To my Readers:

Nothing could have prepared me for life post divorce.  I had no idea what to expect and since there are no guidelines for how to survive it, I had to write the manual myself.  Reactions from family and friends varied, but the same handful of comments questions came from almost everyone.

“What went wrong?”  Nothing.  It was wrong from day one and deep down we both knew it.

“Did he have an affair?”  Not that I know of, and frankly I don’t care.  It’s over.

“Wow, that was fast.” (Yes I really did get this one, and often from people I barely knew.)  Thank you sir, it felt like an eternity to me.

“What are you going to do with that three carat ring?”  I’m going to sell it and pay for my new apartment.  I wish I knew an appropriate way to tell them “None of your fucking business.”

“Thank God you didn’t have any kids.”  Yep.  Thank GOD.

I got the comment about not having kids from almost every single person I talked to, even to this day.  As for the other questions and comments?  The answers really were no one else’s business but my own.  I wish I had known the right way to avoid other people’s morbid curiosity, but I felt like I owed it to them to be an open book.  I didn’t want to come across as bitchy or too sensitive, so I told friends, family and strangers all about my divorce.  I explained in great detail how I had married someone I had doubts about from our first date.  I chattered away as their faces attempted to conceal confusion and sometimes obvious judgment.  But the more I felt the need to explain to them why I ended up in a loveless marriage, the more I realized I was searching for that very answer myself.  Which brings me to the final and most asked question.

“If you knew it wasn’t right, why did you marry him anyway?”

I am still searching for the answer to that one.

I felt conflicted.  I had originally planned on juggling multiple arrangements simultaneously to make more money.  But now that I had met the doctor and I could see what was developing between us, I felt that I owed it to myself to be exclusive with him.  I wanted to see where things went.

Of course, it would derail my original plan and mean that I would only be getting an allowance of $5k a month.  Money would still be very tight, but I could make it work.

I hated the word “allowance.”  It made me feel like a child.  Couldn’t they come up with a better term for a large sum of cash being gifted monthly by a sugar daddy?  I guess not.  The world of arrangements was the strangest thing I’d ever seen.  But it certainly wasn’t boring.

The doctor had been giving me a white envelope filled with cash each time we met.  Each one had his name “Dr. Mark Reilly” in small handwritten block letters at the top right corner, and below it a stamp marking the envelope “Confidential.”  Even though it felt a little awkward and transactional, it was a huge relief each time I saw him.  I wondered if maybe as things got more serious between us, he’d be willing to negotiate on my allowance a little.  After all, if he could cough up $5k a month for his mistress out of his “slush fund” (aka, secret bank account his wife didn’t know about) maybe he could toss in a little more.

Richard and I were in completely different classes, both financially and socially.  He came from old family money and had done pretty well himself, long before we ever met and got married.  I was a struggling designer raised by a humble middle class family.  From day one, he looked at me with contempt.  Like I was after something he had worked hard for.  He was determined to keep it out of my reach.  Money was always a sensitive subject between us.

I got married under the false notion that life would be easier for me once I was his wife.  My struggles would be over and I would finally have some breathing room financially.  I had been living in Staten Island with several roommates in a dismal apartment building and desperately needed a ticket out of that life.

“You’re so lucky, Bianca,” he would tell me in an effort to remind me how much my life had changed since meeting him.  In a way it was true.  I could barely scrape by in first New York apartment, a $450 a month rodent infested duplex in Queens.  Just a few years later, life looked very different in our $6,500 apartment in Tribeca.

But even though I was surrounded by nice things in a luxurious life, I never felt like any of it belonged to me.  I was just a passive passenger on an empty journey with the wrong person.  I knew from day one that everything was all on loan, and I’d have to give it all back eventually.

For months I struggled with the decision to leave him.  I was terrified of life on my own.  What would people say about my divorce?  Could I afford to live on my own?  None of these things mattered enough to stay.

I made a promise to myself to survive no matter what.

It was more than just an arrangement with the doctor.  It had turned into a full blown affair.  We had met in the most unexpected of ways.  I began to question everything I was doing.

Maybe this was how I was meant to meet the guy of my dreams.  Our connection was mutual and undeniable.  The feelings I had for him in just one week were more intense than any other relationship in my entire life.  He was the first man since my husband who told me that he loved me.

And still, I was terrified.  This was someone else’s husband.  This couldn’t end well, could it?

Just like every night that week, I received a long love letter from the doctor when he got home.  I was becoming hooked on the high.

The snow was blowing in sideways as I struggled to open the door of the quaint West Village restaurant.  The doctor wasn’t there yet and the host frowned as he eyeballed the reservations list for his name.  Nothing.  I decided to wait at the bar for him to arrive.

Traffic in the city was a nightmare on that blistering cold Sunday evening, and I waited with a glass of champagne twenty minutes before he finally arrived.  I was wearing a snug fitting black Tom Ford dress and black patent Louboutin pumps.   He walked up to me and without saying anything, pulled me in tightly for a long hard kiss.

We were seated in the back corner of the restaurant and barely came up for air the entire meal.  I felt like a teenager who couldn’t keep my hands off my new boyfriend.  When we finished our dinner, we decided to forgo dessert and head back to my place.

We ricocheted along the walls of my apartment as articles of clothing hit the floor one by one.  Our desire for each other was unreal.  I had never felt so alive. 

Afterwards, I lay my head on his chest.  But I could sense that things had changed.  The unexpected shift in his mood was palpable.  He was distant.  Tense.

“What’s wrong?” I asked hesitantly after a few minutes of silence.  Things had been going so great.  He sat up abruptly and leaned over me, his eyes wide.  I didn’t know the man behind this intense gaze.  He appeared to be looking through me, not at me.

“Bianca, I am going to hurt you.  I mean, I feel like I am going to hurt you.  I always do this to women.  Things will be going well and I will completely fuck it up.  I don't deserve you.”  He said to me, now only inches away from my face, breathless. 

“What do you mean?”  I asked softly, attempting to calm his fears and ran the tips of my fingers lightly along his arm.

“I’m going to fall for you, then push you away and hurt you.  And I’m going to blame it all on you.  Just wait.”

I didn’t know what to say.  I didn’t want to believe it.  That was the night I started lying to myself.  Things would be different with me.  They had to be.

I was pissed.  I was wide awake at 6am and couldn’t go back to sleep.  I was hoping for a restful night so that I was fresh for date night with the doctor.  I had refused a line of really good blow the night before for that very reason.

I had a full day ahead of me.  While the doctor was out volunteering at an addiction recovery center, I’d be getting pampered at the Ritz Carlton spa.  I felt a slight pang of guilt over that, but only for a minute.   I needed a little relaxation.

The day before had been an intense one, mainly because of what the doctor decided to share with me about his past.  Why did he want me to know all of that so soon?  I had a feeling that there was a motive behind his disclosures, but I couldn’t quite comprehend it.

As my eyes focused and the sunlight spilled into my apartment, I reread the story of his dream.  A dream about death.  Was he becoming uneasy about our affair? Or had his revelations about his past made him anxious?

After messaging a bit with the doctor, I headed out to meet some friends in the West Village for dinner and drinks.  I needed to take a step back from the intensity of the relationship and get a fresh perspective from my girlfriends.

While we waited impatiently for our table at Via Carota, I filled them in on my newfound romance over some pink bubbles at the bar.  Their mouths dropped open as I read a couple of the sappiest lines from our love letters out loud.

They couldn’t believe this had all developed in only a week’s time.  I still couldn’t either.

“I have the feeling this is not going to end well, Bianca.  Like with you at the bottom of the Hudson River.”  Cameron nervously joked as we stood outside in the cold, smoking a cigarette together.

I rolled my eyes and we made our way inside to our table after waiting a mere ninety minutes to be seated.  The place was packed.  I was already feeling tipsy, but was determined not to have a hangover the next day on my date with Mark.

After we finished the meal and settled the bill, the girls continued on to the next bar.  Despite their protests, I decided to put myself in a cab and head home.

As melodramatic as Cameron was, I couldn’t help but allow my mind to go there.  How would this all end?

The day I left my husband was like any other sunny spring day in New York City.  Except that I woke up with a fever of 103 and violent chills.

It didn’t really matter though.  Nothing could have stopped me that day.  I was on an escape mission.

“When do you know when it’s time for divorce?”  I remember Googling.

When you are Googling divorce.  It should have said.

There was no blueprint, no manual for how to leave your marriage of less than a year.  I knew people would judge me, but that was no reason to stay.  And so, just before my thirtieth birthday I found myself searching for an overpriced Park Avenue divorce attorney.

I had been so terrified of surviving on my own, but it was time to go.  I had been secretly saving money for the last six months and I knew I could sell my ring and get money for a deposit on an apartment of my own.  I was determined to take no money from Richard.  I knew that emotionally it wouldn’t be worth the fight, and I wanted to prove that I no longer needed a thing from him.

I had gotten a safe deposit box to store all of my important documents and booked a hotel down the street in case he kicked me out on the spot and I needed a place to stay.  I had even packed an emergency suitcase with everything important.  The kind of things you’d grab if you were fleeing a burning building.  In a way, it kind of felt like I was.

He came home from work at 7pm on the dot.  He took his usual seat on the sofa and that’s when I took a deep breath and said, “We need to talk…”

It was almost four years ago to the day.  I stood behind the double doors of the cathedral about to walk down the aisle in my custom ball gown, but all I wanted to do was run.  Maybe I had subconsciously chosen a sensible 2” heel for that very reason.

Our engagement had been a short one.  Too short.  The more time that passed, I knew it was getting too late to call things off.  Deposits were paid, dresses altered, invitations out, multiple parties thrown.  I was dying inside.  This wedding had been hijacked by his family and morphed into an event of which I was simply a guest.   I knew roughly one third of the people attending my own wedding.

There, standing behind the doors of the church I closed my eyes and listened to the string quartet drone out the melody of Canon in D.  I had another two minutes (I knew this because we had timed everything meticulously at the rehearsal the day before, and I took note of my escape window just in case I really did decide to flee.)  I wouldn’t though.  It would be the scandal of my small town if I did.  The story would never escape me.

I didn’t even question how things had gotten this far.  I knew.  With every red flag I chose to ignore and every ounce of disrespect I tolerated from him was another green light forward towards this very moment.  When we were dating, Richard and I had broken up and gotten back together so many times I could hardly count.   And every time we rekindled I had convinced myself that I somehow needed the toxicity of this relationship in my life.

He had his moments of being a loving and kind partner.  But they were becoming increasingly scarce, like tiny islands in a massive body of water.  In between islands I found myself swimming furiously to find land again.  To me, it was worth it to get to the island.  I was completely fatigued from swimming.  And yet I had resigned myself to the fact that there was little else out there for me and that it was “time” to get married.  Where I come from, you’re an old maid at thirty.

And so, standing there on my father's arm the doors opened in front of me and I took the first step down a road that I perceived to be my last one.  A voice in my head was screaming “Mistake!  Mistake!  Turn around, go back!”  But it was most certainly too late now.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I had just made my scandalous escape that day instead.

I sat on a bench by the river, reading the doctor’s messages.  I was frozen solid hearing his stories of abuse from his childhood.  I was conflicted, but continued to engage in the conversation.

A part of me was completely freaked out that he would confess all of this to me so soon.  But then I felt selfish for thinking that way.  This man was subjected to unspeakable abuse as a defenseless child.  I felt like a jerk for feeling spooked by his admissions. 

Still we had only known each other for a week.  This was all a little too soon.  Maybe he was encouraging me to open up to him as well.  And he did seem so lonely.  Was my role in his life truly meant to be more than just an arrangement?

My mind was racing.  I wanted to stay and help him and I wanted to run from him.   I decided to keep reading…

I woke up and felt like a weight had been lifted.  After our first bump in the road, things seemed to be smoothed out between me and the doctor.

The weather was crisp but nice, so I decided to take a long walk by the river with Marty and clear my head a bit.  I wanted to take some time and process the wild shift of events that had happened in my life in six days time.

Was he right, were some relationships simply beyond good and evil?  He was falling for me so fast.  Maybe he was seeing in me what other men had simply missed in years past.  It was flattering and overwhelming to have someone of his notoriety express such intense feelings toward me.  And it seemed that he hadn’t felt this way in years.  It felt good, and strange, and surreal all at the same time.

I felt invincible.  Like I was finally being appreciated for just being me.  And I liked it.  I felt so high.

Just like every morning, I had received a long love letter from the doctor.  I decided to reread it on my sunny walk along the Hudson.

I flung open the door wearing my sexiest silk robe when the doctor arrived.  My mind was swirling with a mix of emotions.  I was relieved to see him but also had a pit in my stomach.  He put the bouquet of roses he brought on my entry table, grabbed my waist and pulled me in tightly for a kiss.  For the first time, I was very nervous to be with him.  What the hell was I doing?

I was grateful that he had made the journey to my apartment straight from JFK.  So I decided to keep my mouth shut and show him just how happy I was that he had come to pay me a visit.

It didn’t fly.  As soon as he kissed me, he pulled back and asked what was wrong.  I smiled and insisted everything was fine, but it was as if he could read my mind.

I led him into my bedroom where I had lit candles.  He sat me down at the end of the bed and asked me again.

“Bianca, what is wrong?  You’re different tonight.”

How did he know?

I sighed and began to cry.  I was suddenly regretting everything.  Why had I let things get this far with a married man?  It had only been a week, I could end things now.  But I felt paralyzed for some reason.  I looked up at him.  I wanted the entire situation to just disappear.  I wished I had never met him.  But at the same time I didn’t want to lose him.  It was an unexplainable tug of war inside me.

I told him about my fears of getting hurt.  I confessed what Fillip had warned me about.

“Fine, then we can just end things, Bianca.  No big deal.”  His ability to cooly brush things off made me more conflicted.

“No, no.  I want to see where things go.  This is special what we have.” I replied.  Who was I?  I found myself fighting for a relationship that didn’t even exist a week before.

We spent the next hour together, mostly with me trying to get back to that space where I had justified the affair in my mind.  It was all becoming a bit too much for me.  But if I didn’t bury my feelings of doubt, I’d never get the chance of seeing where things went with him.  I put on a happy face and we fooled around, but it was a bit awkward.  We didn’t have sex.  I just couldn’t connect fully to him that night.

He got dressed and as he slipped on his jacket and shoes, he encouraged me to think long and hard if this was what I wanted.  He was so cavalier as he shrugged and suggested we could just end things right then and there.  This wasn’t the Mark I knew.  I was frozen.  I gave him a lukewarm kiss goodbye and closed the door softly behind him.

I had some thinking to do.

For the first time ever, the doctor was coming over to my apartment.  I lit some candles, slipped into my leopard print robe and made myself a cappuccino.  I was nervous.  Not only because it was my first time having a man over in a while, one that I really liked, but also because of the warnings I had received from friends in the past twenty-four hours.

First from Fillip and now the woman from my dinner at the Core Club.

“Just be careful.”  Why did everyone keep telling me that?  Frankly, I was getting a little tired of hearing it.  I’m a grown woman.

I decided I needed some advice from other women who were in the same boat, who were familiar with the world of arrangements and might be a good sounding board.  I opened my computer and began browsing.  I came across a blog called LetsTalkSugar.com, which was a virtual community of girls in the exact same boat.  I was amazed at just how many girls out there were also having arrangements.  Perfectly normal girls right here in Manhattan.  Writers, designers, students. I felt a bit comforted knowing I wasn’t alone.  I guess I wasn’t the only single girl paying $3k for a studio in the city.

I checked my watch.  10:59.   As the minutes ticked by, I felt myself getting antsy.  What was I doing with a married guy?  We were only a week into things.  I could just end things now and no one would get hurt.  But something told me to hang on and see where things went.  It was all just to interesting to walk away now.

I continued to tidy the apartment, fidgeting with flower vases and obsessively straightening picture frames, when I finally heard from him.  He had landed safely at JFK.

I was “not the other woman.”  Right.

How could that be?  Of course I was the other woman.  I was being paid $5k a month to play that role.  I rolled my eyes slightly at the fluff.  I didn’t need him to pay me lip service just so I’d stay in the picture.

Still, there was something so unique about the doctor.  I took inventory of our relationship up until that point.  Despite the unique circumstances, it was such a stark contrast to what I had experienced with my robotic ex husband. The doctor was passionate and caring, poetic and loving.  He was incredibly accomplished, had his own Wikipedia page and his intellect surpassed that of any man I’d ever met. And it seemed that he saw me for more than just my looks.  I had felt objectified by men almost my entire life, but the doctor saw me for who I was and for my personality.  He believed in my intellect.  So much so, that on our last date he brought me a rare copy of The Fall by Albert Camus.  I actually felt smarter just being in his presence.

Still I couldn’t get my friend Fillip’s words out of my head.  A married man.  I could do better.  I knew he was right.

Later that evening I found myself at The Core Club, an exclusive members only spot in Manhattan sitting across from a fascinating and accomplished woman.  We had connected through my high school alumni association and agreed to meet for dinner.  I listened to the story of her experiences of becoming a New York socialite and her journey to her current residence, a sprawling penthouse on Park Avenue.  Five years ago, she has gone through a very messy public divorce that had been splashed across the tabloids.

After sharing her story, she swirled her martini glass and smiled at me.

“Tell me, Bianca, are you seeing anyone special?”  She asked.

“Well, sort of.” I’d obviously not get into the specifics. “He’s very sweet.  A doctor.”

“That’s nice.  Just be careful.  There are so many evil men in this city.  They’ll say and do just about anything to get you in bed.”

“I think I have a good one,” I replied confidently and clinked my glass against hers.  I glanced down at my phone and realized I didn’t have much service where we were seated.  When the check came and we settled the tab, I snuck off the to ladies room to send the doc a quick message...

To My Readers

I just want to take a moment and thank my readers for following Dear Bianca.  I have had an incredible response since I started the blog in March and have received lots and LOTS of questions so I wanted to address a few points.

This blog is the story of what has happened to me in this most eventful year (so far.)  I discovered the world of “sugaring” when times had gotten hard and supporting myself financially was becoming rather challenging.  I couldn’t have imagined the adventure and the relationship that would follow.

Why am I writing this blog?  The best answer to that is that as this affair has unfolded for me, I have found it to be even stranger than fiction.  It was and has been such a surreal experience that I find it cathartic to write and share it with others.  

Am I still with the doctor?  I have gotten this question more than anything else.  Just keep reading.  As many twists and turns as this journey has taken for me, even I have no idea how the story will end. 

Does the doctor know I have this blog?  Hell NO.  Please don't tell him.

Names and a few very minor details have been changed to protect the parties involved.  But you are reading the actual conversations that took place between me and Mark over messaging.  Looking back, you can definitely see how all consuming our relationship was from day one.  We message morning, noon and night.

For better or for worse (as you have read by now,) I found myself brushing aside the fact that he was married.  As far as I was concerned, he was the one cheating and committing adultery not me.  It wasn’t right, but the fact that he and his wife have no kids also made things easier to justify in my mind. 

For us, the intensity button was pushed almost from the start.  It was a whirlwind of feelings, both exciting and confusing.  If you have ever had an affair, you know that once feelings come into play it becomes incredibly complicated and difficult to “quit.”

I am well aware that there will be some hate and judgment heading my way as readers continue to follow.  And that is perfectly ok.  Everyone is entitled to their opinion and I will accept the good and the bad!

Thank you again for reading along and for your questions.  I hope you continue to enjoy the blog!

xoxo,

"Bianca"

Girlfriend…No one had called me their girlfriend in 5 years.  The last person was my ex husband.  I felt like a giddy high schooler with an insane crush.  The high was just too good.

So far, there were only a couple of minor red flags.  Like the fact that he said dishonesty triggered “strange reactions” in him.  What did that mean exactly?  Maybe I was reading too deeply into these things.  Besides, text could get confusing.  The correct tone doesn’t always translate in messaging.  Or maybe there was a bit of a cultural language barrier between us.  I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.  For now.

I decided to message my gay best friend Fillip and get his advice on the matter.  It would be almost impossible to get him up to speed on all the developments that happened in such a short time, but a recap was certainly in order.

The conversation went something like this (abridged)

Me:  Hi Fillip, I have a new boyfriend…

Fillip:  Who is this rich Arab billionaire?

Me:  Ha. No actually.  He’s a married guy.  A doctor…

Fillip:  NO

Me:  But …

Fillip:  NO.  Bianca.  Why are you doing this?  You can do better.  Where can this relationship go?  Men never leave their wives.  And you are only pursuing things with a married man for one reason.  It’s safe.  You never have to fully emotionally open up.  What about their kids?

Me: They don’t have kids.  They never wanted them.  His wife hates kids.  You know what?… it doesn’t matter.  Nevermind, I shouldn’t have told you any of this.  Forget it.

Fillip:  Bianca I am super worried about you.  I don’t approve of this.  AT ALL.  Just stop.

Me:  It’s all good.  Don’t worry about me.  Gotta go.  Bye.

Holy shit.  I logged off Facebook and slammed my Mac shut.  The buzz kill shot straight through me and sobered me right up.  I wasn’t prepared to be schooled by Fillip of all people.  He was so incredibly open minded.  I thought maybe he and I would justify the situation, laugh it off and agree to meet for a cocktail.

Fuck.  Why had I casually glazed over the fact that the doctor was married?  The world of arrangements was so bizarre that all rules seemed to be off the table.  For the very first time I wondered about his wife.  What was she like?  What did she do? The doctor told me that she was aware of his indiscretions.  I suddenly wondered why.

I cared for him.  That was the first and only conclusion I could reasonably make.  But I suddenly had lots of questions running through my mind...

I was feeling pretty content when I went to bed.  Life had become significantly less stressful in just a week’s time.  Between a doting lover and my newfound financial freedom, I felt unstoppable.  Life was good with the doctor.

But somewhere in the middle of the night I awoke, and couldn’t get something he said out of my mind.

A tad possessive.  I wondered what that meant.  He threw it out there, and then retracted it.  Maybe I should have brushed it aside.  But it was still out there.    Possessive.   A strange word veiled in a sea of beautiful prose and flattery.  I decided to flag it as a warning unless he said something similar in the future.

The doctor had given me a little Ziploc bag with a dozen or so Ambien, so I decided to pop one and go back to bed.  I had a busy day ahead of me and needed a good night of sleep.

As I was dozing off around 2 am, I realized that as strange as our relationship was, I didn’t want to see anyone else besides him.  At least for now.  I decided to deactivate my profile from Making Arrangement the next day.

I sat across from the 50 something attorney and pretended to laugh at his obnoxious jokes.  I was counting down the minutes until the waiter brought our check and I could get in an Uber and head home.  I had my first allowance from the doctor burning a hole in my pocket and had been eyeing a black Prada fur vest on The Real Real which would look good with my blonde hair.

On the cab ride home, I contemplated if I really wanted to have multiple arrangements.  I had a connection with the doctor and I knew he had taken his Making Arrangement profile down.  I wasn’t sure if he wanted me to do the same, but I did know that I couldn’t have been less interested in my date that evening.  Would anything else be as exciting as my newfound fling with Mark Reilly?  It was becoming increasingly less likely.

When I got home I fed Marty and eagerly began perusing the fur vault on www.therealreal.com.  Shopping after a bottle of Moet was probably not the best idea and I definitely had bills to pay.  But I felt I deserved a little treat for myself.  Plus, the doctor was there to help alleviate my financial stress.  And it didn’t seem he was going anywhere anytime soon.

I had just pulled my hair back in a messy bun and slipped into my blush pink silk robe, when I got a text from across the pond…

Were the doctor’s messages a bit too much too soon?  A little.  But they were flattering, so who was I to curb his sentiments?  The way I viewed things at this stage, he was a lonely man and I was simply playing a role in his life.  I was the mistress that would indulge his romantic side and be the recipient of love letters on a daily basis.  How awful could that be?  I decided to keep my mouth shut and play my part.

I definitely cared for him and felt an interesting connection.  But at this point, I wasn’t sure what those feelings meant.  When he mentioned he might “fall in love” with me, I dismissed it as pure fantasy on his end.

I was definitely deep in a sex fog and my brain was perhaps confusing lust for infatuation.   Every time I tried to concentrate on something at work, my mind wandered back to him, and my physical longing to be with him again.  I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had ever made me feel that way in bed.

All this for five grand a month?  Sold.

That evening I was meeting the 50 something attorney at Cosme, an upscale Mexican joint in Flatiron.  I still wanted to keep my options open and I figured what the doctor didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

What I didn’t realize though, is that it’s very (very) difficult to concentrate on a date with a middle aged balding man, when you’ve exchanged racy sext messages on the cab ride there with someone else…

(Warning: letter SO not suitable for work…)

It was a busy Wednesday at work and I was working with a massive hangover.  I had a photoshoot scheduled at 9am, otherwise I probably would have spent the morning in bed with a venti iced coffee.

Countless details of the night before were replaying in my mind.  I found myself daydreaming more often than I should have been, but I couldn’t help myself.

“Bianca, just please…Do not disappear from my life,” the doctor whispered before I left the hotel room at The Roxy.

“How could I?” I smiled back at him.

It was surreal that just six days ago I was tossing and turning at night, totally sleepless about making ends meet.  And now, I had a man willing to take care of everything for me.  And it seemed there might be more to this than just the financial benefit.

I was on such a high that I almost completely forgot I had another date on Thursday.  A 50 something divorced attorney whose texts were bordering on desperate.  I wondered if I should cancel.  After all, the doctor had taken down his Making Arrangement profile.  Did he expect me to do the same?

I knew he was leaving for London that night and that we would have a long distance relationship for a few days.  Until Sunday at least.  I decided to keep my date with the attorney.  It would be good to have a distraction.

Our night replayed in my mind all day.  I was on cloud nine.  I didn’t even take the time to contemplate if the doctor was too good to be true…I simply didn’t care.

I woke up at 4 am on Wednesday, restless and replaying the unexpected events from the night before in my mind.   I rolled over to check my phone and was surprised to have received a long letter from the doctor just hours before.  It only confirmed that what I experienced with him was in fact reality and not just a dream.

An arrangement. It was just supposed to be an arrangement, I reminded myself.  Nothing involving feelings.  And yet I found myself baffled at how something that was meant to be all business could feel so incredibly…passionate.

After he kissed me by the window at The Roxy, I decided to slip my dress off.  He called me a goddess.  He told me I should be worshipped.  I hung on his every word.  He lay me down on the bed.  We both decided we wouldn’t sleep together that night.  

But before I knew it, we were both breaking our rules.  I gave in.  Fireworks.  That night, for the first time in my life, I had three orgasms.

Afterwards, I was lying in his arms with my head on his chest, my hair a wild mess.  We began opening up to each other about our past (and current) relationships.  I told him a bit about my divorce and how I had pridefully left my ex husband without any sort of settlement for myself.  I told him about the slew of meaningless flings I had rebounding after my marriage.  He was so easy to talk to.

He told me that he felt very neglected in his marriage and that lying there with me was the first time he hadn’t felt lonely in years.  And then he asked me something.

“Bianca, what is your greatest fear with me?”

“Getting hurt,” I replied without hesitation, “What’s yours?”

“Bianca?  I am afraid that I am going to fall in love with you.”

I paused.  I was flattered.  But I brushed it off as post coital infatuation.  How could anyone have feelings that strong after only meeting someone twice?

We lay together for hours.  He confessed to me that he was abused by his father as a child and at one point, he was a drug addict and a sex addict.

“Aren’t we all sex addicts?” I joked seductively.  He didn’t laugh.

Moments later, he sweetly kissed me on the forehead and informed me that it was time to head home.  His curfew was 9pm.

As he showered, I slipped on my dress and coat.  I cringed as I collected the envelope full of cash from the dresser.  It was a harsh reminder of the true nature of this relationship and perhaps the reality check I needed.

Don’t fall for this guy, don’t fall for this guy, I repeated in my mind on the cab ride to my apartment.

After all, I doubted I’d be hearing much from him until our next date…

We had agreed to meet at the Roxy Hotel bar in Tribeca at 3pm on a Tuesday.  I had a charity event starting at 7pm that I was on the fence about attending.  But it was a perfect excuse to leave if things got awkward with the doctor and I needed to bolt.

I didn't have time to get my nails done before our second date, so I attempted a sloppy DIY manicure in the back of my bumpy cab ride.  I was wearing a tight fitting black lace dress from DVF and black booties from Zara.

I had already made a conscious decision not to sleep with the doctor until I felt completely comfortable with him.  It would feel less transactional that way.  Besides, he seemed so patient and gentle with me.  As non-traditional as this type of relationship was, I was determined not to seem too “easy.”

I waltzed through the revolving door and into the grand sun filled lobby.   There he was, calmly seated in a corner with a single white envelope in his hand.  It must have been the $1,000 he was bringing for me.  A sort of down payment for our arrangement.  

As I approached him, he smiled warmly and stood up to greet me.  My fears and inhibitions slowly began to melt away.  What had I been so nervous about?

We sat down and he ordered me a glass of rose bubbles.  Even though he did not drink, he seemed to know a great deal about wines.  I smiled and let him pick a good one for me.  I liked that he took charge, yet also seemed mild mannered.

After a couple of very expensive glasses of bubbly, I realized something.  I hadn’t felt this comfortable around a man in a long time.  This is when he leaned in to me and said…

“Bianca, I have one problem.  And that is that I am a very presumptuous man.”

“Is that so?  What do you mean doctor?”

“I’ve taken the liberty of booking a hotel room here at the Roxy tonight.  Just in case you feel like skipping your charity event.  This is not to put any pressure on you, Bianca.  You don’t have to do anything you don’t feel like doing.”

His eyes were so kind.  I felt like I had known him for years, not days.  I decided right then and there that I was going to go upstairs with him.  We headed up to room 711.

When we walked into the room, I tossed my grey fur coat on the armchair and made my way over to the window.  The moon was bold and the views of the city were spectacular.  He approached me slowly from behind and put his arms around my waist.  We stood there for a few silent moments in the soft glow of the city light.

And then without a word, he turned me around and kissed me for the first time...

I waited nervously for the doctor at the bar of the Carlisle Hotel. He was running about ten minutes late, so I ordered a glass of rose champagne. I fidgeted anxiously with the champagne flute and attempted small talk with the bartender.

For a brief moment, I questioned how I had gotten here. One week prior to this blind date I would have never dreamed I’d be seated at this bar, awaiting a married man who was essentially interviewing me to be his mistress.

I wondered why he seemed so eager to meet me. Were my pictures that alluring? Was my bio that intriguing? He seemed so accomplished in the world of science. My tagline on my Making Arrangement profile was “Blondes have more fun!”

I had a pit in my stomach. Surely there were other non-married men I could meet on the site. What was I doing here? I looked down at my coat, hanging underneath the bar. I considered collecting my belongings and walking out the door, but I really needed the money. That's when he walked in…

He approached me. He looked exactly like his profile picture. A bit like a geeky Tobey Maguire. He was 41, 5’11” and flipped his shaggy hair from one side to the other. I could tell he was nervous. Maybe more than I was. I felt a sense of relief.

We were seated at a table in the corner and after a couple of cocktails, I learned a bit more about him. He was born in Argentina and had lived all over Europe and Asia. It didn’t take long to realize he was very different from other men. His IQ was off the charts, which became increasingly obvious as he revealed more details of his life. He was solving complex math equations when most children were learning the alphabet. He graduated medical school when most people were beginning puberty. I was intrigued.

He told me a little bit about his former arrangement Laura. Their relationship had just ended amicably after 14 blissful months. He alluded to the fact that his wife knew about his flings and didn’t mind his indiscretions, so long as he remained safe and didn’t disclose any of the details to her. Even though it seemed unusual for a wife to turn a blind eye, I had heard of marriages like this where the wife tolerates her philandering husband, in exchange for a certain lifestyle. This eased my mind a little about an affair with him. He seemed like he just needed a little attention and affection in his life.

I had already lied and told him I had a dinner party to attend later that evening, just in case I needed a definitive end to our afternoon drinks. After a few drinks and interesting conversation I looked at my phone. It was 5pm. Time to leave for my fake dinner.

I kissed him on the cheek and he walked me out to get a cab. Before putting me in the cab and handing me $100 for cab fare, he asked me a strange question.

“Bianca, were you ever bullied in your life?”

“A little…Why do you ask?”

He smiled and replied, “You have behaviors and traits consistent with someone who has either been bullied or abused in their lives. I believe we may be cut from the same cloth. Don't worry. you are safe with me, Bianca.”

He kissed me on the cheek and hailed a cab for me. Even in my champagne buzz, I knew this would be the beginning of a very interesting journey.

In preparation for my first date with the doctor, I got a spray tan and eyelash extensions. I was prepared to take my sugar baby responsibilities very seriously. I bought a snug fitting floral dress by Aqua from Bloomingdales that I paired with sky high Vince Camuto black booties. He wouldn't know what hit him.

Sure, his texts seemed a bit eager, but it was charming to have someone like him who knew what he wanted and went for it. It had been a while since I had a guy seem very into me, and we hadn't even met yet. Wait until he saw me in this dress...

I felt confident and ready but suddenly something dawned on me. I was planning the future with someone I hadn't actually met yet through conversations via text. Was I safe?

Day 1: I had successfully narrowed down the sugar daddies to four options. I had even created a spreadsheet with their details like occupation, net worth, lifestyle budget and location in Manhattan. I needed to keep all the facts straight.

I began wondering just how many sugar daddies I could handle at once. Two or three seemed reasonable. I decided to take a break from sugaring briefly so I could search summer rentals in East Hampton on VRBO. Before I could chose a house in my imaginary new budget I got a text from one of the guys...

Three months ago, I found myself tossing and turning in the middle of the night.

After a painful divorce in 2014 that left me cash strapped, I found my modest little nest egg had dwindled down to the last twigs.  I wasn’t sure I’d be able to pay the next month’s rent in my sunny Tribeca studio.  As a single 31 year old woman and freelance designer I knew I needed to take immediate action.  I was in a dire situation for sure, but how would I dig my way out of the hole and back to financial breathing room?

In my mid twenties I had a sugar daddy that financed my entire life for the brief two months we were together.  It was heaven.  I didn’t have a care in the world and had all my needs met and then some.  A spontaneous trip to Gucci for flashy accessories and wads of cash being shoved into my purse became the norm in those days.  Wide awake at 4am, I found myself suddenly longing for that kind of financial freedom again.  Being in my early thirties now, I would surely be more responsible with the money, right?  After all, I was older and wiser and knew that relationships of this nature were fleeting.

Wired but determined, I Googled “how to find a sugar daddy in NYC.”  To my surprise I found several websites that matched wealthy men to attractive ladies in need of monetary assistance.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  There was an entire online market devoted to meeting the needs of financially strapped, attractive gals like myself.  I had hit the jackpot.

Too excited to sleep, I went to work on setting up my profile on Making Arrangement, a website where you can keep your photos private, request a certain “lifestyle budget” allowance per month, and many of the men are background checked.  I made sure to fill my bio with key words like “free-spirited” and “drama-free” that I knew would attract lots of suitors.  I sat back and smiled at my carefully crafted profile and clicked to confirm.

By noon that day, my inbox on the site had over fifty messages.  I weeded out the messages with overtly sexual tones and skimmed down to five or six possible sugar daddies.  By the end of the day, I had three dates lined up for the next week.  In my mind, I began to imagine juggling two or three of these relationships at a time, socking away money and building back my cushy nest egg.  I pictured hosting my friends at my summer share in East Hampton, with maybe enough extra cash to hire a private chef for a weekend here and there. It would all be so easy...