I Called Him Sir in a Hotel That Wasn't Mine
Twenty-two. He was sixty. The mini-bar was included. The arrangement wasn't—except we both pretended it was.
He liked the word sir. I liked the way it made the world smaller.
Hotel key. Do not disturb. Dress on the chair like a costume I could leave behind.
He asked about my classes. I asked about his divorce. We touched where questions ended.
Sugar daddy is a crude label for something that felt like chosen hierarchy—money upstairs, permission downstairs.
I stopped when I graduated. He sent a watch I still wear and never explain.
People call it transaction. I call it a chapter that kept the lights on and taught me what I would never accept again.
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