If you saw me and Francesco together from a distance you’d probably assume he was my father. After all, he’s in his mid-60s and I’m only 24. But observe us more closely – listen in as he calls me ‘babe’, catch the glint in his eyes as I pose and pout – and you'll realise that there’s nothing familial about this relationship.
Francesco repulses me, but who gets with a Sugar Daddy for their looks? He’s minted (from his own business and family money), he’s cultured, generous and smart - ok, maybe not that smart. After all, he’s being manipulated by a girl 40 years his junior into living a three-year lie he’s paying for.
I guess you could say I ‘inherited’ him from a friend back home in Malta. Alicia dated Francesco first and over the course of their two-year relationship (they were a ‘real couple’ albeit in a relationship built on his money), I studied their dynamic over all-expenses paid dinner dates à trois – her demands, his open cheque book – fascinated and disgusted in equal measure.
I’d recently moved to London to study when their relationship started to break down. At around the same time, my father died. Not only was he my favourite person, he was my provider. When he was alive, I’d never wanted for anything. With the modest sum I inherited, I went on a spending rampage to numb my grief and pain.
Soon enough, Francesco began chasing me, bombarding my phone and flying over to London from Malta to take me out on the town. We’d hit the capital’s ritziest restaurants, ordering one of everything on the menu, washed down with gallons of the most expensive wine. I’d already got to know him as a dining and drinking companion, so it didn’t seem odd to me that we were hanging out. Besides, there were no gifts at that stage, just cash for cabs (I always kept the change) and absolutely no question over who was footing the bill.
I was still able to pretend that we were just friends, an unorthodox friendship, sure, but innocent all the same. But things escalated quickly. The first time I asked Francesco for money was when I’d spunked my rent on partying. Just like that he wired me £1,000. It was ridiculously, scarily easy.
It didn’t take long for me to grow into the role Alicia had left behind. With every demand delivered, my confidence amplified, and my requirements started to spiral.
Today he’s my personal ATM, a free-flowing tap of cash and gifts that allows me to spoil myself as I see fit – and I have very expensive tastes. From a healthy bank account and a personal trainer, to a dedicated shrink, unlimited spa credits, monthly hauls from Net-a-Porter and bottomless binges at Michelin-starred restaurants, a click of my fingers and they’re mine. Francesco says he “created a monster”, I know he likes that. Over the years, I’ve probably received £250,000 or thereabouts – in cash, gifts, trips and dinners.
He’s so besotted with me that I don’t even need to sleep with him to get what I want. Here's the deal: I’ve told him that I’m a non-sexual person and he cannot touch me, kiss me on the lips or even hold my hand. That doesn’t mean I can’t feel his lust. He lights up when sex is mentioned, it’s gross. But knowing how much he wants me kind of makes me hate him even more – and I enjoy letting him suffer.
So, without intimacy, how do I keep my Sugar Daddy sweet? As the starring role in this grim production, I’ve learned how to play the part of Lolita perfectly. Our relationship might not be sexual, but it’s not surface either. I am committed to making him feel like there’s a real connection between us, and in a way, there is. He’s based between Malta and Paris so he spends quite a bit of time on the move, and finds any excuse to visit me in London. We’re also on the phone constantly.
I’ve developed ruses to make him feel sexy – asking him to cut the tag off a new dress we’ve bought together, for example. When we go out for dinner, I’ll flirt with other girls and invite them to our table to add some phoney frisson to his life – and give me something to do. Sometimes they clock what’s up and start sniffing around my territory. He’s my prize and and I’m the Queen, I’ll f*** over any woman who tries to userp my position.
If you’re wondering why he’s stuck around without sex, it’s because you haven’t seen me. I’m beautiful – no conceit intended, it’s just a fact. I’m also clever, so the type of conversations we have are often deep and engaging.
Perhaps I’m making it sound easy? I didn't realise the psychological toll this would take on me - I thought I had the perfect deal. The truth is that I am selling my soul. This is a control game, and every day is a dance for dominance. Francesco pays for my life on the condition that he can control my movements. I can’t do anything without him quizzing me about who and where and what, and I’m always caught between one lie and another. Keeping him satisfied is a full-time job; he’s needy and dramatic, and prone to intense rages when he’s drunk. When he sees red, there’s a look in his eyes that chills me to the core.
He once booked us into a double room at a hotel and I had to sleep in the same bed as him. It was horrific. I pretended to sleep immediately and curled up as far away from him as possible. I don’t know what was worse – lying next to him or seeing him in his boxers the next morning.
As his obsession with me escalates, so too does my reliance on the lifestyle he provides. The financial safety net is delaying my growth; I need to learn how to be responsible for myself and face the consequences of my actions.
Most of the friends that do know about Francesco refuse to meet us together because it’s against their principles and the rest of them just assume I inherited enough money to live like this. I can only tell select people because everyone assumes sex is involved and that’s an image I don’t want anyone to have of me.
I’ve promised myself that things will stop when I meet someone real and I want a relationship more than anything. The cruelest twist is that my dating life has suffered because I forget to drop the act and be myself. I can behave like a princess and a brat around guys I like, assuming and expecting them to worship me. But most men don’t want a Lolita, they want a partner.
Francesco says he wants to look after me for the rest of my life, but he doesn’t know that I’m relocating to London permanently and there’s a chance he’ll sever contact when he finds out. As soon as my new Cartier watch is back from the jeweller, I’ll confess. I’m happy leaving his decision to fate as I’ve got a busy summer ahead: I met a Chinese billionaire in Mykonos last year who just won’t leave me alone.
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