My Year as a Sugar Baby

He says, “Move with me to Singapore, I’ll look after you. I will pay for everything.”

He is nine years my senior and has a grown up job, he works in video games which is so cool. In the first few weeks of dating, we spend a weekend in Paris where we order cocktails with our dinner, and it all feels so grown up. I taught myself to like beer, mainly for it’s economical benefits and also because that’s what Cool Girls drink. I only wish that that younger me knew that one day, I’d join the same industry and build an ambitious career that rivalled his success. Maybe then I wouldn’t have put him on such a pedestal.

I am eighteen years old, working nearly sixty hours a week at a shitty burrito restaurant as an Assistant Manager. I’ve deferred my place at a prestigious drama school that I’m not entirely invested in going to, hoping the year out will better my mental health after a traumatic sixth form. The stress of barely being able to survive the cost of living in London, ironically makes my mental health worse. I am tired and poor and tired of being poor.

So when this offer comes along, who am I to say no?

After three months of anxiety ridden long distance, late night calls and constant crying, I take the plunge. I move to a country I’ve never heard of. All my belongings are condensed into four boxes that get shipped across the pacific in eight weeks, including a Smart TV I’m emotionally attached to.

The decision itself, was easy to make. I worked myself like a dog, I only saved most of my meagre salary because I didn’t have much time off work to spend it. I worked, slept, worked, slept. On my days off I was too tired to do anything, bedrotting with Netflix in the same position until the sky went dark, too tired to make myself food or even shower. I had a friendship group that I always felt like I was on the outs on. My future in London was going to study European Theatre Arts, but I could only see a mountain of debt that would greet me on the other side. I was increasingly untethered from my life, and in retrospect, massively depressed. The offer he made was a no brainer.

It was the dream life. We had a spacious condo with five swimming pools, we went dancing in atas clubs and drank beers at Ang Moh hotspots. The biggest decision of my day was which pool did I want to sunbathe at? Where shall we go for lunch? Weekends were spent at pool parties, perusing air conditioned malls or trips to Thailand or Indonesia. It was an all expenses paid lifestyle, he even gave me an allowance, mine for anything.

The allowance had been a heart-warming gesture at first. I can’t believe this man is giving me money, so I can enjoy myself! But it quickly dwindled; I spent most of it on groceries which were highly expensive, being on an island where everything is imported. I should've asked for separate grocery budget, but I was too meek, not wanting to add more to his expenses. Thrift stores were non-existent in Singapore and I often couldn’t justify $30 on a top. Spending $7 on a latte was out of the question, something I wouldn’t have thought twice about at home, on my own money. Having to budget someone else's money became constraining.

My days revolved entirely around him: I went to a course for three hours a day, met with him for his lunch break, went home and waited for his return. At that time, I had no hobbies and no aspirations, I was unsure of who I was and afraid to want things. I was nineteen years old, in a foreign country, with no friends or support circle, no job or financial independence, entirely reliant on this man.

Friends were difficult to come by, I made a few close friends over the year but most were surface level. A far cry from London, where I could make best friends with a stranger after one evening in the pub. I tagged along to every pool party and BBQ hosted by his colleagues, desperately out of place and clinging to anyone who seemed vaguely around twenty-five or younger. I was groped by one of his colleagues at a party once, something I kept to myself for years after, unsure of corporate structures and not wanting to upset anyone.

I tried my hardest not to make him feel guilty about the asymmetry of our lives. He came home, drunk from his work summer party, absolutely buzzing he'd won a Nintendo Switch in the raffle - just for me! I promptly burst into tears, about how homesick and isolated I was. I missed my big sister, being called guapa by the chefs at work, that I missed having a bank account. I missed my old life that I had tried so hard to run away from. It was his dream, I was just living in it.

For all intents and purposes, I was a stay-at-home-girlfriend, years before it became a thing on TikTok. And it was the fucking worst year of my life.

American doctor Arthur Hertzler coined the term ‘barefoot and pregnant’ in 1938, referring to the notion that keeping a woman barefooted and pregnant meant divorce was not an option. Keep a woman domesticated and she’ll have to stay, to survive.

There is no shame in being a stay-at-home-mum, none at all. I admire women who can extract their career from their identity, or perhaps never equated their work with their self-worth in the first place. Sometimes there is privilege in that decision - their partner’s salary can support an entire family, or perhaps there isn’t - the cost of childcare rendering the mother’s salary worthless. Or maybe it’s just been the dream all along. Whatever the reason these women choose to stay at home and raise their families, are all valid.

Basically: I can get my head around financial dependence on a partner, when there's kids involved and a family to raise. But I draw the line at young women choosing to spend their youth in comfort at the mercy of a man.

Look, I get it. Sometimes I curse at the fact that women have to work at all, when I have to wake up at the butt crack of dawn to haul my ass to an office in the bumfuck middle of nowhere (okay, it’s just outside the M25), and return home with only enough time to eat dinner and shower. I find myself sometimes yearning for my year of rest and relaxation in Singapore when I’m staring down the barrel of my sales quota having to ‘circle back’ with a client who’s ghosted me for the fifth time. Burn out is frequent and today’s hustle culture is exhausting, it’s no wonder so many people are opting out for alternative lifestyles, seeking financial stability through relationships in an unstable job market and rising living costs.

‘Sprinkle Sprinkle’ was popularized by influencer SheraSeven, a phrase that is synonymous with hypergamy - the practice of marrying-up, dating someone of a higher socio-economic status than yourself. Where I agree that women should indeed, know their worth and pursue men who they deem to be worthy of them, the glorification of building a life contingent on a man’s continued support scares me. Especially when young, impressionable girls are at the receiving end of this kind of content. Are we raising a generation of smart, capable young women to think that comfortable or luxurious lifestyles can be achieved if we give up our financial independence in favour of dependence?

I also blame the normalization of luxury lifestyles. Social media has reframed extravagant ways of living from aspirational to expected, especially for Gen Z. Designer items, lavish travel and expensive dinners are no longer seen as long-term rewards for hard work, but early life milestones. Don’t get me wrong - I have a growing designer shoe collection and an intense infatuation with Coach handbags. It’s okay to want these things - we all grew up envying Carrie’s Manolo collection (side note: how the hell did she afford her wardrobe, writing one column a week in NYC? 2000s goes crazy). TikTok and Instagram disproportionately amplify these lifestyles, without really showing the reality behind them (whether that’s influencer income, debt or someone really just working their ass off to get there).

Only in the last year have I experienced true financial freedom - I am grateful to have a job that allows me that. As my career has started to take off, I ironically and unironically refer to myself as a girlboss. Something that feels weirdly unfashionable in a cultural climate where being a high value woman refers more to ‘tapping into your divine feminine’ than being able to provide for yourself. Sometimes I do question if it’s all really worth it - my day-to-day isn’t glamourous by any means - I live in an 18sqm studio flat and work occupies 90% of my life. I am constantly plotting my parachutes in case I lose my job. The prospect of having to fully support myself is overwhelming, I cry often about it. So no wonder the soft life looks so appealing to many.

Maybe if I didn’t have my year as a stay-at-home-girlfriend in Singapore, I’d feel differently. Maybe I’d be trying to pursue this kind of relationship after yet another burnout. I often wish I could’ve done that move now, being the person I am currently. Fantasizing about how I’d definitely finish my novel (currently 8 years in the making), that this blog would be kick-ass and I’d be absolutely jacked with all my free time for the gym (instead of having a less than optimal ab routine due to only having time to train during the post-work rush hour). But ultimately I know: my hyper-independence was born out of that situation, of my fear of ever relinquishing my autonomy, to not anchor my security to a man’s wallet ever again. It’s a canon event for all women who experience this power imbalance: I’m just grateful I had this at nineteen, where my entire life was ahead of me, still.

I am eternally grateful that the man I chose to go down this path with, wasn’t a psycho (and that he was too cheap to control me with the promise of designer handbags). We actually spent six years together in total, the relationship ending when my frontal lobe set in and I decided to light my entire life on fire, when I was brave enough to burn down any stability I had. He was my best friend for the most part, and it’s still crazy to me that we shared a life that no one else was a part of. The latter part of our relationship were our happiest years; but as I grew into an woman with ambitions and opinions, it was harder to ignore that this wasn’t where I wanted to be. Though, that first year of our relationship set us up for a power imbalance that tainted the rest of our time together.

I stayed longer than I should’ve for many reasons: I felt indebted to him for the year he provided for both of us, but also because I knew I couldn’t survive on my salary in London, alone. To his credit, he never ever guilt-tripped me over having to financially support me, and he truly did support me when I transitioned from hospitality to my current career. But I know there are many men out there who wouldn’t be the same, and many women in more dire circumstances with less ways out. Not every relationship with this kind of power imbalance is bad; in some cases, they really do work. And I’m happy for that. We just can’t ignore how many just don’t end well.

For my 20th birthday in Singapore, I’d asked for Jadon Doc Martens that he deemed too expensive. It was demeaning to hear that, from a man who could save half his monthly salary and still provide a comfortable lifestyle for both of us. Eventually I moved back to London in the midst of Covid, my big sister took me on a shopping spree at Westfields when I received my first paycheck from yet another soul-destroying hospitality job. As the cashier boxed them up and I tapped my debit card, I remember thinking: I will never let myself be in that position ever again.