The Season of Death: Losing a Sugar Daddy, a Father, and the Signs Between

Photo by Lorin Both on Unsplash

“I’m the one that’s got to die when it’s time for me to die, so let me live my life the way I want to.” -Jimi Hendrix

“Start with the ending,” he says, this friend of mine with his genius brain. Well, this is not the ending — it is the beginning of a new chapter, but it is where my book will end, or the book may never get to this part of me. I’ve just finished writing my prescriptive book — a how-to on dating wealthy men I wrote at the height of my career as a sugarbaby. All it needed was updating and editing. I finished it because it was mostly complete, even if it’s not me today — it may be exactly what someone else is ready for. This books comes first, but it’s not the only book.

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This wouldn’t have happened were it not for a string of other events. In 2018, I began writing my memoir. For years the same sentence has haunted me, coming from strangers, friends, mentors: “You should write a book.” I resisted, did everything I could to avoid this fate, but somehow they programmed me that it must be done. In 2018, I wrote half the memoir, and in 2019, I quit and deleted it. My boyfriend at the time called me The Deletress…