Still, hotties or not, it feels like taking a running leap into an ice-cold pool when I click the little button next to the header that says Create Account. Pretend it’s a regular dating profile, I command myself. After all, I’ve written one of those before. Erin practically forced me at gunpoint to make a Tindr account when we first moved here together.
“Just you and me conquering the world, girl,” she’d declared. “And taking advantage of all the boys in it while we’re at it.”
Erin was a lot closer to world-domination than me—she was in her sophomore year at Fashion Institute of Design now, one of the top colleges for design and merchandising in the country, and well on her way toward a design degree that would make her bucketloads of money as soon as she graduated (albeit with a crazy amount of loan debt).
Me? I was just struggling to make ends meet, waiting tables in every spare minute I could find between studying my ass off for my nursing degree. A degree that was looking farther away by the minute, now that I had to delay a semester in the face of everything with Gram . . .
Anyway, at Erin’s behest I’d created the damn Tindr profile, and then I just solved my embarrassment about it by deleting the app as soon as Erin looked the other way.
But this site’s questionnaire is a lot harder to complete. For one thing, it’s so long. And for another, there are the questions themselves.
What’s your deepest, darkest fantasy?
I pause, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I think about my go-to daydream. A handsome stranger shooting me come-hither eyes at the bar. We barely know each other, but he crosses the room anyway, grabs me by the hand and pulls me into the restroom. Before I can blink, we’re making out, hot and heavy. His hands are all over me, under my shirt, down my jeans. Circling my nipples, then pinching just hard enough to make me gasp, and slipping a thick finger into my soaking pussy at the same time. He shoves me against the wall, pins me there and pushes my skirt above my hips. I can’t even see him, but I can feel his thick, fat cock rubbing all over my ass, teasing between my cheeks, before he finally thrusts deep inside me and starts to fuck me, hard and fast.
I swallow hard. My hand strays toward the hem of my jeans. My panties feel damp already and I’m only on the first damn question. Shit.
I take a deep breath. Somewhere out there, a guy is going to read this answer. A few guys, probably. But the thought of my future V-card owner reading this fantasy is what spurs me to be honest. Because the bathroom fantasy is only one of my usual imaginary pit-stops when I whip out the vibrator. I’ve got others, like that same mysterious guy bending me over a desk, or throwing me across a bed and repositioning my body however he wants. So I summarize.
I fantasize about a man taking control and training me in the bedroom. Or other rooms, I add before I hit enter.
Describe your sex life in one sentence.
Well, if I’m going for the virginity thing, I guess honesty is the best policy. Nonexistent, I type. Okay, it said sentence, but brevity is the soul of wit, right? Unless my vibrator counts, I add.
If you could have one wish granted, what would it be?
That one, at least, is easy. I wish Gram were healthy.
But you can’t exactly talk about real things on a website designed for selling yourself to the highest bidder. I purse my lips and stare at the page header again.
Sugar Babies: All that you desire, ripe for the taking.
I crack my knuckles. Right. I’m a smart woman. I aced my first two semesters of nursing school while holding down a full-time job. I’m surrounded by my bestie’s whip-smart feminist badass friends on a daily basis. I can churn out academic essays almost as quickly as I can calculate a patient’s BP. I can handle one silly website questionnaire.
I wish I understood my desires.
Hmm. Probably not the sexiest thing I could put, admittedly. But it seems like the right combination of honesty, insecurity, and maybe a hint at hidden depths. Plus, it’s true. I don’t always know why things turn me on. Why the idea of a guy fucking me doggy style with my face buried in a pillow, or shoving his cock down my throat until I gasp for air makes me wet. I want to try those things, but I’m a little afraid to admit it.
I take another long breath. Okay, maybe a few breaths. And a cold shower.
Finally, I reach the free remarks section, where you can write a couple of sentences about yourself. By now, the pitch is already lined up in my brain, half stolen from the articles I read about other girls doing this themselves, and half dredged up from those aforementioned depths.