The L train rattled past right on fucking schedule. I knew because I’d been staring at my phone’s spiderweb of cracks for twenty minutes, watching the glowing numbers flip while my brain refused to shut down. Beneath me, the shitty hand-me-down mattress dug broken springs into my spine; the worn foam felt like sleeping on a sponge that had absorbed three years of someone else’s sweat and cigarette smoke.
Welcome to adulthood.
I scratched at the stick-and-poke tattoo on my forearm, feeling the slightly raised scar tissue where the needle had gone too deep. It was a crudely drawn skull with a crooked halo, the black ink already fading to blue-gray, and the words “Only God Can Judge Me” scrawled underneath in uneven lettering. My sixteen-year-old magnum opus, created with a sewing needle and India ink in a group home bathroom while some kid named Karl kept lookout.
I don’t even believe in God; who would in this era and economy?
Back then, it had been the ultimate bad boy starter pack. Now, I called it my “permanent reminder of temporary feelings,” even if I hardly ever covered it up. Some mistakes you wear proudly.
Beside me, the radiator hissed and clanked, spitting out heat in erratic bursts that turned the small room into either a sauna or an icebox with no in-between, and through the paper-thin walls, the neighbor’s dog started its morning sonata of yaps and growls.
“Shut the fuck up, Pancake!” I yelled at the wall. The dog never listened, but shouting felt better than lying there taking it.
To make matters worse, the apartment smelled like rising yeast from the Polish bakery downstairs, mixed with cigarette smoke that seeped through the floorboards and windows and probably my own pores by now. I was so used to it that it only bothered me when I won the fight with the stubborn window or when I walked into the crummy main room after someone had left the door open to the outside hallway.
With a great sigh, I rolled off the mattress and pushed myself up. There was no way I was going to get back to sleep now.
I was still half-dressed in yesterday’s jeans, and I grabbed my hoodie—the black one with frayed cuffs and a rip under the arm—from where it hung from the doorknob and shuffled into the kitchen. Unscrewing the jar of instant coffee, I grimaced as the metallic screech of cheap threads ground against each other. Two heaps of brown granules went into a chipped mug that read “World’s Best Dad” in letters faded to a ghostly memory. Cosmic joke, considering I couldn’t remember my father’s face if my life depended on it, but the kettle shrieked before I could contemplate further, and I poured scalding water over the granules, watching them foam and dissolve into something that resembled coffee the way I resembled a functioning adult.
“You’re up early.” Kenzie shuffled into the doorway from the bathroom, pink hair sticking up like they’d been electrocuted. Silver piercings caught what little morning light filtered through the grimy windows, and their oversized Sonic Youth t-shirt hung off one tattooed shoulder, paired with boxers covered in cartoon tacos. “Bad night?”
“Just the usual existential dread.” I raised my mug in a mock toast. “Want some?”
“That shit you drink isn’t coffee, it’s battery acid.” They yawned, stretching their tattooed arms above their head. “You get any sleep at all?”
“Define ‘sleep’.”
“The thing where you close your eyes and temporarily escape the crushing weight of capitalism.”
“Then no.”
Kenzie grabbed a clean mug—they actually washed dishes, unlike me—and made a cup of tea. Not lose leaf ’cause we weren’t fancy enough for that shit, but the bag from the bulk dollar store box was, according to Kenzie, better anyway.
“So, any leads on the job front?”
My stomach tightened. It was too early for that shit. The question didn’t just hang there; it sank, filling the space between us with a silence so thick I would probably suffocate in the dust motes if I breathed in too hard.
We both knew Kenzie’s roommate was coming back in three weeks, and my welcome would expire with the sublease. Couch-surfing always had an expiration date, and I was racing towards mine with all the grace of a shopping cart with one busted wheel, skittering sideways toward the gutter I’d soon have to call home.
“I’m exploring alternative income streams.” I tried to sound like I had my shit together.
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Kenzie raised a pierced eyebrow. “Because last I checked, you got fired for shoving Tony’s handsy ass into a shelf of imported vodka.”
“He had it coming.” My fingers tightened around the mug. “And he’s lucky that’s all I did.”
The memory flashed hot: fluorescent lights in the storage room, stale beer smell, the old man Tony’s liver-spotted hand sliding down my back and going lower. His whiskey breath on my neck. Then the crash of bottles as I shoved him off me and right into the shelf. Glass had exploded everywhere, and his shocked face was the last thing I saw before walking out without my last paycheck.
“I’m not saying he didn’t deserve it,” Kenzie said, softer now. “I’m just saying you need money, and your resume is starting to look like a list of crime scenes.”
“I’ll figure something out.” I always did. Sort of. Until I didn’t.
Kenzie studied me over the rim of their mug, eyes narrowing. “You know, there’s always—”
“Don’t say it.”
“—sugar dating.”
I groaned. “I’m not selling myself.”
“It’s not selling yourself; it’s strategic companionship.“ They leaned against the counter, giving me the once-over. “You’re hot in that angry-stray-cat way. Some rich daddy type would kill to dress you up and parade you around.”
“I’m not a whore,” I muttered, staring into my coffee. Honestly, some of my life choices would contradict that, but I wasn’t about to admit that out loud.
“No, you’re just… available. Occasionally. For rent.” Kenzie’s smile was sharp but not unkind. “And it beats sleeping on park benches when Marco kicks us both out.”
They weren’t wrong. The thought had crossed my mind more than once, usually around 5 AM when the hunger pangs kept me awake and the L train clattered past like a reminder that everyone else had somewhere to go. I’d browsed those websites, cursor hovering over “create profile,” always closing the tab before I could commit.
“Fine. Show me the stupid website again.” I drained my coffee, ignoring the bitter sludge at the bottom from where the granules hadn’t dissolved properly.
Kenzie’s face lit up. They grabbed their laptop from the cluttered coffee table and patted the spot next to them on the threadbare couch. “Welcome to the dark side. We have sugar daddies.”
“How do you even know about this shit?” I asked, sitting beside them. “Please tell me you’re not running some secret OnlyFans empire I don’t know about.”
“Fuck no.” Kenzie snorted, typing in a URL from memory. I didn’t comment on how alarming that was. “Remember that nightmare client from last month? The one who wanted the full back piece of his girlfriend’s face?”
I winced. “The crying guy who kept asking you about dick tattoos?”
“That’s the one. He was in his fifties and clearly having a midlife crisis.” Their fingers paused over the keyboard. “Anyway, he was getting the work done because his girlfriend was half his age and into ‘alternative culture.’ His words. He kept going on about how he met her on this exclusive dating site.”
“And you just… remembered the name?”
“Hard to forget when someone won’t shut up about their ‘arrangement’ while you’re stabbing them with needles for five hours.” Kenzie’s expression soured. “Dude was gross about it. Kept saying she was ’grateful for his guidance’ and shit like that. Made my skin crawl.”
“And so you think that this is a great idea for me, why?”
“Because beggars can’t be choosers.”
Well, that certainly had a ring to it.
The Concordance’s landing page loaded with all the warmth of a bank vault. It wasn’t the cheap hookup site I’d expected. This thing screamed money in that tacky digital way. It was all dark burgundy backgrounds with gold accents and lace embellishments and honestly, it just looked like some Victorian gentleman’s study had fucked a luxury watch advertisement.
“Fucking hell,” I breathed. “This looks expensive just to look at.”
“Right?” Kenzie clicked through the navigation. “The dude said membership fees start at like ten grand a year. Just to browse. The sugar babies get in free, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I echoed, though nothing about this felt obvious. “What else did he tell you?”
“More than I wanted to know.” They pulled up a cached version of some profiles. “Said the site does extensive background checks, financial verification, the works. Very exclusive, very discreet. And very lucrative for the right type.”
I stared at the blurred profile photos, trying to imagine myself among them. “What type is that?”
“Young, attractive, willing to play by their rules.” Kenzie’s voice softened slightly. “Look, Jay, I’m not saying it’s the best or only idea. That guy was a creep, and his girlfriend looked like she was dead behind the eyes. But…”
“But I’m desperate enough to consider it.”
“You said it, not me.”
“Arrangements of Substance. Relationships of Discretion,“ I read aloud. “Jesus, could they be more pretentious?”
Kenzie scrolled down, revealing paragraphs of carefully worded bullshit about “curated community“ and “bespoke power-exchange dynamics.”
“They’re trying really hard not to say, ‘we’ll pay to fuck you,’ aren’t they?” I snorted.
“You’d be surprised who’s on here,” Kenzie said. Clearly they had no patience for my snarky bullshit. “Investment bankers, lawyers, tech bros with too much money…”
“Great.” That was such a wonderful assortment of rich dickheads to choose from. The real crème de la crème of the upper echelons who gave zero shits about people like me and Kenzie.
“Jesus Christ, listen to this one.” Kenzie scrolled through another profile we could partially access. “ChicagoGentleman60. ‘Seeking a Bright Companion for Mentorship and Mutual Affection’.” They put on a stuffy, nasal voice. “’I enjoy fine dining, theater, and sharing the benefits of a life well-lived with someone special’.”
I nearly snorted coffee through my nose. “Does he also enjoy long walks on the beach and puppies?”
“Wait, it gets better.” Kenzie’s eyes widened. “‘I’m looking for a mentorship dynamic built on kindness, respect, and mutual affection’.”
“Translation: I want to fuck someone young enough to be my son while pretending I’m teaching them about wine.”
Kenzie cackled. “But he wants an ‘open heart,’ Jayden! How can you mock such sincerity?”
“My heart’s so open you can see right through the fucking hole.” I grabbed the laptop, scrolling to another profile. If I was even considering this, I needed to take some control, otherwise Kenzie would be pimping me out to anyone and everyone.
“Oh my God, this dude calls himself ‘Globetrotter77’.”
“Read it!” Kenzie demanded, leaning into my shoulder.
“‘Spontaneous, high-energy entrepreneur with a demanding social calendar and a private jet’.” I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw my own brain. “Who the fuck just casually mentions their private jet?”
“Someone who probably doesn’t have a private jet but wants to think they do.”
“Right? And listen to this: ‘Must be impeccably dressed, socially adept, and understand the value of discretion.’ Translation: be pretty, shut up, and don’t tell my wife.”
Kenzie snatched the laptop back and scrolled for a while. I was glad they’d taken back over; as much as I wasn’t into the idea of any of this, it was the sort of thing I could doom-scroll through all day. These people couldn’t be for real, right?
“Oh my God. Here’s one. Posted by @StockBreeder.”
“That’s the worst username I’ve ever heard.”
“‘Service-Oriented Submissive Required for Position within TPE Household’,” Kenzie read in a dramatic voice. “’This is a life of devotion and absolute surrender’.”
“What the hell is TPE?”
Kenzie shrugged, and I caught the screen’s glow shifting as they opened a new tab. “Total Power Exchange.”
“So basically, a living sex doll?” I peered closer, a mixture of horror and morbid fascination washing over me as Kenzie continued.
“Household tasks will be assigned; my purebred Dobermans require daily grooming by hand. The applicant will serve as a decorative art installation when not actively useful. Previous submissives have found fulfillment as ottomans, coat racks, and champagne tables.”
“Holy shit,” I whispered. “People actually sign up for that. Voluntarily?”
“I guess some people like structure,” Kenzie shrugged. They were taking this way better than I was. Who the fuck wanted to be some rich dude’s coat rack or table? “Not everyone thrives in chaos like you.”
“I don’t thrive in chaos. Chaos thrives in me.” I got up long enough to grab a stale bagel from the counter. “But really, these people can’t be fucking serious. Who talks like this in real life?”
“Men with money.”
Well, that was the boring, deadpan way of summing it up.
Kenzie clicked through the sign-up options, pink hair falling across their face. “So, you’d be an ‘Aspirant’.” They made air quotes, snickering. “Because you’re aspiring to get that cash and find a place to live.”
“That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Says the guy with ‘Only God Can Judge Me’ tattooed on his arm.”
I flipped them off but couldn’t argue the point. “And the rich assholes? What do they call themselves? Exploiters? Predators?”
“Benefactors,” Kenzie said with mock reverence, placing a hand over their heart. “Because they’re benefitting you with their generosity and wisdom and—”
“Dick. They’d be benefitting me with dick. I’m so honored!” I wasn’t.
“And money. Don’t forget the money.” Kenzie navigated to the registration page. “That’s kind of the whole point.”
I sighed, staring at the ceiling where water stains formed abstract patterns. The L train rumbled past again, rattling the windows in their frames. “Look, this is all very entertaining, but I’m broke. I can’t afford some fancy-ass dating site.”
“That’s the beauty of it.” Kenzie grinned, tapping the screen. “Crying guy was right. Aspirant accounts are free. The Benefactors are the ones who pay.”
“Of course they are.”
“Think about it,” they continued, and it was obvious they were already typing in my email address from the way they grinned. “What do you have to lose?”
“My dignity? My self-respect? My already questionable reputation?”
“Bold of you to assume you still have any of those things.”
I shoved them, but they just laughed, fingers flying over the keyboard. “Password… how about ‘JaydenNeedsRent123’?”
“How about ‘GetFuckedKenzie69’?”
“Too many characters.” They hit enter with a flourish. “There. Now we just need to build your profile.”
My stomach knotted as the registration confirmation appeared. This was happening. I was actually considering this.
“You need good photos,” they said, scrolling through profiles. “And a bio that says, ‘I’m classy but will absolutely ruin your life for the right price’.”
“I don’t have good photos.” The last picture anyone took of me was my mugshot from when I got arrested at seventeen for trespassing and underage intoxication. Not exactly sugar-baby material.
“We’ll take some. I’ve got my camera from work.” Kenzie clicked through various listings, reading some out or flashing me photos. Most of them men in their fifties and sixties with carefully cropped photos and bios full of words like “generous” and “mutually beneficial.”
“Don’t balk,” Kenzie chastised. “You want an old one. One that can’t get it up. They just want a pretty thing on their arm to show off to their friends and make them think they’re still sexually active.”
“Gross.” I wanted to tell them to drop the matter. To stop playing around and forget about this whole silly idea, but desperation had a way of rewriting personal boundaries.
Admitting defeat, I reclaimed the laptop so I could at least control the doom scroll and whatever information Kenzie was entering.
