. All of them sexual.


For the next few months, he was abroad over-seeing his various ventures.

He sent suggestive texts. I sent some back. He was all I thought about.

I had complex thoughts about the age gap.
But still, I came often.


He’d dropped hints about staying the night in Mayfair together.

But it didn’t happen.


It couldn’t happen, he said.

I didn’t tell you before, because it was just supposed to be a one-dinner-sort-of-thing, he said.

I’ve got a baby on the way, he said.

“You fucking what?”

“My partner and I are having a baby.”


Six months later, I heard from the socialites that he’d had a boy.

The snake.

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