Sugar and Spice

Tag: Depression

  • The aftermath of sexual assault

    Throughout my years working as a sugar baby (/ glorified sex worker) I was never sexually assaulted or raped. Yes, I fucked guys I didn’t fancy because I was being paid to do so, there were guys I didn’t like that much and some that were frankly just gross; but I chose to see them and give them my body… 

    No, the great irony of the situation is that having worked in what some people consider a ‘dangerous’ or ‘unsafe’ profession for many years, my sexual assault was not at the hands (or penis) of a sugar daddy, but a group of complete strangers on a night out. 

    The incident happened just over a month ago. I wasn’t sure whether I’d write about it or not, and certainly wasn’t ready before, but now I am, so feel like I should. Afterall my whole ‘shtick’ is writing about sex, and being open about my experiences, so even though it’s not a ‘sugar baby experience’ per se, it’s been an experience for this sugar baby. 

    I won’t go into the gory details as I don’t remember a lot of what happened, plus there’s an ongoing investigation etc, so I’m not sure how much I can say anyway. I’m one of the lucky ones though as they’ve arrested and charged one of the men responsible; plus, two others who are currently MIA. The police have forensic evidence and hours of CCTV footage showing the ‘predatory’ behaviour of the men involved and are optimistic about getting a conviction; a rare outcome for sexual assault and rape which is either not reported, or doesn’t make it to court due to insufficient evidence or the victim dropping charges (it’s not an easy process for the victim to go through).  

    In my case I wasn’t the one who reported the assault. I was found in a state, lying half naked in a doorway, my knickers and tights round my ankles; the police were called and arrived within minutes. Would I have reported what happened? I don’t think so… I’d have felt disgusting and worthless, and like it was my fault; I’d have been too traumatised and ashamed by what had happened to have said anything. So I’m eternally grateful to the couple who found me and dialled 999, as although I’ve still experienced those feelings, I’ve been able to access to help and support. 

    I’m sure every woman feels differently after being raped, but no doubt many have felt some of the things I’ve felt and want to put into writing. These feelings come and go; it’s like grieving, you think you’re doing ok and then it hits you all over again. I have good and bad days, though thankfully more good than bad now.  

    These are just some of the things I’ve been feeling over the last month: 

    1. Guilt and shame, like it was somehow my fault; I’d been drinking, I’d lost my friend and my phone, I made myself vulnerable and therefore an easy target. I was wearing a short low-cut dress, showing off my curvy figure and had been dancing in a provocative manner (like there’s any other way to dance…). Had I been talking to these guys in the club? Had I been flirting with them? Had I given them the wrong idea? I don’t know… but I can’t help but feel like it’s somehow my fault. Of course, my rational brain knows it’s not. I may have been flirty and done all those things, but that doesn’t give anyone permission to take advantage of my situation and use my body the way they did. The police have made it very clear that it doesn’t matter how much you’ve had to drink, being drunk does not equal consent. I didn’t ask for or want to be raped, but as a woman I can’t help but feel guilty, like I somehow brought it upon myself. I know lots of women feel the same and it’s one of the many reasons why sexual assaults are not reported, which really sucks! 
    1. Embarrassed that I got myself into this situation (blaming myself again). I’m 36, for goodness sake, I know the world’s not a safe place; if I’m out by myself then I’m at risk of being attacked, so what was I thinking? For ages I was too embarrassed to tell people what happened because I thought they’d think I was stupid; and I felt stupid enough as it was. I was embarrassed about being labelled a ‘victim’, and that I created work for the police because I was unable to look after myself and keep myself safe. Surely this was something that happened to young naive girls, not ‘supposedly intelligent’ (older) women like me…  
    1. Weak and powerless. Before this happened, I thought I was invincible; a strong woman who could hold her own. If a man tried something on, I’d knee him in the balls and tell him to do one… yet I didn’t. I was unable to defend myself and realise I was an idiot to think I ever could. Obviously, you never know how you’re going to respond in these situations and sometimes people freeze, or just let things happen, which is what I must have done. There were no bruises on my body, no evidence of a fight, why didn’t I fight them off? Why did I let them do this horrible thing to me? The fact that there was several of them and only one of me makes me feel a bit better, I was clearly outnumbered. This experience has forced me to face reality and accept how weak and vulnerable I am though, which has really knocked my (somewhat misplaced) confidence. 
    1. Frustrated and confused. I don’t really remember what happened that night, I was either unconscious, or my brain has blocked it out (a common defence mechanism in traumatic situations). I remember a brief interlude between assaults, after one guy finished, and the next took his place. How can I remember this so clearly yet not what happened just before or after? I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve gone over the events of that evening, trying to remember something…anything that will help the police.  A week after the event I was required to do a recorded interview with the police which will act as my evidence in court. As helpful as I wanted to be, I felt like I let them down as I remember so little. I remember being picked up by the police and everything that happened to me at the station afterwards, but everything else is a blur. I knew at the time what had happened as I was crying and screaming hysterically about the fact that I‘d been raped. I was even able to give a vague description of the men involved, but now even that memory has faded. I remember that I remembered but that’s about it. 
    1. Anger… boy was I angry! I was angry at men and the whole fricking world for weeks afterwards. It was like everything every man had ever done to me; all the neglect, the abuse, every injustice and act of sexism I’d ever experienced had been brought to the surface and amplified. That night at the station I remember blurting out several times how horrible men were, how much I hated them, and repeatedly questioning how men were allowed to act this way; before apologising to the male police officer, who didn’t deserve a hard time. I knew this wasn’t how I really felt about men, but for ages afterwards I was just so angry. Angry that this had happened, angry that men could fuck up my life (again), angry that I’d been made to feel guilty and ashamed by what had happened, angry that men could go out by themselves and not worry about being raped,  angry that society was going to judge or blame me for what happened, angry at myself for making myself a victim, angry that I couldn’t turn to my family for support, angry that my daughter was having to deal with what was going on. The anger has faded over time, but my god was I angry! 
    1. Sad and depressed; I cried every day for the first few weeks after it happened. Whenever I was on my own I’d think about it and feel sad; at night I’d lie in bed sobbing. I couldn’t drink (alcohol that is) because I’d spiral into depression, when I wasn’t angry I was depressed. I had to resign from my job and spent days doing nothing but watch shit on Netflix, because I couldn’t cope with anything else. Thankfully me and depression are old friends, so I knew it would pass; I just needed to wallow in self-pity for a bit. I don’t feel so depressed now, but for a while it was really bad, and at times I didn’t know whether I could carry on; but I knew I had to, so I did. 
    1. Lonely and isolated. I didn’t know who to talk to, I couldn’t talk about it without crying anyway and didn’t want to burden my friends with something so heavy. How do you tell people that you were raped? It makes for an awkward conversation and puts the other person in the difficult position of having to respond appropriately. I didn’t want the guilt of making other people feel bad, I didn’t want kindness or sympathy as I didn’t feel like I deserved it, I didn’t want people to tell me how strong I was or how I was a ‘survivor’ because I felt anything but, and I couldn’t risk anyone saying anything negative or judgemental because I don’t think I would have coped (and may have punched them in the face).  I wasn’t sure what I wanted, other than for it to have not happened. There was nothing anyone could do or say to make me feel better, so what was the point. 
    1. Dirty, disgusting and disconnected from my body. I felt like my body had been violated and no longer belonged to me. I wanted to shower and scrub myself clean, to wash all traces of the evenings events off me but I wasn’t able to until I’d been examined and swabbed (not a pleasant experience). By the time I eventually got home I was exhausted so slept and when I woke no longer felt the urge to shower; I didn’t want to take my clothes off and deal with my body, it was bizarre. I was comfortable in the baggy grey joggers and jumper that the police had given me after taking my clothes as evidence; it’s like they’d become my safe place. When I did eventually shower, it was quick but thorough. When I had to venture out, I dressed down and tried to make myself small, I didn’t want any attention or for anyone to find me attractive, which is most unlike me. No, I wasn’t my usual confident sexy self at all; I lost my mojo, and I’m only just getting it back.     

    These are just some of the things I’ve been feeling, and it changes all the time. This week I’m feeling more hopeful and like there’s light at the end of the tunnel. It’s possible I may be able to get my job back, or if not then I’m sure something else will turn up. I’m going to get some therapy to help me deal with what’s happened and will be supported by my lovely ISVA (independent sexual violence adviser) when this thing eventually goes to court. Whilst I didn’t choose to be in this situation (what woman does), I feel like it’s important to speak out and get justice not only for me, but for all women who’ve experienced something similar.  

    No woman deserves to be sexually assaulted or raped, and there’s no excuse for men to treat women the way they treated me that night. The men involved in my case are young, not much older than my daughter. They showed a total disrespect towards women and are looking at custodial sentences as a result of their actions that night. Was it really worth it? The answer is and always will be no. 

    To any women reading this who have experienced sexual assault or rape, it’s ok not to feel like a survivor straight away, I think that comes in time, and I know I’m not quite there yet. To be honest, I don’t think I’ll ever be the same person, but that’s ok; I’ll be a different (maybe even more awesome) me. 

    Apologies for being absent, I know this isn’t my usual style of blog, but this is life…. sometimes shit happens…  

    Take care and look after yourselves! 

    Emily-Rose xxx 

  • Balancing sex and sanity: the mental health impacts of being a sugar baby.

    Being a sugar baby (like any job) can have a negative impact on your mental health, for not only can it be physically draining, but mentally and emotionally draining too. Whilst I enjoy what I do, at times I’ve definitely overextended myself, on a few occasions waking up with one man, seeing another in the afternoon, and going out with a third in the evening; great for the bank balance, but not my mental (or physical) health.  

    As an empathetic introvert (all be it a sociable one), I find it tiring being around people for too long; I’m someone who needs time and space to recover. I give so much of myself to my sugar daddies though, that if I’m not careful I’ve nothing left for myself.  

    Hopefully you realise that I’m not just a sexual outlet for many of my men, but also a confidante, a friend, a therapist etc; and that can be a lot, especially if one of them is going through a tough time. I have sugar daddies who experience anxiety, depression and loneliness, and open up to me because they simply have no one else to talk to; sugar daddies who are grieving or going through marriage breakups who need a sympathetic ear or shoulder to cry on. It’s my job to be strong and provide a safe place where my sugar daddies can talk openly about their feelings and not have to be the ‘stoic man’ society expects them to be; for many of my sugar daddies the ‘pillow talk’ is an essential part of the experience, equally as important as the sex. 

    The sugar baby/ sugar daddy dynamic is an interesting one, being a unique relationship that transcends conventionality. The intimate nature of the relationship requires a certain level of trust and vulnerability from both parties; and the unspoken rule that whatever happens in the bedroom stays in the bedroom (unless your sugar baby blogs of course). It’s not surprising then that sugar babies often take on the role of therapist as well as sex buddy.  

    I really enjoy this side of the job though and get a lot of pleasure from making people feel good; whether that’s physically, mentally or emotionally, it doesn’t matter, it’s all connected.  

    When life is good, dealing with other peoples’ problems is easy, however there have been times over the last 4 years when I’ve had my own shit going on, which has been difficult. I’ve lost my job, been through bereavements and had to deal with illness in the family; but I’ve never stopped working.  

    Most of my sugar daddies are understanding, and I can talk to them when things are tough, however they’re not paying to hear my problems, or to spend time with someone who’s feeling sorry for themselves, so I never make a big deal of anything. There’ve been times when I’ve been exhausted and at the end of my tether yet still turned up with a smile on my face, determined to make sure that my sugar daddy has an enjoyable evening, and leaves feeling happy and satisfied.  

    Of course, if things are really bad I can cancel, but it’s very rare that I do so; I don’t like letting people down, plus it’s bad for business. Trust me, there are plenty of other sugar babies just waiting to swoop in and steal my men, so I need to be consistent and reliable.  

    There’s also the fact that if I don’t work, I don’t get paid. I don’t have the luxury of sick pay or compassionate leave, so I just have to suck it up and get on with it. I can afford to take it easy for a week if I need to, but I can’t afford to stop for long or lose too many clients. 

    You have to be thick-skinned to be a sugar baby, as you’re constantly opening yourself up to judgement and critique. Every time I meet a new client there’s the possibility that they won’t like me or will find me unattractive. As a sugar baby you’re selling a product, and that product is yourself; if they don’t like it, it’s difficult not to take it personally. In many ways it’s similar to dating, in that you’re constantly putting yourself out there at the risk of being shot down or rejected, which isn’t always great for your self-esteem.  

    A few of my sugar daddies think it’s ok to make negative comments about my body or appearance, pointing out if I’ve put on weight or I’m looking tired etc, which can be a little insensitive. I don’t always feel confident or attractive, so these comments can get to me if I’m not careful and I have to remind myself of my own worth, and the fact that I am more than just a body. 

    Being a sugar baby can also be quite an isolating and lonely experience, especially, if like me, you don’t know anyone else in the business. I’m guilty of avoiding certain social situations, preferring to keep myself to myself; because I’m avoiding being asked what I do for a living, which is often the first question people ask when you meet. It’s not because I’m particularly embarrassed or ashamed by what I do (as I’m not), but because I can’t be arsed to continuously explain how and why I got into this lifestyle, and deal with all the questions. As a result, I’ve become a bit socially awkward, finding it difficult to open-up and make connections, and have forfeited opportunities to make new friends; which has left me feeling even more isolated and lonely.  

    Working weekends and evenings doesn’t help either, as I often miss out on doing things with friends because I’m busy; in fact, sometimes I’m not even invited, because they just assume I’ll be working. To be fair, I don’t think they realise how lonely I am, they think I’m fine because I’m out with a sugar daddy; but it’s not the same. 

    Even when I’m with friends who know what I do, I find it difficult to talk about it as my life is so different from theirs; unless you’re a sugar baby it’s hard to understand what it’s like. Most of my friends think my job just involves going out and having a good time, they don’t see the other side of it. 

    As someone who’s struggled with depression since a teenager and been diagnosed with a personality disorder (BPD in case you’re wondering), I know how important it is to look after myself and my mental health. It’s especially important when you’re looking after other people; after all, you can’t draw from an empty well.  

    Being a sugar baby allows me to work around my mental health issues and low energy though (a common symptom of depression), and I’m getting better at listening to my body and recognising when I need to take a break and put myself first for a change.  

    I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m moaning about my job, because I love being a sugar baby and am in many ways happier now then I’ve ever been. Nothing in life is ever perfect though, and we all have to take the rough with the smooth.  

    Keep smiling.  

    Emily-Rose xxx  

    P.S I intend to write a separate blog at some point about borderline personality disorder and how that (subconsciously maybe) influenced my decision to become a sugar baby. It’s something that’s not really talked about and something I want to raise awareness of, but that’s for another day.   

  • Discovering sex and what it means to be sexually desired; what happens when you’re too young to cope…

    I remember the first time a guy showed an interest in me. I must have been around 13 or 14; and being on the heavier side was fairly ‘well developed’. As a teenage girl, having boobs was everything, so I was making the most of my new-found ‘assets’ by wearing a push-up bra and low-cut top; how I was allowed to leave the house like that I’ll never know. Anyway, my sexualised ‘jailbait’ body had gained the attention of a young man who was very obviously checking me out; which was weird because no-one ever looked at me, until that moment I’d been somewhat invisible, yet here he was staring in my direction and clearly liking what he was seeing. I remember feeling wanted and desired; something I’d not experienced before.  

    I come from what you might call a ‘traditional’ or ‘old fashioned’ family. My Dad, being a farmer, showed an interest in my brothers who could potentially take over the farm one day; but as a girl, I was less interesting. My job was to do what I was told, play the ‘little woman’ like my mother, and not cause a scene; women looked after the home and their men, they certainly weren’t meant to have opinions, aspirations or independent thoughts, heaven forbid! 

    Emotional displays weren’t tolerated, and we all walked on eggshells for fear of upsetting my father; issues were swept under the rug and to the outside world we looked like the perfect family, but behind closed doors we were a mess. If you’ve experienced a similar upbringing then you’ll know it’s impossible to thrive in an environment like this; it’s oppressive and unhealthy, and I really struggled!  

    I don’t remember a lot about my childhood, it’s a bit of a blur, like something that happened to someone else. I know I was bullied and deeply unhappy as a child, and painfully quiet and shy, but apart from that, I’m not sure who I was before I hit puberty. I guess I was uninteresting and insignificant, or that’s certainly how I felt. However, with my sexy curvaceous body things were different, I was getting attention and was suddenly interesting (to men at least anyway); I started to think that maybe I did have something to offer after all.  

    For a girl who had been made to feel like she wasn’t good enough by the main masculine figure in her life, you can’t imagine how good it felt to be noticed and desired by men. Of course, what I really wanted was the love and affection of my father, but let’s not get all Freudian here; if I couldn’t be validated and win the approval of my dad, then at least I could be pleasing to other men. 

    I’d been brought up to believe that men were superior to women; their needs more important. Men were in charge and held all the cards, and that was just the way it was. In my teens I started to realise that this wasn’t quite the case, that not all women feared or felt intimidated by men; there were strong independent women out there who commanded respect and considered themselves equal. I felt excited and inspired by these women and very much wanted to be like them, I just didn’t know how…. So, when I discovered that I could be wanted physically by men, that I could use my body to get their attention and a place at the table (metaphorically speaking), I thought that was the answer. I’d found their weakness, and a way in….  

    Of course it was a complete disaster, I was too young and fucked up to understand how to embrace my sexuality in a healthy empowering way, which meant that in my early teens I would give myself to any man who so much as glanced in my direction; so fragile my ego and low my self-esteem at the time. I so desperately wanted to please men and feel loved, that even though I knew deep down that none of these men cared and were only after one thing; I let them use me anyway. I would inevitably feel rubbish the next day and regret what I’d done, yet would do it all again at the next opportunity. As a young teenager I simultaneously hated men (especially my father) yet craved male attention; it was a very confusing time. The high I got from messing around with men gave me a temporary break from the depression that hung over me, a fleeting false high, followed by a debilitating crushing low. I let men use me whilst hating myself for allowing them to do so. It was a vicious cycle though; the more I let men use me, the worse I felt about myself and thus the more I needed male attention to make myself feel better; because without it I felt like a failure. It’s safe to say that I was a complete mess, and not surprisingly gained a bit of a reputation for being a bit of a slut.  

    I had a lot of counselling in my teens for depression and low self-esteem but never discussed my sex life with any of my therapists. Mainly because I knew I wasn’t supposed to have one and didn’t want to get anyone into trouble; but also because I felt ashamed of my behaviour, and didn’t want anyone to know about it, especially my parents. I think they knew anyway, but as with anything of importance in our family it was never discussed. Maybe if I’d been able to talk to someone, things would have been different, and I’d have broken the cycle sooner, who knows. 

    I had more sex in my teens then I’d care to admit, and most of it was rather shit to be honest; it wasn’t until my first proper boyfriend when I was 16, that I discovered that sex could actually be a pleasant and enjoyable experience. My boyfriends were always much older than me, which contributed greatly to my positive sexual experiences in my mid-teens, as at least one of us knew what we were doing. By the time I met the father of my child, I had a much better idea of who I was sexually, and what I enjoyed. Together we tried different things, made sex fun, and my confidence in the bedroom grew. More importantly though, he taught me how to value myself, and that I wasn’t just an object to be used by men. He taught me what it meant to love and be loved, for which I am eternally grateful. 

    Thankfully we aren’t teenagers forever (thank God), and now as an independent woman in my 30s I hardly recognize the girl I was back then. That fucked up teenager seems like a lifetime ago, a completely different person. I remember hating and punishing myself for my behaviour, but it wasn’t my fault, I was only a child. If I could go back now, I’d give my younger self a big hug and tell her that she doesn’t need approval from men, that she is worthy of love and deserves better. 

    I’m happy to say that I have a better relationship with my family now, and don’t hate men anymore (took a lot of therapy, but I think we got there eventually). Having said all that, a lot of the thoughts and feelings that I internalized as a child and a teenager are still there (they never completely leave you), I just wrap it up as feminism now and internally scream ‘down with the patriarchy’ whilst riding cock (joking). Men can still enjoy my body, but it’s on my terms now and they pay for the privilege, along with everything else of course. 

    Sometimes when things are bad and I’m feeling depressed or lonely, I’ll revert back to old destructive patterns of behaviour and get drunk and fuck some random guy; but most of the time this behaviour is under control. I’m not the person I used to be; I value myself, and don’t need constant validation from men, or anyone else for that matter. I mean, I still get my tits out and use my sexuality to get what I want sometimes (old habits die hard), but I know I’m so much more than that. I’m an intelligent, ambitious and resourceful young woman who’s funny and good company; having great tits and a juicy arse is just a bonus. 

    Emily-Rose xxx