Cinderella in St. Petersburg
My Journey from Home to High Heels
Looking back, it’s wild to think how much my life has changed in just a few years. Sitting in our cramped apartment on the outskirts of St. Petersburg, I never imagined what lay ahead. Our two-bedroom was shared with my mom, Elena, and my older brother, Misha, who has special needs. It felt comforting yet confining, filled with love but also a sense of being stuck. I lived there for most of my life, always dreaming of something bigger and more exciting.
Even though things were tough, Mom always made sure we were taken care of. She was a high school English teacher and had me practicing English since I was little. We’d watch shows and read books in English — it was her way of prepping me for a brighter future. “With your looks and language skills, you’ll be our ticket out,” she always said. Back then, I didn’t really get how much those words would shape my choices.
I was lounging on the couch, scrolling through Instagram with my legs curled up and my back against the armrest. I’d gotten pretty good at balancing social media with hanging out with Misha, who had just turned twenty-one. He was sitting next to me, cracking up at “Masha and the Bear” on TV. I was posting selfies from last night’s party — one at the bar with a cocktail, another on the dance floor with my girls. I was floating somewhere between home and my nightlife when my phone dinged with rapid-fire texts from Igor: “Big party tonight!” “Get ready to shine!” “Shpilki!” (High heels!) “Midnight at the Imperial!”
Igor, my promoter friend, was in his early thirties but easily passed for younger. He was tall and good-looking, always hyping me up and making me feel like a star. Even though we’d only known each other a few months, it felt like we’d been friends forever.
Before Igor, I was in such a bad place. My high school boyfriend turned out to be a total jerk, spreading humiliating rumors about me. Next thing I knew, my classmates were turning against me. It made me feel even more alone. I was so over the petty teenage drama.
That’s when I found Zolushka (Cinderella), a site where girls like me could meet wealthy men. I didn’t think of it as sex work at the time; I imagined it would be like dating, but with gifts and an allowance — like a regular relationship, just with an older guy and more perks. But Zolushka wasn’t exactly a fairy tale.
When I met Igor, I’d only been on a few dates, and they were mostly awkward and annoying. Most guys were just looking for cheap thrills. It was kind of scary, but I was hooked on the idea of finding something better.
Igor wasn’t one of the rich older men on the site; he used it to find girls for events, not to date them. He showed me the ropes, inviting me to exclusive clubs, penthouse parties, and even boats. It felt like unlocking a secret level in a game. The wealth was mind-blowing, with champagne flowing like water from bottles that cost more than our rent. And for us, all the party favors were always free.
It didn’t take long before I was part of Igor’s squad, a bunch of girls who added sparkle to his events. Igor wasn’t just some promoter filling the place with bodies; he had a talent for picking the right people. He knew where we wanted to go and who we wanted to meet. If he thought we might like someone, he’d introduce us, and if we wanted to meet someone, he’d make it happen. But he always made sure we knew we didn’t have to do anything we didn’t want to.
We got to hang out with celebrities, entrepreneurs, and rich guys who called us beautiful. We were the kind of girls they loved having around. The attention was intoxicating, and being invited to places most girls only dream about — and that would make my old classmates burn with envy — added to the thrill.
Beyond the glamour, Igor genuinely cared about us. Whether it was helping one of my friends find her missing Pomeranian or being there when my brother had a seizure, and we couldn’t reach mom, Igor always dropped everything to help. He had our backs, making us feel safe and supported in situations that could have been overwhelming
Sure, he could get cranky if we didn’t show up or weren’t our usual chipper selves. A few times, I’d seen him lose it at girls for leaving early or slowly edge them out. He had a lot riding on the events. But he knew what he was doing, and we all trusted and respected him a lot.
Applying my makeup in front of the mirror in my tiny bedroom, it felt surreal knowing I’d soon be walking into the Imperial — the most expensive and exclusive club in Saint Petersburg. Igor seemed to know everyone, but I still felt like the new girl in the party scene.
His texts were clear about the dress code, so I picked out a tight, short black dress with an open-waist design and delicate lace details. Every stroke of mascara and spritz of perfume made me feel more glamorous and grown-up. I didn’t want my mom to worry, so I threw on a jacket before she could see what I was wearing.
“Valya, you look beautiful,” my mom said, peeking into the bathroom. Her eyes were full of pride and a bit of worry. “Be careful tonight, okay?”
“I will, Mom,” I assured her, giving her a quick hug. She thought I was out networking, meeting important people. She had no idea what really went down at Igor’s parties. It felt weird living this double life. Mom always talked about a better future, but I knew she wouldn’t get this side of things.
Before hitting the club, I met up with my friends Olga and Natasha at our usual spot, a cozy café called “Kofe i Torte,” near Olga’s place closer to the city center. I met them through Igor, and we clicked right away. Igor was so good at planning fun stuff for us, like shopping sprees, spa days, and boozy brunches at his stylish IKEA-style condo. He usually took us to trendy restaurants before clubbing, but this time, he was already at the club, sending us pics from the VIP area to get us all pumped. Even though it was late, the café was buzzing with friends chatting loudly as we settled in.
Natasha looked stunning, her metallic mini skirt perfectly matching her silver-pink hair. She casually placed her Gucci handbag on the table. I couldn’t help but admire it. She got it from a luxury car dealer she was seeing on and off for gifts. The little heart on the back was so classy, and the double G logo on the front was just everything. I’d been looking for something just like that.
Olga was glowing from her recent trip abroad, looking like an American beach girl. She was bubbling with stories about her time in Croatia as part of an oligarch’s entourage, docking at picturesque ports and partying at nearby beach clubs. It sounded so dreamy, and we laughed along, but my eyes kept darting to that stunning bag. It wasn’t just a bag; it was like a symbol of everything I wanted to be a part of.
“Valya, you’re practically drooling over it,” Olga teased.
I blushed a little and couldn’t help but grin. “It’s just so perfect,” I admitted. “I’ve been wanting a Chanel forever and finally found a used one on Nevsky that looks brand new. It’s got that gorgeous leather, like yours, but with that classic feel.”
Natasha leaned in and whispered, “You know, you could have one just like it. Just be extra friendly, like Olga,” she said with a nudge and a wink.
Even though we were all about the same age, Olga and Natasha had a few more years and a lot more experience. We were all cute, but not tall enough to be models. I had what people called a classic Slavic face — round and plain, but sweet and pretty in a way that made me approachable. Natasha once called me “soft all over, with not a single sharp line” and nicknamed me “nasha plushenka” (our little plush toy). The nickname stuck, but I was still the cutest and always got more attention from important people.
As we finally hailed a taxi, I felt those butterflies you get before a wild night. We squeezed into the back seat, laughing. Natasha was already snapping selfies, and Olga was fixing her hair in the little mirror of her compact. I could see the taxi driver glancing at us through the rearview mirror, probably used to seeing girls like us heading out for a night of fun.
The taxi pulled up among a line of black Mercedeses and Range Rovers slowly moving towards the entrance. Stepping out, we spotted Igor near the club entrance, smoking and chatting on his phone. The club looked mesmerizing, outshining the old buildings around it. A red carpet stretched to the entrance, where a serious-looking bouncer checked names off a VIP list. Even at midnight, the place glowed with a magical, almost daytime light under the White Nights.
Igor ended his call fast when he saw us, grinning wide. He looked sharp in his leather jacket and designer jeans, hair slicked back as usual. “Valya, Olga, Natasha!” he called out, pulling each of us into quick hugs and giving us two kisses on the cheeks. “You all look absolutely stunning tonight. Ready to turn some heads?”
We giggled, high-pitched and breathless, his compliments making us feel like the trendiest girls in town. “Come on, let’s get inside and make this night unforgettable,” he said, waving us forward.
With Igor leading the way, we skipped the queue, breezing through the giant wooden door, with the guy working face control barely giving us a nod. The people waiting in line whispered and stared, probably wondering who we were.
I was Cinderella stepping into the royal ball, my cheeks flushing with excitement and pride. That door wasn’t just a door; it was a portal from drab apartments in panel blocks like mine to an exclusive world of luxury. The portal opened for a few rare moments during nights like this at the Imperial, and we were swept inside.
The club was packed, the music so loud, the bass was beating in my chest. “Follow me, girls,” Igor yelled.
The VIP area was raised from the main floor and separated by a velvet rope. Security barely noticed us as we slipped through, knowing we belonged. I’d heard about Moscow clubs — over-the-top with gold-plated everything. Saint Petersburg wasn’t as flashy, but this was the fanciest spot in town. It had all the luxury, but less of the circus, giving it a more intimate and classy feel.
In the premium section, cocktail waitresses floated by in tight, glittery dresses and sky-high heels. I spotted a couple of girls who had to be models. They towered over everyone in their designer dresses, posing and chatting like it was a runway show in the middle of a party. They looked bored and unimpressed, unfazed by where they were. It made them seem like they were on a whole other level.
Igor avoided working with models because they were such divas. He liked working with girls like us. Models added the glam, but we were there to flirt, have fun, and keep the party going.
I tried not to look too wide-eyed as he led us across the VIP section to a discreet doorway. Dimly lit sconces cast a mysterious aura. Leather couches lined the walls, begging for us to sink in and lounge. I soaked up every detail, dying to see what was on the other end.
That night, I met Andrew, an older American working in Russia. He was genuine and smart, a partner at a venture capital firm investing in Russian startups. We bonded over our shared passion for travel, and our conversation felt real, away from all the flashy distractions. We started dating, and it quickly got serious. During the pandemic, I moved into his place in the Golden Triangle.
When Andrew’s company pulled out of Russia due to the war, I thought we’d be separated for good. Instead, he proposed. I never imagined I’d be married with kids and living in the U.S. just a few years later. But life has a way of surprising you. These past three years, we’ve traveled the world together. And since having our first baby, I’ve mostly been a stay-at-home mom, taking English classes and discovering a new passion for reading and writing.
Looking back, I gained so much from my sugar dating experiences, navigating social spaces, setting boundaries, and understanding my worth. It was about figuring out what I really wanted in life and what truly matters. Now, living in the U.S. with Andrew and our two kids, I see how much I’ve grown. Being a mom has made me more mature in so many ways. Through my writing, I want to share a unique perspective on a world that people often misunderstand. I want to tell my story with respect, compassion, and sensitivity for everyone involved. I’ve learned a lot and want to share these lessons and experiences.
