Dating older wealthy man
It felt such a naughty thing to do, typing “younger women for older men” into Google – but when I did, I found several dating sites that would help me find men of a certain age with whom to have some fun.
I joined two of them and for the first few months was like a kid in a sweetshop.
A French man invited me to dinner and offered to give me £500 for my time.
“To prove I am a real gentleman, I will not expect anything more than dinner,” he wrote.
It was only after I spent an evening comforting a friend who had been dumped by a casual boyfriend (he had strung her along pretending he wanted more commitment than he really intended) that it dawned on me that paying to go on a date was a more honest way to conduct a non‑committal relationship.
Receiving money or gifts from your date is his way of saying “I like you, I want to spend time with you, I want to sleep with you, but I’m not prepared to meet your family or go to Ikea with you on a weekend”.
The thrill of a date with an older, wiser, higher-flying executive had faded.
The allowances and gifts, which were once a happy bonus of my adventures, had become my main motivation.
Then I accepted a trip to New York with a fortysomething Canadian property investor. He took me to Prada and bought so much that I had to buy another suitcase.
Despite our spark, we knew we wouldn’t see each other again: neither of us were looking for anything more than a short but intimate romance.
It took me 18 months of receiving gifts in return for my company before I accepted money – or an “allowance”, as it is known on the sugar daddy sites.
After several dates over four months, I vowed never to see him again. The first was a wonderful Malaysian divorcé who visited London four times a year and wanted a travel companion.
We became so close that after six months, our cash arrangement felt inappropriate and we stopped seeing each other. Then there was an unhappily married alcoholic banker from New York who, on orders of his therapist, had given up drink on home soil, but when abroad allowed himself the luxury of intravenous Martinis. For him, I was his drinking buddy in a feminine form, and that’s what he paid me for. I kept what I was doing from my family, and of the carefully selected friends I told, most didn’t approve.