Med school has been trying to end your girl’s life. I’ve been so busy with so much on my plate but I HAD to record an episode this week. I’ve been really missing all the Tumblr fun and this lifestyle. I’ll also be trying to catch up on the asks this week.
This week’s episode focuses on wealth creation:
Different methods and testimonials to help you take charge of your finances and life goals
Balancing many different aspects of life can get overwhelming, especially when you factor in sugar dating. In this episode we’ll put together a list that can make it easier to balance and enjoy every aspect of your life.
Top Luxury Inspiring Accounts You Need On Your Feed!
On this episode of The Top List, we’re going to go through my list of top 10 Luxury Inspiring Accounts to Follow for the level up journey. This week we have supporting visuals, so be sure to check out the video that accompanies today’s episode.
I put together a guided meditation for this bonus episode, as requested. Guided meditations are a great way to keep up with our wellness goals. Healthy mind = success at securing more bags. Look within to reap the benefits of what’s around you
We’ll also talk about common feelings that can manifest due to the highs/lows of life and how to adjust to them.
Sugaring, classes, work, and just life in general can get exhausting. Mental health is critical for manifesting and creating a life you love living. Join me while we go through some self care and wellness strategies:
Affirmations
Mindfulness activities
How to create and incorporate a self-care routine
Pro tip: subscribe to luxury magazines for more visual vibe enhancement. My favorites are Veranada, House Beautiful, AD (Architectural Digest), and Elle Decor
Thank you. I’m truly, truly humbled. And exhausted trying to edit book 2, write book 3, market book 1, and pretend that I want to date. You’ve encouraged me to keep writing.
Have you read The New Money Girls?Leave a review! They’re the reason I turn on my laptop every day and keep doing this (not kidding). They also help your sisters decide if they’re going to read the book.
If you completed the lyrics and maybe danced a little, you are my Patronus and I love you.
There is one simple fact that remains the same: you are better than I deserve, sis. I came back to Tumblr a little over a week ago and you message me and said you were glad I was back. You called my disappearing act “a little break” even though we both know I’ve been gone since February. You have exquisite manners and a sense of decorum that would put the majority of the 1% to shame.
You asked me where I’ve been and there is both a simple and complicated answer to that question. The simple answer is easy: in my pajamas. The difficult answer is one that I don’t want to give, so of course, I’m going to do it.
The difficult answer can be condensed down into one small phrase. I took a break. You see it all the time in the sugar bowl. Girls say that they are exhausted, just tired. They need some time away from the bowl, from any connection to sugaring. Not just the men but the sugar sisters that they made. They just need to make a clean break from the social media, the freestyling, the lifestyle in general. Depending on how successful the girl is, we sideeye her message. Is she crazy? Who gives up the perfect life? If we like her, we are aghast. She is our friend in our head, our sister. We have rooted for her from the beginning, that very first post. If we don’t know her, don’t like her, or never felt a connection to her, we roll our eyes and wonder when she’ll tell us something we actually give a shit about.
No matter how we feel about the girl, we know one thing. Girls that take breaks don’t come back. Once they take that first step away from sugaring, they don’t come back. Not to us anyways. Maybe they move forward and live lives that don’t involve sugaring anymore. Maybe they just create a life that doesn’t involve Tumblr. Either way, they aren’t heard from again.
But it exhausted me. So much of what I did was trial and error. So much of what I did was learning on the spot and then coming to tell you about it (success and failure). So much of it was about dealing with men when I’d rather be at home asshole naked, with a glass of wine, and watching Netflix. But I had my list of things I wanted, I had an odd talent for making men buy me gifts, and I had a shit ton of determination to live a different and, in my mind at least, better life.
I took the first steps to that better life in November of last year. I published the very first version of The New Money Girls. I wanted to see if anyone cared, if they would read my story, if they would enjoy my writing. I gave the story away for free. Fifteen thousand downloads later, I knew I had something good on my hands. But not quite good enough for you. So I did some hard work. I learned how to write, how to respect your intelligence as a reader, how to paint a picture for you, how to make you feel like the characters I created were real. I learned how to design a cover. I learned about advertising. And I learned how to stop fucking procrastinating and just get the goddamned book done. (Well, I sort of learned.)
In the meantime, I dated and had copious amounts of sex with men that couldn’t afford me. It was liberating in the beginning. To ignore bank accounts, cars, economic viability, and realized potential. I was just fucking. Some of it was good. Some of it was amazing. Some of it was so mediocre/bad I kicked them out ten minutes after we got naked. And I felt good about all of it. After so much time being disciplined about who I gave my time to and the price I put on it, it felt good to just let loose.
Butthe thing that no one talks to you about when you become a sugar baby is the latent guilt. Once you learn that your pussy has monetary power, you can’t go back. Once you have men falling over themselves to make your dreams come true, who say there’s a laptop for you on the backseat, who take you to the Apple store and your favorite art store and say ‘get what you want’, you can’t make yourself deal with a man who won’t text when he says he will. Or thinks that he can take you to some rinky dink shack that can’t even be bothered to cook with fresh vegetables instead of things that come out of a can. (I’m not still angry about that date, I promise I’m not. I am still laughing at the look on his face when I strolled out and waited beside his car for him to take me home basically mid-meal.) When you try to, it is almost (actually) physically painful. You ask yourself if these assholes know who you are (no), if they truly understand how amazing you are (no), if they grasp how much of a discount they are getting (most certainly not).
I did that thing I always do, best friend. I stopped what I was doing and I started thinking. Too much. I figured out my new goals.
I don’t want to be a sugar baby. I want to be a spoiled girlfriend and transition into being a trophy wife.
This was a tough decision to make. To be this kind of woman, I have to be on all the time. I don’t have to be in high heels and dressed to the nines every single second of my life (this is a lie. I have pulled and rejected trust fund babies while wearing sweats.) but it does mean that my makeup has to be done and well. It does mean that I can’t just roll out of my house in my brother’s clothes anymore. It does mean that I have to accomplish goals and make myself a woman of value. (I’ve got a list that’s helping me with this. I’ll share it with you later.) It does mean that I have to freestyle more.
I don’t want to date men I am not physically attracted to or can’t see myself with long-term.
Sure, I’ll keep them around. I’m not the kind of bitch that will look a gift horse in the mouth. But I don’t see the need to give them quite as much time and attention. If I’m not interested, the man is temporary. I know I won’t keep him more than six to eight weeks. Part time job. So that’s how I’ll treat them.
I don’t want to be on dating apps.
They bore me. But I do have a few apps that I think will be really helpful. (We’ll talk about those later, too.)
I do want to take my time.
I’m in no rush. That helps. When we give ourselves deadlines to accomplish things, we give ourselves pressure. When we give ourselves pressure, our judgment is clouded. It’s why we should never sugar out of desperation. Sugaring is a way to elevate an already satisfactory lifestyle. It is not a lifesaver, it is not a Hail Mary in the last five seconds of the game.
I do want to be clear about my process, my rules, my style, and what I will and won’t do.
I do want to take you along for every twist and turn in this crazy ride.
I’m going to be freestyling with my friends in a month or so. I want you to be a part of my preparations and I want you to be there when I talk about my results. I want you to be there when I start freestyling again. I want you to keep me accountable for the goals I set. And I want to do the same for you.
That’s it, sis. I disappeared for six months and spent that time learning how to write, actually writing, having egregious amounts of sex, and figuring out what I want to do with my life. What have you been up to? Have your sugaring goals changed at all? And what do you think of my plan?
PS to the women that have reached out to me to start or rekindle friendships: @making-a-better-me @sydthekid34 @dulcedub@locd-nubianqueen -I love you. To those that never left @dumbeddownsexdoll @sugarsirenmd@sweetsci@imblackyall@onikaahonee among others. I love you. Thank you all for seeing something valuable in me
PPS. The latest, greatest, and wildly different version of The New Money Girls is out. Read it, love it, tell me what you think about it.
I didn’t become an escort because I was desperate. I didn’t do it because I was broke and all of my bills were due in the next twenty-four hours. I didn’t do it because I had low self esteem and thought that maybe sleeping with men for money would make me feel better about myself.
I was an escort because I liked to be at home in my pajamas with a book or a fashion magazine. I liked to organize clothes, watch movies with my sister, decide what I would eat for dinner. Escorting was the only job I could find that would let me do all of that and have enough money to pay my bills and my tuition.
And the hotels. There was anonymity when you walked into a hotel. No one knew who you were or what you were doing. Were you there on business? Negotiating a multi-million dollar deal? Were you an exhausted housewife that just needed a few days away from the kids? Were you a trophy wife in a snit with her husband and wasting his money as punishment? Or were you a hooker?
I liked to watch the front desk staff try to figure it out. I would dress in different styles to confuse them. I decided to be a business woman that day in a skirt suit and low slung heels. The concierge wished me good luck with my meeting and I laughed like a loon on the elevator ride to my room.
The room was spacious and bright. The carpet was so thick I couldn’t hear myself walk across it. Polished tiger wood and marble and bronze baroque-style wallpaper. I moved to the windows and looked out at the view of the City.
It was mine. I was born and raised here. I knew where the best Korean food was, the best shopping. I knew when Shakespeare in the park started and when the street fairs popped up, full of sweating people looking for something to make them feel like they were more than just the forty hours they spent every week in their cubicles.
Because I sucked dick for a living, I also knew things I shouldn’t. I knew which bills were being introduced to the state and city assembly. I knew whose business was about to tank and who was happy about it because they wanted to purchase it for a bargain. I knew whose wife was a bitch on drugs and I knew more about the stock market and where to invest my money than was legal.
I stripped out of the suit, down to the garters, bra, and crotchless panties I wore beneath it. I kicked off my professional kitten heels and pulled a pair of six inch designer stilettos from my bag and slid them on. I started a playlist Zion designed for me. It was just long enough for a brief meditative period and a one hour appointment.
My client showed up on time. He was a hedge fund manager that handled billions of dollars and liked to pretend his dick, the size of my pinky, was larger than it was. A shame. He was an otherwise attractive man. Balding but his body was tight, he was always well dressed, and he showered before I put his balls in my mouth.
We smiled at each other. He kissed my neck and headed to the bathroom where he stripped out of his clothes and stepped into the shower. I went into the bathroom after him and gathered his custom suit and silk shirt and hung them up in the closet. I was on my knees when he came out of the shower.
I looked up at him and slid a condom onto his penis, held it in place with my thumb and first finger.
“I missed you.” I took him into my mouth.
He looked down at me and moaned before his head tilted back and his eyes drifted shut.
It was my fault. I could admit that. I just had to open my mouth and complain about micro- penises at brunch. Of course I would be on my knees with one in my mouth less than twenty-four hours later.
At least the carpet was comfortable. Rug burn was a bitch to conceal.
“This big cock feels good in that pretty little mouth, doesn’t it?”
His moan, loosed right after he finished speaking, was louder than mine. Thank God.
The pretending was the hardest part for me. I just didn’t have the skills to pretend that men that chewed on my clit like it was a piece of Juicy Fruit and thought kissing was stabbing their saliva dripping tongues into my mouth as quick as possible pleased me. I would watch them bounce, thrust, grunt, and groan over me and plan how I would spend my fee.
I knew my attitude and my facial expressions hurt my business and I couldn’t handle the thought the I left money on the table. So I read erotica, watched porn, and masturbated until my imagination was so well developed I could pretend that any man, no matter how bald, poorly endowed, or lacking in skills, was the best lay of my life.
Business boomed.
But was there some rule of science that stipulated that even if your head was bald your pubic hair could flourish? Long curling blonde strands grew out of his crotch until there was more hair than penis.
I caught his hands in mine before he could shove them into my hair. Sew-ins cost too much money for him to act silly. I put his hands by his side and ran my nails up his thighs while moving my tongue in slow then fast circles around what little penis he had. He liked that and even better he kept his goddamn hands to himself.
Maybe I should refuse to put my mouth down here again unless he trimmed it. What did he need all that hair for anyways? Was he an alpaca? Would his pubic hair be harvested and woven into a winter coat? I ran a hand over his balls and teased his perineum. His knees got weak; I smiled.
Maybe the hair was to keep him from remembering how little his penis was. That made the most sense. The richer a man was the more fragile his ego.
A new song started on my playlist. It was time to wrap this up. I slurped all of the saliva I let gather in my mouth down my throat then moaned and put my fingers back on his perineum and applied gentle pressure.
He came with a shout and a thrust and spasmed. Fuck. His little hip gyrations surprised me. Hair in my mouth was the worst. No matter how much mouthwash and floss I used, I found myself, days later, coughing it up like a cat did hairballs. Fuck.
I kept my fingers tight on the condom. He oozed and dribbled into it and I was proud that I held my shivers of disgust at bay. He stumbled backwards until he flopped onto the bed. I followed him.
I leaned over him and pulled the condom from his body, careful not to spill. The housekeeping staff didn’t need to be given a reason to suspect there was a hooker loitering on the premises. It would suck to be banned from the hotel before I had a chance to soak in the large tub in the bathroom.
“Did you miss me?” I said to distract him from my inspection of the sheets. “It seemed like you’d been saving up for me.”
His hands were behind his head and a shit eating grin spread across his face. “God, I love how into me you are. You love having this big cock all the way at the back of your throat, don’t you?”
I pivoted as soon as he started to speak. I was in better control of my faces than ever but there was no need to push it. I just wiggled my ass in assent and walked into the bathroom to flush the condom.
He watched me walk out of the bathroom and back towards the bed. Maybe, just maybe, the look on a man’s face after I brought him to orgasm was part of the reason I was an escort, too.
He rolled onto his side. We never discussed it, but we both knew this was the real reason why he came to see me. I curled around his back and draped an arm over his waist and waited.
It didn’t take him long to start talking. About his progress with his trainer Claude and how proud he was of his body, about all of his business meetings and the raise he was going to ask for next week, how nervous he was about it even though he couldn’t show anyone else that. About the golf course he visited and how much he loved the grass. He loved it so much he was going to grow the exact same grass at both of his homes.
And I was in the perfect position to roll my eyes as much as I wanted.
The song that signaled the appointment was almost over began to play. I dropped a kiss to the center of his spine and rolled out of the bed.
“Let me grab your clothes,” I said. “Did you want a hot towel rub today?”
He rolled onto his back and kicked the sheets off his body. “Oh, you know I do. Rub those pretty hands and tits all over me, baby.”
I pulled his clothes from the closet and laid them over an armchair then walked into the bathroom. I stood at the sink, wetting two washcloths, and let my eyes drift towards the tub. Soon, I promised myself. I used one cloth to wipe through pubic hair and what little penis there was and used the other cloth to rub over his body. I kept my body angled to give him a good view and to make it easy to slip away should he try to touch me.
When I finished rubbing him down, I took the cloths back to the bathroom, then stretched across the bed and watched him dress, accepted the two crisp hundred dollar bills he pressed into my hand as a tip, let him kiss me on the cheek, and watched him walk out of the room.
The lock clicked on the door and I bounded off the bed and into the closet to pull the money he gave me at the beginning of the appointment out. It was all there. I knew that but I liked to sit on the bed at the end of the appointment and count it again. Feel the crisp bills slide through my fingers. Two thousand seven hundred dollars for a little over an hour of work. I laid the money over my body and breathed in the smell of it.
That was why I was an escort.
I sat up and let the money slide down my body onto the bed and floor. Hotel bars, in the middle of the day, were always full of men with more money and time than sense. I put on my prim and proper business suit and went down to the bar to see who else I could lure up to my room.
LeAndra has it all: money, power, beauty… on the surface. Behind the perfectly coiffed façade, lies crippling loneliness and a desperate longing to be loved.
When love finally comes knocking on her door, everything she’s ever dreamed of becomes a reality.
Tony is perfection personified: handsome, charismatic, powerful. As a kingpin, he has to be. That’s why he careful crafts his every move. That is until he meets LeAndra. She’s more dangerous than anyone he’s come across. And that makes her even more appealing to him.
When their worlds collide, sparks fly, but so do tempers.
Will he quit the game for love, and will she abandon the only life she’s ever known to become part of his?
It’s my most popular series to date. A dark urban romance. If you’re looking for a happily ever after…well, you’ll get it. Just not the way you imagined. Can you survive Tony and LeAndra’s love?
My bathtub is too small for me. It always has been. Since the growth spurt. Since I left my parents house. Since that day in college when I realized puberty had come and ballet couldn’t be my secret hope anymore. There was no bathtub in the dorms. I cried in the shower and felt a little like a grown up.
In the apartments that followed the bathtub was just a smidge too short. To submerse my whole body I risked my hair when it was permed. My retwist when I had those new baby locs that filled me with wonder.
I avoided the tub until I moved in with my best friend. I lived in it when I moved out and was alone again.
Too small still but there’s Amazon. And amazon has a cover you put right over that part of the tub that’s supposed to stop overflow but is instead a reminder that the women of the past were smaller and took up less space than my body-my post ballet body- requires.
The tub is not fancy. The handicap rails are shelves for the Vaseline I smear into my skin to lock in moisture. To give me the chance to smile when someone I know and care for is given the opportunity to brush against me and gasp a little, “Your skin is so soft!”
The water is hot. Too hot. Even with the A/C on and the window open in winter (and I can hear my mother chiding me for that even though she doesn’t pay a single one of my bills) I can see the steam rise. I’ve identified that the numbness I feel is my skin burning.
How wonderful. How marvelous is that? So hot and in so much pain you stop feeling anything at all.
The bath’s ingredients are simple. A carryover from when I was in preschool and had the chicken pox.
The calamine lotion irritated my skin and made things look worse than they were. No. I’ve decided not to lie to preserve nostalgia anymore. It was worse. And I was quiet. Even then I knew the sin of wasting what Mommy purchased and the time she took to make me well. Shush shush.
I don’t know who spoke but I’ve convinced myself it was my mother’s mother. She loved me best and longest. She’s gone but I know she loves me now. And she’s the only person my mother listened to with minimal argument. Southern mothers and their daughters.
A sock. Two cups of oatmeal. An eighth of a cup of baking soda for every cup of oatmeal. Some rosemary. Grocery store rosemary that had dried in its plastic container. Not necessary but always there. An open bathroom door to dismiss what the rosemary pulled away.
Everything in the sock. The sock in the bath.
He’s-exasperated is the best word I can find- by my baths. Why bother when he’ll just dirty me up when he arrives. Didn’t I shower already?
Yes. I’m clean.
For now.
He doesn’t notice how he touches. The tips of his fingers. His whole hand. His palm against the ass that’s always been too big, too soft, my favorite part of me, the first part i was taught to hide. His lips down my spine or the side of my neck.
He can keep his feelings. I have his touch. And his acquiescence. He smiles the little smile and tells me to do what makes me happy.
I feel like playing spades. Suddenly in my hand I have both jokers and the deuce. I’m a winner.
I have water beside me when I get in the bath. Cold water from the sink and a bit of lemon squeezed and dropped right in. The water is in a mason jar. Southern girls follow the examples and practices of the grandmother that loved them best.
In the beginning of being alone I took the baths without water. When I stood and the opaque bath water ran in sheets down my body, I swayed. Sometimes my feet moved.
1,000 ways to die. Who would find my body in the tub? Everything neat and tidy and convenient for my family? How long would it take. Now I hydrate.
And a candle. I watch the flames. It’s a meditation of its own. I think about blowing it out and laugh. Heat makes me nonsensical.
There’s the tripod for my phone. The wireless remote. I snap a picture of my naked body. No. The angle is wrong. There is a right angle. I could find it. But I am lazy. And happy. No need to change that.
A book instead with magic words that make me dream of my own. That’s the test of a good writer: can you make me abandon you? Can you make me reach for my own thoughts and the mundane? Grasp for my phone to do what I’m doing now? Chase the words. Record them before they slip away.
I rub the sock over my skin and feel how the oatmeal has softened and leaks white over my brown skin. More white to come later from a brown man. My smile at that isn’t something I would share with family. With anyone.
My bathtub is too small. It always has been. But I’m filled with galaxies and eternities and things that will live untouched and unchanged. They will let me travel with them.
You too are filled with galaxies.
A sock. Two cups oatmeal. One quarter of a cup baking soda. Rosemary or not.
Travel within. Find the parts of you that live eternal.
Black girl, be soft.
It feels good to be back, best friend. I missed you, this, us (all homo). I brought presents. A FREE novel you can read while we deal with this quarantine thing. Grab your copy. And tell me: do you find it difficult to be soft?
my most recent post about dating well is all over the place, but what I’m trying to say is that I have no issue with young black women advising others to date well off men ( I advocate for it) but the bashing of other women as well as the anti blackness they spew in regards to BM needs to stop.
I go in on BM all the time but there’s a line between calling them out and projecting self hate/anti blackness. The tweet I was referring on Twitter was
Most of these women giving advice literally have nothing to show for it, and most of the time the advice is trash. Don’t let these women make you feel like you can’t date a regular dude and that can’t be “leveling up”. If he does right by you what does it matter? I think standards like the guy having his own shit (car, crib etc) and obviously having job is basic. But expecting every nigga to fly you out, take you shopping and so forth is very unrealistic for most women. But I’m gonna save rest of my thoughts on this for podcast Chile
I can go live about this topic on twitter, if I get atleast 10-20 followers.
One thing I have come to learn over the years is that there really aren’t any “rules” or “guidelines to follow when it comes to dating. Especially if you want to date someone with means so you can potentially become a “spoiled gf”.
