What Makes Us Girls

T H O U S A N D B U C K S

Ryan was 24, from India, loved the jet-set lifestyle, and according to his instagram, he liked to parade multiple women around at once. His first message had asked me for dinner, but he swiftly changed it, asking me to fly to London, saying the "best memories happen spontaneously". I wanted to reject his offer, I was uncomfortable, new to the game, and not sure how to handle it. But, against my better judgement I said yes.

"Dad, I'm going to stop at Carla's house, ok?" He nodded, looking at me, dolled up with all my makeup and best clothes.

"Is that really where you're going?"

"Yeah, why?"

He shook his head, putting his head back into the book he was around two-thirds through. It was a fairly thick book, it looked interesting, and I wanted to take it with me -- we were flying on a private jet, but surely I wouldn't have to do anything on the way to London. At least, I hoped not.

I walked out, closing the door behind me and then locking the gates as I left. I walked five minutes up the road; the weather was wonderfully warm, with a light breeze that kept me cool without being so strong as to ruin my perfectly curled hair. I'd bleached it blonder than it had been the night before, getting rid of my nasty roots which were only a few shades darker than the platinum white I'd gone unnaturally, but still looked offputting. I sighed, straightening my back and making sure my cleavage looked as good as it could, checking my makeup in my pocket mirror. Waiting at the corner between Cleary Street and Broadmoore Road, I noticed more people glancing at me. Men in their cars slowed, and though this had happened many times before, I felt more confident in myself - I was seventeen, with a potential sugar daddy. Not just anyone can land a sugar daddy within days of trying, I told myself. Whilst it was partially true, there were many fake daddys on the site. I was unsure if this man was one of them, but he seemed to be too good to be true... and in this industry, it is frequently the case.

A black Benz rolled up beside me, the windows opened. Inside, Ryan peered over, pulling his Oakley sunglasses off of his face, smiling and asking if it was me. Of course it was. I was dolled up to the nines in the middle of my neighborhood. It was evident he'd never been here before -- his care was far too upperclass to be seen in that area, and I was too dressed up to be seen there. I got in, and he took care of my case, throwing it into the boot. He had a gold Rolex on his left hand, and was wearing a business-casual suit, with a perfectly groomed haircut and light stubble. He smelled good. Within minutes he'd placed a hand on my thigh and I grew concerned. Had I made a mistake?

"It's nice to meet you. A lot of the girls on that site never turn up."

"Really? Why would they sign up, then?" I was confused. This man was offering me a wonderful deal and one that I would never turn down in a million years... but the more he spoke the more I grew intoxicated. He had an accent I'd never heard before. He wore a cologne I'd never smelled before. It was a long drive, and I learned he spoke a lot about himself. Not that I was annoyed by it. I'd never spoken to anyone like him, before, and it was cetainly a new learning experience. This man was Harvard educated, a business tycoon in a long line of wealthy business owners and entrepeneurs. When we arrived at the airport, he passed me a small wad of cash after we'd passed security. Somewhat concerned, I looked at him uneasily.

"Just a small gift, to show you I appreciate you coming." He smiled a lax half-smile, looking down at me. I accepted the gift, shoving it into my pocket. I'd been told that if he was offering, I should take it -- neither of us were under any misconceptions: he knew I was here for money, I knew he wanted sex out of it.

The sun was hot as I walked over to his jet. I realised it wasn't  smart idea to wear mainly black, as the temperatures began to get somewhat hotter. Walking up the steps, I looked down. Was I going to die? Nobody knew where I was. I felt nervous, walking into the interior of the jet, and even the lavish gold hues that blended into every aspect of the furnishings didn't put me to ease.

It was cool once the AC was turned on. Kicking one leg over the other, I watched him take a pocket-square out of his casual blazer and throw it onto the table. Air hostesses came and waited on him, he demanded two glasses of Armand De Brignac, and they came to us moments later in chilled glasses.

"You like champagne?"

I nodded slowly, taking a sip from the frosty liquid. It tasted odd; smooth, clean, dry. It was a new world I was stepping into -- and one that I was totally unprepared for.