On sugar daddies

Over on XX Factor, there’s a great discussion about that old stand-by fantasy: the sugar daddy. Particularly, how young journalists, facing such brutal economic times, might be tempted into a sort of “accidental concubine” position. You know the story: the plucky, independent-yet-starving creative girl who gets “rescued” by the knight in shining armour, enabling her to continue her artsy-fartsy ways while still enjoying a middle- (or upper-) class lifestyle.

As a child of working-class people in the ’70s, I never indulged in that fantasy. My world was filled with adult women who worked -  mostly out of economic necessity, but the idea that a man would come along and “rescue” them from work was never an option. Working was just what adults did to provide for their families. And experience had shown that you can’t depend on a man, so you’d better have some job skills, sister. As a young woman, I was expected go to college – not to snag a man, but to get an education that would bestow better earning power than my foremothers before me had.

And yet I find myself in a strange situation. Since graduating with my master’s in journalism in May, I have not been able to find a decent full-time job, which left me pretty much dependent on my husband until he left several months later. With no other support, I burned through my savings to pay the bills while working several part-time and/or freelance jobs.

I’m in a very tough situation – because I have so little left in my savings, I may well end up homeless if my income doesn’t pick up soon. And I have no family to help me; my mom & sister already share a one-bedroom apartment.

Here’s where it gets weird: I just started dating again, and the man I’m seeing makes decent scratch working for the Red Cross. My die-hard feminist pride would never allow me to ask my new boyfriend to let me move in with him. But if I got to that point – where I could no longer pay the rent – I’m sure he’d ask me to. Which brings up the burning question: which is better – living in a car with my dignity intact, or moving into my boyfriend’s house and feeling like a concubine (or at the very least, a charity case)?

The funny thing is, I’ve usually been on the other side of this equation. Quite a few of my  past boyfriends came to live with me because they were out of work. I suppose if my boyfriend and I had been going out longer – in other words, had a more established relationship – I wouldn’t be so conflicted about it. But it is what it is, and all I can do is keep my fingers crossed while I scan the want ads.