â€śWhy didnâ€™t you just go to a shop?â€ť He asked
â€śBecause I was underage and I thought I knew best. Do you think you could cover them for me?â€ť
Tony seemed skeptical about his ability to cover my tattoos, but stated that he could try. I should come into his shop, he said. When he mentioned the name, I was suddenly much more optimistic about his sugar daddy potential: he worked at one of the most overpriced, over-advertised tattoo shops in the city. At a place like that, it wasnâ€™t out of the question for a thirtysomething to be making the money required to (at least partially) support a young lady, especially one whose only truly expensive habit was the accumulation of footwear.
The rest of the date went well, considering the fact that Tony was a self-involved oaf who liked nothing more than talking about himself and had a tendency to harshly criticize anyone who disagreed with him. I had assumed that the men seeking sugar babies would be much more insufferable than the men who hired prostitutes, but I wasnâ€™t sure if I was prepared for this. I bit my tongue throughout the meal and gained a new sympathy for trophy wives.
Despite my irritation, I wanted to see the whole experience through. I had committed to this sugar baby thing and I would stick with it. If I could just keep my mouth shut and ignore the fact that I was sitting at a table with one of the more awful people Iâ€™d ever met, there might be a lot of money in it for me.
The only real problem was that Tony hadnâ€™t brought that money up even once. When I asked him what he was looking for he said that he really wanted to get his tattoo art off the ground, maybe get featured in some magazines, possibly even create his own brand the way Ed Hardy had done. When I tried to make a hilarious and pointed joke about how heâ€™d have enough money for three or four sugar babies if he got that far, he just looked at me blankly.