Sitting in a booth on Monday night at The Lantern wasn’t very threatening to me; the cheap green leather seats cushioned by butt and I devoured my fifty cent wings in harmonious glory.
I avoided the bar area, hoping that the only thing touching my ass tonight was the booth, and the only thing touching my tits was wing sauce dripping down my chest. Damn those wings. When I felt a cold finger tap my shoulder, I thought maybe my waiter was going to ask if everything is “tasting fine.” Silence.
“You see that Porsche out there?” I glanced at the fiery-red wagon and knew my Camry wouldn’t bid well against that thing. “You let me pay for that meal, you slide into my car, and I’ll buy you breakfast in the morning,” he demanded as he lifted a strand of hair from my head and held it to his tongue, tasting it…I think. I guess that’s something guys like him do.
This seemed normal in my mind; I thought I was being progressive by allowing it. I hadn’t lived in Lake Forest for but a year and my recent divorce was horrid. Not able to process why my hair had entered this stranger’s mouth, I asked him what any sane person would: “Does it taste good, baby?” “Yes. Yes it does.” His eyes rolled to the back of his head in pleasure as my hair fell out of his mouth, and I saw his strong hand fall under the weight of his Rolex.
He was a Lake Forest man for sure. I’d heard that people here are outrageously wealthy, and I knew his Amex would cover both the five-dollar plate of wings in front of me and Egg Harbor in the morning— I’d made up my mind to play it cool and polite, though.
“Please-” I paused. “Umberto,” he interjected with a crooked grin.“Umberto, I would hate to be rude. We’ve just met and- “ he put his finger across my pursed lips. It was hardly intimidating. I glanced up and observed the rich, obviously conservative man in front of me. His feathered hat and tailored Armani suit were enough for me to trust him with my life. I think our interests were similar on that night.
Guess which Stentor editor is holding up this stack of dough?
I’ve had sugar daddies in the past, mainly during my years at Illinois College, but Umberto was different. I could tell in that moment that his intentions were good. He grabbed my hand and led me outside to his Porsche.
I strapped in and he drove across the train tracks next to Walgreens on Deerpath (how could a local not take Illinois Road and drive under the tracks?). We wound down Deerpath and came upon the College.
Damn. There’s no way this guy…as we drove past the Sports and Recreation Center, my five-day-per-week sanctuary, I felt my face begin to lose its color. He parked and opened my door for me. We walked right up to a brick dorm (I forget which one, they all looked the same).
My sugar daddy was a college student. Damn it. But I couldn’t turn down a Santa Fe Roll Up from Egg Harbor.
Disclaimer: All stories in The Chive are works of fiction. People involved in the stories may not have knowledge of their involvement. This section is meant to serve as a humorous break from the daily grind.
