The Sugar Daddy Experiment Is Dead

I thought the whole point of going on a Sugar Daddy websites was to bag a man with a buck or two. Apparently I’m wrong. In order to secure yourself a proper trick, one must upgrade their account to platinum, gold-digging or diamond status. I’ve signed up for two SD websites and have been told that in order to meet a potential John date, I’m going to have to pay a little extra.

Wait a minute. I’m the one who’s broke and needs a pimp-man-sponser to pay for things. And besides, I thought I was paying – with my body. Aren’t these sites just a legal way to stick your toe in the brothel business? I’m sure many, especially the lawyers for these websites will argue against that point. I mean, it’s very natural for a man in his 50’s to date someone who’s 17 (pardon me as I barf in my mouth). Well heck, at least a lady can finally put the selling of her body back in her own hands. No middle-man-pimp for me, just income verifications and background checks, thankyouverymuch.

I haven’t had much luck hookering a man. Maybe because I don’t want to dress like one (hooker, darling, man is not my look). Maybe because I’m too old and not down for making sexy-time-profile-pictures of myself spread-eagle with a vacant look. Maybe I don’t want to fuck a wrinkly cantaloupe, be carted around like some dolly-toy or pump up a deflated ego with lines of Viagra. I knew this experiment was doomed from its inception. I’ve become stuck in my ways.

I watched Couples Therapy last night because it’s the new marijuana and will kill more braincells than 15oz of spice. I certainly needed to smoke that and turn my meth frown upside down after witnessing the train-child-molesting-wreck that is Courtney Stodden and Doug Yuckinson. I can’t. I just can’t. My favorite part was when Doug said he didn’t need to raise any children because he was currently raising his wife! Isn’t that lovely! What shall I do without a man around to raise me properly? Obviously with the exception of this fame-whoring case, we need to be guided, reprimanded and told what to wear – something that Chester-Doug needs a little tutorial on. Unless you prefer a strip-to-my-loo-look. You probably do. There I go, throwing up in my mouth again.

Let’s have Michael K take it from here:

18 years ago today, a 45-year-old skankified worker at the Wet ‘N Wild factory was stirring a giant vat of boiling orange foundation when a half-brained baby iguana ran onto her feet, scared her and caused her to fall. As she fell into that vat of boiling orange foundation, she grabbed the baby iguana’s tail and brought it down with her. The other factory workers heard a splat, a boom and then they felt a strange sensation like they were just touched inappropriately by the Four Horsemen. And that’s when out of the vat of boiling orange foundation came the mutant iguana goddess we all know as Courtney Stodden!

I’m not judging anyone other than Courtney Stodden. I’m just confused. When did we slip down Sugar-daddy slope and fall off of feminist mountain? If a young woman’s ambition is too marry rich and stay home, the glass ceiling has collapsed along with my bra-burning career. I’m throwing in the equal-pay towel, marching back to the kitchen and sticking my head in the oven.

Kim Gordon would never stand for this:

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