Sugar Business

I want to be a sugar baby. I said it as a joke - I meant it as a joke. But now here I was three months later, about to stand face to face with a man more than twice my age. I'm getting ready at your place, I thumbed out to Marla, tossing my phone on the passenger side of the truck. My toes burned against the sole of my boot, itching to press on the gas pedal. Why was it when you really needed to be somewhere every red traffic light and every green trolly car was determined to slow you down? I gunned my way past the historical houses on Magazine Street, swerving left and right to avoid the larger potholes infesting the road; the less jolting on Old Blue's decaying shocks the better.  When I finally made it through the garden district and onto Canal Street, the clogged artery of New Orleans, I knew I was almost there. I pushed some tension out through a sigh. That only took - I glanced at the time - 25 minutes. My teeth charged each other in a tense, grinding battle. I knew I would never make it. But at least I could try. I  palmed my truck keys over to valet and sprinted up the steps of a towering skyscraper, arms pumping like I was running track again. "Thank's, George," I hollered out as the bellmen jerked open the door for me so I didn't have to loose any momentum. He tipped his hard brimmed hat as I roadrunner-ed my way into the building.  I completely lost my breath by the time I reached the top floor (I don't know why I didn't take the damn elevators. It just made more sense not to at the time). But I pressed onward, down the marbled halls and to the very end of everything. I raised my fist and pounded on the giant oak door. When no one came to let me in, I tried the antique knob. It opened without any trouble. "Did you get my message?" I called out over the door slamming shut. "Yeah I got it." Marla sounded disinterested in me being there, not even fazed that I bursted in on her almost completely naked. She stood between the living room glass wall and a canvas on an easel, wearing nothing but see-through lacy underwear and a red beret that matched the bottom of her heels. She held this clear acrylic palette in one hand and a really long paint brush in the other. "I only have two hours before I have to be there," I stressed, dropping my eyes to the floor as she began shifting her weight from leg to leg. "That's not any kind of time to put myself together like I want." "It's your own fault ." Marla gave her head a little shake, perfect black pin curls shimmering in the orange sunset. She puckered her ruby red lips, focused on her painting. "You should have gotten started earlier."  I pressed my lips together to keep them from curling. Obviously I wasn't going to get sympathy from my sugar baby mentor - or Angel Baby as she was rightfully called. "Hold on a second," Marla stopped me on my way to the shower.  I halted, growing anxious. She stepped away from her painting corner with the coveted view of New Orleans and moseyed over to the builtin bookshelf. Again I looked away when she bent down, flashing me a full moon and thong line. When she finally found whatever it was she was rummaging for, Marla flung it at me. "What's this?" I asked, turning a card hooked to a lanyard around in my hands.  "That's a key to the gym here. And my personal trainer's number on the back." I didn't get it. My forehead tightened in a frown.  "What? You need to take better care of yourself. You're skinny but you're soft. Get toned if you want to get a sugar daddy. One that pays good, at least." "Why? He won't ever see me naked. I'm not having s*x with any of them." "You have a muffin top when you wear tight clothes. God forbid he ever takes you to the beach. In case you didn't know this, you can't wear Spanx with a bikini. Plus your ass is flat. No one wants to look at that." She feathered her paintbrush around. "Three times a week is a good start. And cut the sugar. And carbs."  I let my eyes roll, insulted but feeling very ugly. I never liked my tummy, especially after carrying a baby to full term, God rest her soul. My skin still had stretch marks and you couldn't see any ab definition like I used to have back in high school. In that moment Marla splattered little droplets of purple paint on her stomach and took great care to wipe it off with a nearby rag. I think she was trying to show off her perfection. I looked down at her thick, toned thighs, disgusted but mostly with myself.  I stomped down the hall to the guest bathroom, ignoring the green monster waking up inside of me.  I was out of the shower faster than I had jumped in until I realized I forgot to cut down the forest on my legs. Aggravated, I got back into the tub with a fresh disposable razor I found (Marla wouldn't mind) and nicked myself twice, drawing blood. I turned off the water. "s**t!" I cursed loudly when the steam finally cleared. Growing more and more frustrated I called out, "I forgot my makeup bag!" Marla marched in at record speed on those heels of hers, frowning. "You're lying." "I wish I was!" "What the hell is wrong with you?" "I don't know, I'm nervous!" I hollered, panicked.   "Well you can't use my stuff. Plus you're too fair - none of it will match." "Well that's it. I'm screwed." I sat on the vanity chair in the bathroom, just my towel wrapped tightly around me. The stress was starting to surface as hot tears sliding down my cheeks. "Do you have anything at all?" "Just some powder in my purse," I sobbed.  "Loose or pressed?" "Pressed." She rolled her eyes and left the room. My phone dinged. It was my cousin Dags. Hey, boo. Want to come over tonight? Could use your bridesmaid's eyes on some wedding details. I dragged my forearm across my eyes and sniffled, typing out a quick reply.  I'm free after 11. Maybe then? It'll be too late. Gotta get up early. Big venue, he said back with a sad face.   Sorry, let's reschedule! I sent back.  With my attention off my sugar daddy problems I inhaled a deep breath, trying to calm my emotions and look at the situation differently – in a brighter light.  But it looked bleak from all angles. And maybe that was a good thing. Maybe this was all a sign. I really had no business dabbling in this world. I should get out before I get in too deep. Marla came back in the room and slammed a huge cosmetic box on the counter. "You'll just have to make this stuff work for you. But don't forget your makeup bag again. Keep it in your purse or something." I was surprised she was offering. I nodded, grateful. Maybe I misread the signs. Maybe this was the path I needed to take.  I spent longer than I wanted to on my face. I searched her eye and contour palettes for natural colors like the ones I already owned for my peachy skin. They were few and far between.  Her style was darker and more dramatic then mine and the things I did end up using made me feel like a clown. I fought a barely successful battle with dramatic fake eye lashes, nearly calling defeat before they applied right. The last step was my winged cat eyes. I used one of the countless deep noir eyeliner pens. When I was done, I pulled back from the mirror to get a full view of myself.  It was terrible.  Even though I applied the eyeliner thin, it still made my blue eyes beady and angry-like. My lashes were too long and thick and crooked, and let's not even begin to bring up my hundreds of freckles beaming through too many coats of powder on my face.  But I refused to waist my second chance. I threw my shoulders back and chose to press on. I had to make this date work. I had to become a sugar baby. I just had to. There was no way I would be able to curl and primp my hair like I wanted. So instead, I looked up a tutorial online and put it in a French twist, bobby pinning the s**t out of it. "Marla, where did you put my dress?" I called loudly, jabbing the last pin in, wincing as it scraped my scalp.  Marla appeared, looking mad. "I'm not your damn servant—" she stopped short, her lips curling sourly when she saw me. "Wow..." My heart sank. "What? Does it look that bad?" She nodded her head. "Yeah. Very. What happened to blending your smoky eye like Monique showed you?" The tears were coming back. "I tried! It's not working." "Don't cry, you don't have time to fix smears." She gave me another once-over before offering a a single tisk. "You don't have time to redo your face. Just get dressed and go with it. Act flirty and fun and you might be able to pull it off." "You really think so?"  "No, not really." "I'm not going." I crossed my arms, now more self conscious than ever of my little belly roll that formed whenever I sat hunched like this. "You have to. You owe me money. And you're not getting out of it that easy." Her words were like concrete on my chest. "You came to me to help you become a sugar baby, remember? You used my money and my advice and my friends to help you start in this business." I could barely breath but Marla was just getting started. "Gucci's not cheap, Sugar Face. So don't you dare think I'm letting you out of this before you've even made your first dollar. Because I want my money back. Every. Damn. Penny."  My throat was dry and my head bobbed uncontrollably. My words were a small whisper. "Okay." "Good." She straightened from being eye level with her finger in my face. "Now get the hell out of my penthouse and go pop your cherry on this first date." I almost said yes ma'am as I stood up, got dressed in record time and headed out the door.