SmokeLong Quarterly

I had just been ghosted, and not the typical fizzle where he said hey and I said sup and he said just horny lol and then neither of us crafted words strong enough to hook into the other’s groin and pull him dick-first across the miles—no, the ghosting of Golfer (age 49) took place after discussion, horny texts (damn I want that in my mouth) but also sexual health assurances, a nuanced description of exactly what the “service submission” kink on my profile meant (I give oral but don’t receive, I prefer to center his needs), the confirmation he had been with trans men before, and finally, settling on a time and my sending instructions to reach the remote cabin on the MAGAtastic street where I was spending the week for a writing residency—a ghosting where, when our agreed-upon time arrived, and I had brushed my teeth and removed my nose ring and made a fire to keep us warm and set out a nice chair where he would let me kneel for him, he was suddenly 14 miles away instead of the 9 miles he’d been; ten minutes later, 17 miles; another ten minutes, he blocked me—not ghosted, but fled.

Mere moments after Golfer blipped out of existence the message came in from Henry, a faceless profile: Have you ever had a sugar daddy or been in an arrangement before? I’m looking for a sincere, kind, honest gentleman to spoil.

I could be sincere, kind, and honest, and I did all manner of things for men for free but meanwhile had to borrow money from a friend’s disability check to cover this residency in an attempt to finish the book I couldn’t afford to keep writing, plus I had thought Golfer would have dominated my thoughts by now, and that, perhaps, explains why I told “Henry” (if that was his real name) I’d always been curious and why, when he asked for my number in the next message (too soon, far too soon), I gave it to him.

There were signs, of course there were signs: said he lived in Tennessee, but was in Tokyo for work; he was unconcerned I would soon return from Knoxville to Los Angeles; and of course, his offer of a $400/week allowance for deliverables as vague as “companionship” and “affection” was simply too good to be true.

I’m 56, a single dad to two amazing girls. I lost my wife a few years ago. I work as a General Contractor and love what I do. I’m into the beach, hiking, and working out. Being a sugar daddy is fulfilling because I enjoy supporting someone and making them feel special. I’d spoil you with gifts, experiences, and financial support.

I told him sorry for your loss and that I had lost my fiance too, six years ago now, and he was sorry for me in return, and hadn’t I been too good to be true more times than I could count? The muscle bear who requested we meet in a park first because he hadn’t encountered my “character” before, hadn’t messaged with someone as horny and willing as I was to say yes to his every fantasy (in his case, an innocuous desire to have his muscles oiled up while he flexed in the mirror). Perhaps this was why Golfer fled from me, not some unrelated reason like an emergency sprang up or he was a cheater suddenly ransacked by guilt, no, Golfer fled because a good-looking man (if I do say so) 20 years his junior offering him a long blow job in a hard-to-find cabin with spotty service convinced him so deeply he was about to be murdered that he was halfway to Memphis by now.

It was my turn, I thought, my turn to be babied and pampered and spoiled and provided for, it was my turn to have a man who was too good to be true, and with $1,600 a month I’d be able to drop the sports store in Utah I wrote hunting articles for even though I was a lifelong vegetarian, and that time could go to my book, my book that would be so beautiful and true. I could be a sincere, kind, and honest gentleman and if he said weird shit and I didn’t call him on it I wouldn’t even have to feel guilty because it was my job, it was my job to nod and smile, I wouldn’t have to wonder if this was what it meant to be “socialized female” when I made myself smaller, it was my turn, it was mine, and I would get my first allowance today to help with my bills, he wrote, I’ll send you an electronic check for $900. Keep $400 as your allowance, and send the remainder to my kids’ nanny. This is a trust exercise. I’d also like you to address me as ‘Daddy.’

And it didn’t matter, then, that his sentences were too complete not to have been helped by AI (what man over 50 didn’t text in complete sentences?), and it didn’t matter that he wasn’t concerned about when he would fuck me (so much more wholesome, our conversation, than any of the men I had served), and it didn’t matter that the odds were good he would cancel his payment after I sent mine and my bank account would be a crater that would take ten articles on the benefits of different caliber weapons for tearing through a deer’s neck to get out of—what mattered was that I felt cared for, I felt hopeful, I felt (what a blessing) everything would be okay and I wanted that feeling to last, I could make that feeling last, another day or hour at least, so I sent him my email and two long strings of numbers and followed them, blissfully, truthfully, with gratitude and peace in my heart, with the message, Thank you, Daddy, I can’t wait.

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“Sugar” is a finalist in The SmokeLong Quarterly Award for Flash Fiction 2026.