The first time I ever had sugar cubes was at a bris. If you don’t know what a bris is, it’s a traditional Jewish ceremony at which a baby boy is circumcised. I was 7 years old at the time and was too busy shoving sugar cubes into my pockets to notice some baby was getting his foreskin hacked off— not that I even knew what a foreskin was at the time—but in retrospect, that day was indicative of the times to come.

My penchant for sugar has not dissipated since that fateful day. However, last summer, I found a new form of sucrose that transcended my relent- less desire for Haribo Gummy Bears. I discovered sugar daddies. No, not the delicious milk caramel pops. I’m talking about the older, affluent men who “take care of” impressionable young women in exchange for cash.

The easiest way for a sugar daddy to find his sugar baby is online. SeekingArrangements.com is one of the sugar bowl’s—the name for the sugar lifestyle—top dating websites. I was exceptionally broke at the time and did not possess much of a strong moral compass, so I signed up.

I filled out the website’s bizarre questions: What was I looking for in my glucose papa? What kind of relationship or arrangement did I want—one that does or does not involve feelings? And what were my “lifestyle expectations”? Needless to say, my expectations were marked as high. If I was going to do this, it had to be done right and involve lots of cash.

After sifting through thinly veiled sex propositions—which usually involved four or five winkie faces and the mention of my legs—from gentlemen who could have easily been friends with my grandfather, I received a late-night correspondence from a fancy banker-man. He was interested in discussing an arrangement over breakfast.

I almost pooped myself. Even though I was broke and intrigued by the sugar bowl as a whole, I had never taken it seriously enough to consider meeting any of these saccharine father figures. I hesitated, contemplating all the life lessons and adorable platitudes my mother had instilled in me as an empowered young woman: Never mix bleach and ammonia; condoms are like balloons, but for your body; drink one glass of water for every red Solo cup of beer; and something about respecting yourself above all else.

But what my mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her, so I agreed to meet the fancy banker-man for breakfast at an undisclosed location in the Windy City. Calm down, it was in public.

The morning of the meet up, I was a nervous wreck. I redid my makeup three times, rubbing my face raw, retracing my eyeliner over and over, all while trying to come up with some dire excuse for bailing on the fancy banker-man. I wasn’t scared that he would try to pull a fast one or that I would make an ass out of myself; I was scared how I would feel about myself at the end of the day, even if I were flush with cash. I told myself that because I had gotten this far, I might as well keep on trucking. I was still a broke-ass college student, after all.

Sitting down to breakfast though, I knew absolutely nothing would come of it, and for that, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had spent the entire bus ride trying to convincing myself that old dude penis was just as good as young dude penis and that inner monologue had been enough to dissuade me from partaking in any sexy time with my sugar suitor. Besides, his gray nose and knuckle hairs made me question ever being attracted to men, let alone sleeping with them for money. But he paid for my prosciutto and melon, obligingly answering all my eager questions about what in the actual heck was up with the sugar bowl and rich white men in general, and for that I appreciated my 15 minutes of sugar baby bliss.

As I walked away from breakfast that morning, it wasn’t that I felt dirty or ashamed or scared; I just felt good knowing that I had at least made the effort, put on the lipstick and the black pumps, and pretended to care about what the fancy banker-man had to say about anything. It also felt good to pocket $75 just for smiling and nodding while stuffing my face with Italian meat and cantaloupe.

Later that evening, I deleted my SeekingArrangements account, for I knew in my heart of hearts that all the sugar I ever needed was sitting in a large yellow Tupperware bin on top of the fridge in the tiny studio apartment that I can still barely afford. And if I ever really did need the cash that bad, I could just call my mom or sell pot.