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.
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.”
I stretched out my leg under the table, placed a stockinged foot in his lap, and stroked his crotch.
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.
We hope you enjoyed reading. It takes a substantial amount of resources to produce our content, so do feel free to make a contribution to help with our running costs. Every donation, however big or small, is so valued, so thanks in advance!