I'll Be Your Sugar Daddy

He looked a bit like Gepetto, his kind smile resembling that of the puppet-maker, though his wrinkles of wisdom reminded me more of Old Saint Nick. Either way, the man appeared to be a nice, old man, one I assumed had dozens of grandchildren who he spoiled quite extravagantly, showering them daily not only with gifts, but also with the hugs and kisses of a man who dearly loved his family. The man was smiling at me as I filled the chips-rack at work. As he himself filled his drink with good ol' fashioned Coca-Cola, the kind of soda a nice, elderly man would prefer since it probably reminded him of the diners and Elvis records he enjoyed as a young man (as opposed to our modern choices of Monster Rehab and Purple Drank), I smiled back at him. I imagined he was staring at me because I reminded him of his granddaughter, or even great-granddaughter, perhaps, so when he stepped over to speak to me, I was not surprised. I imagined he would tell me how my eyes sparkled like his little girl's did, or how he hopes I will one day find a bright, young man to cook for and clean after. He would probably tell me I would be great for tying my future-husband's shoes, and that my cheeks look ideal for getting slapped around for not having dinner ready on time, but I would excuse these old-fashioned ideas of his, for he can't help it that he is old. When he opened his mouth to speak, I imagined he may cough a bit first due to sickness, and I would pity the old man and help him walk to his Buick LaSabre parked out front, but the old man did not cough. Instead, he told me this:

"You look like you've been a bad girl."

I stared at the old man, at first taken aback by his assumption, then shocked. He wasn't standing there thinking of how twinkly my eyes were, he was standing there pitying me for somehow dooming myself to a Christmas with no presents! He was sad that I, such an innocent-looking lass, had written my name down on Santa's Naughty List, and would have to suffer through the holidays with solely the luxuries of regret and remorse.

"Have you been a bad girl lately?"

I immediately knew this was my chance to redeem myself, to convince this cute, little, old man that I had not been bad! I was a good girl! A good, GOOD girl!

"No, sir, I haven't been bad. I've been a good girl."

"Are you sure? Because you look like you've been a bad, bad girl."

"No, I haven't! I promise!"

What had I done? Was my hair not freshly washed? My teeth not freshly brushed? My nose not freshly blown? Oh, the embarrassment! Oh, the humiliation!

"You shouldn't work here, you know. A girl like you doesn't make nearly enough in this place."

"Yes, sir! I would like to find a job where I make more money..."

Listen to him, Natasha! Accept the wisdom of the old man, wisdom you surely do not deserve but have received because he pities you! PITIES YOU! What a nice, old man, helping the needy, giving hope to the hopeless, stepping closer to stroke my hair...

"You ought to be a waitress. You have this beautiful dark hair...and the skin of a porcelain doll..."

The old man then began to run his hand across my face, first the right side, then the left, then back to touch my hair some more. Blessing me, I'm sure...yes...yes, that's it...the old man was just trying to give away some of his good-hearted kindness through the stroke of his fingers...I'm sure that's why he was touching me...I think...

"Men like me would give you a very hefty tip for you to please us."

"Yeah...yeah I was thinking of being a waitress. I used to waitress at this Italian restaurant but I ended up quitting..."

"What's your name?"

"Natasha."

"Natasha...what an exotic name. Natasha...Natasha...Natasha..."

The old man then began to look me up and down. Probably just to...umm...just to...hmmm. I'm not really sure why the old man would do this, to be quite honest.

"How old are you, Natasha?"

"My birthday is tomorrow, actually! I'll be 21."

"Twenty-one...really..."

"Yes, sir!"

"So you'll be legal tomorrow?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Hmmm...well, Natasha. Have you ever heard of a sugar daddy?"

"I've heard the term...isn't that...a candy...?"

"I'm not talking about the candy. I'm talking about a sugar daddy, like myself."

"I know I've heard that term somewhere..."

"Can I be your sugar daddy?"

The old man steps closer, placing his hand on my arm. He is close enough to where I can read the brand name on the side of his glasses, close enough to make me feel a bit uncomfortable...

"I don't know what that is, sir."

"Well, a sugar daddy is an older man, middle-aged, like myself---"

I may be innocent, but I'm not fucking retarded. The guy was at LEAST 70.

"---who doesn't want to get married, and doesn't want a girlfriend, but who greatly enjoys young, beautiful girls, such as yourself---"

"Enjoys" can mean a lot of different things when put into that context.

"---so he finds one and gives her money. Lots and lots of money. And buys her things. Lots and lots of nice things. As long as he gets something in return."

What I had thought earlier was the smile of a puppet-maker was now starting to look more like the smile of pornographic-movie-maker.

"Now, society won't accept an older man like myself to drive down some alley and pick me up a hooker, but if I have a young, pretty girl on my arm who I buy things for, it's alright. As long as I get...you know."

His wrinkles of wisdom were now forcing images into my head of other places on his body that would have wrinkles. Old Saint Nick was suddenly turning into Old Limp Dick, number one on my list of "Things Never To Mentally Picture," right up there with Oompa-Loompa-Intercourse and Dropping Bombs on Munchkinland.

"You do know what I mean, don't you, Natasha?"

I abruptly came to the realization that I had been standing there nodding like a drooling idiot, incapable of words due to the fact that I WAS UNINTENTIONALLY PICTURING HIS PENIS AND HE FUCKING KNEW IT.

(The drooling part has nothing to do with the picturing part, F-Y-F-ING-I.)

"As long as you get...free sub sandwiches?"

The old man was not laughing.

"You know what I mean. I know you know. As long as I get..."

He starts raising his eyebrows up and down. Since when did brow elevation become the universal symbol for sex acts? He's still giving me that grin of a little, old pervert. My stomach starts to hurt.

"Yeah, yeah, I know what you mean. Huh, I never knew what a sugar daddy was! Now I know! How interesting!"

I decided to just play dumb. When in doubt, ditch your brain.

"I would be interested in you, Natasha."

"Thanks!"

"You know what I mean?"

"Yes, I do know what you mean!"

"I could be your sugar daddy."

"Yes, you are capable of doing that!"

"If you're interested."

"If I am interested!"

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"YES!"

"Oh."

"Talk to you later!"

And that's when I left.

He looked a bit like Danny DeVito, his short, fat body resembling that of the penguin, though his wrinkles of mistakes reminded me more of Old Yeller. Either way, the man appeared to be a perverted old man, one I assumed had dozens of concubines who he spoiled quite extravagantly, showering them daily not only with cum, but also with the squeezes and pinches of a man who dearly loved tits and ass. The man was not smiling at me as I left the chips-rack still lacking chips. As he himself refilled his drink with good ol' fashioned Coca-Cola, the kind of soda a pedophile would prefer since it probably reminded him of the color of the dump he asked that last prostitute to take on his chest (as opposed to our modern choices of toilets and Charmin), I never looked back at him. I imagined he was staring at me because I reminded him of fellatio, or your average handjob, perhaps, so when he assumed he would be my sugar daddy, I was not surprised. I imagined he would tell me how my ass wasn't hairy like his last purchase was, or how he hopes I will one day surprise him with handcuffs and a whip. He would probably tell me I would be great for tickling his testicles, and that my cheeks look ideal for getting slapped around, especially in that red thong he would buy me, but I would excuse these old-fashioned ideas of his, for he can't help it that he is perverted. When he stood up to leave, I imagined he may keel over due to sickness, and I would pity the old man and help carry him to his Buick LaSabre parked out front, but the old man did not keel over. Instead, waved goodbye, and I imagined his aged package once more, wishing I had told him:

"SUCK MY DICK, SUGAR DADDY!"