“Did you . . . sleep with him?”

“I gave him a couple of blow jobs,” she said dismissively. “Well worth it.”

“Right.” But Nat’s voice was thin, revealing her ambivalence.

Ava seemed to intuit her companion’s moral quandary. “I’m not hurting anyone. I get what I want. The daddies get what they want. Even the wives . . . I’m sure half of them know and don’t care.”

They finished their beers, then meandered back to school, both sluggish and bleary from the midday alcohol. As they strolled, Ava continued proselytizing about the sugar lifestyle: the gifts, the meals, the trips . . . the mutual respect, even affection. One of her sponsors had proposed marriage. She had loved him, in a way, but not that kind of way. When they reached the school, they paused before parting.

“Like with any online dating, you have to be careful. There are salty daddies out there. There are creeps and weirdos. But it could be the answer to all your problems.” Ava turned then and moved toward her class. “Think about it,” she called breezily over her shoulder.

Nat headed to the studio, her mind replaying her friend’s confession. Ava had presented a solution to all her problems. But could Nat cross that line? Could she sell herself? The beer buzz was clouding her thoughts, convoluting her views.

Think about it, Ava had said.

Nat was quite sure she would think of nothing else.

6

The Sugar Bowl

Donnelly’s was a cramped, grimy, run-down bar, perpetually packed with a vibrant, eclectic crowd. Tips could be meager, especially when the students were out in force, but Nat related to her budget-conscious clientele. And though she was usually exhausted after school, she never resented her job. It was a respite from her grubby apartment, her condescending roommates, her art-history homework. Her colleagues were diverse, interesting, generally upbeat. And the sexual chemistry between her and Miguel always made her shifts fly by. But tonight, there would be no fun flirtation with her former lover. Miguel was pissed, his hostility rippling off him like heat.

Thursday was one of their busiest nights. Nat focused on her tables, smiling, chatting, flirting when she thought it would help. Given her current financial straits, every penny counted. At a corner back table, she served a group of middle-aged men, their thinning hair touching their open collars, their leather jackets smelling like money. She clocked their Rolex watches, their Botoxed foreheads, their unseasonal tans from sunny vacations. They would be in the music industry. Or club owners, maybe. These men would have money to tip, if she did her job right. She turned on the charm—smiling, laughing at their jokes—and felt their eyes on her ass as she walked away. Punching in her drink orders, Nat wondered: Is this so different than what Ava does? Aren’t we both monetizing our sexuality?

The service industry could be a hard and ugly place. Women put up with insults, ogles, even harassment because they needed the money. Nat knew what her postfeminist classmates would think of this acceptance, but it was easy to have principles when you didn’t have bills and rent to pay. Some women even had mouths to feed. And Nat’s feminism was less fervent, less defined. Of course, she believed in equal rights for women. She wanted the patriarchy to get fucked as much as the next girl. So how did she feel about Ava letting men use her that way? Or . . . was Ava using them? Would Nat feel empowered taking a rich man’s money in exchange for her time and attention? Or would she feel dirty, sick, ashamed?