How it all ended up

Hello, my droogies.  It’s been a while.

I thought I would give you some closure on what transpired with your favorite Sugar Daddy.  When last we spoke I was cavorting with the super, ultra mega sugar baby and another chick in Orlando.  Neither worked out.

For the past year I’ve been programming and working on my property.  I’ve hired a weekly cleaner AND managed neither to have sex with or marry any of the girls who were sent over.  I lost about 30 lbs and I built a barn

Tried a personal trainer – what a waste of money.  If you’re over 50, don’t get a personal trainer.  They have no idea how to get someone over 40 from fat to muscle. I did that for a month, spent nearly $2,000 and actually gained three pounds.

As for the women – the one I called ‘new girl’ comes around from time to time.  She shows up, we fuck, she asks for money and complains that she never sees me, and I put up with her until her drama sends me off again.

It’s amazing to me how many women could have whatever man they wanted, if they’d just shut up about the drama in their lives, or at least stopped trying to make more of it.

After about four years of this, I think that’s what I’ve come away with more than anything else: the girls you’re going to meet, who call themselves Sugar Babies, are going to have a lot of drama in their lives.  If they didn’t, they’d be wives instead.  This includes the ones who are making money hand-over-fist and the so-called ‘angel sugar babies.’  Show me the most successful of them and, deep in their being, they’d love a guy who’d make their whole life about her, but can’t find it and don’t realize that the reason is that before they can get that close, she’s creamed him more baggage than a 747 could carry.

Which is sad, but there ya go.

I wouldn’t call this experiment a failure because no experiment that you learn from is a failure, and I think I needed to do this if only to prove that it couldn’t be done.  Next, I think I’m off to Costa Rica or Thailand.

Be well, my droogies.



The Train Wreck that is the American Male

Why does a 20 year old want a 50 year old like me?

OK, I have money, but I’m not a lotto winner. I’m overweight (working on it – price of programming), full head of hair (but I’m letting it grow long so I can donate it to Panteen to make wigs for cancer patients, so I look like hell). My job is stable but it involves me sitting in front of a computer most of the time, so I’m that irritating “guy who’s here but not here” that women really, REALLY hate.

So I look at my competition. Oh, my God – what have we done to America?

A boy is born in the US today and they hustle him into school as fast as they can, telling his mother that she’s not a whole woman if she doesn’t have “a job.” Like raising children isn’t a real job? My mom was an alcoholic disaster who beat me, but she was there.

In school, the boy is told that anything aggressive is bad. He’s told that when you compete, it’s “just for fun” and there really are no winners. He’s told it’s OK to play sports, but why keep score? That’s no fun! Just kick the ball. When it’s time for awards, everyone gets one so that no one feels bad.

If he steps out of this role (and every hormone in his body is telling him to) then he’s on Ritalin faster than you can punish him, which they also do. The only time it’s acceptable to single out anyone is when the growing boy steps out of this crushing role. Then he has a teacher of either sex telling him how aggression needs to be suppressed, success is a trick, no one has a chance so accept mediocrity.

Socially, he’s told that even touching a girl without permission is a crime. He’s told that he can’t look at her and that anything more than “good morning” and “you look ‘sharp'” are offensive and, of course, punishable. On TV, he sees women who are strong and smart and capable, who can beat the ass of men three times their size, and men who are dopey, weak (except as bad guys) and desperately need guidance.

In his video games and on what passes for literature for him, women are buxom, powerful and, always, correct. Even the villains.

Strong women don’t bring a man down – far from it. But the 20 year old today has been thoroughly indoctrinated in the idea that a woman’s strength CANNOT be challenged – that’s oppression by males and one of the worst things a man can do. Every time he’s tried to assert himself, he’s been told, “That’s too aggressive,” as he’s informed that his female compatriots doing the same thing are, “Empowering themselves.”

Boys being boys has become a warning, rather than a way of life.

So now he’s in his 20’s and probably hasn’t gone to college (in the US, women outnumber males in college and male attendance is at a record low). He’s doing what work he can find, which right now isn’t much after grunt labor, and there are plenty in line for that. Thanks to a lifetime of medication and being told, “No, don’t assert yourself,” he lacks the strength of character to pull himself up by his boot straps. He lives with his parents or with whoever will pay for him, he loses himself in a world of video games and other distractions, and he lets life pass him by.

Why bother doing anything else? If he goes out to meet women, God help him if he finds one. The laws are so unevenly skewed to punish him that it’s not worth the risk.

For example, by almost every law in every state, a man and a woman go to a bar, have a couple drinks, go home together and have sex.

She has MONTHS to decide that she was unfit to give consent. He is busted the moment she does. Even if the case doesn’t make, it’s on his record forever. God help him if she was under 18 using a fake ID (a felony). In that case he’s classified as a sex offender and his life is ruined.

So our young male, even if he CAN date, had better be willing to ask for ID or take his chances. No wonder there’s been in upsurge in ‘cougars,’ older women who like younger men. At least the male is safe! It also plays in to this whole subservient role he’s been thrust into. In fact, it probably makes perfect sense to him that she’s the provider, director and pursuer.

So here’s the young woman in her 20’s, and she’s been so ‘acknowledged for her strength’ that she’s about to vomit. Frankly, she’s had a hard week where she makes barely more than her counterpart does (but has college to pay off) and and she doesn’t WANT to decide where to eat, what to eat, what to see, where to go after, how far they’re going, when and how it should feel. She wants a MALE, and she just can’t find one.

Even military guys are letting her down because THAT’s become a joke. Boot camp is now ‘camp,’ because boots hurt their feet. They’re indoors for the entire experience, they can call a time out if it’s too stressful, they can call for an administrative review of what’s going on at ANY time, and they go home on weekends. They can leave the service in 60 days if it’s “not for them.”

I served for 7 years and I can tell you, with that preparation, they’re coming home from our next war in body bags.

So she finds me. I’d say more than half of the girls I talk to don’t just want a tough guy, they’re so wound up they want a rough guy. “Spank me!” “Tie me up!” “Punish me.” Hear it all the time. I’m the first to say, “Don’t BDSM with strangers.” There’s a million horror stories of people getting set up or ending up with more than they can handle, but in the long view it all fits. She’s so riled up, those endorphins are howling to her.

This was long, my droogies, but it’s heart felt, and I don’t expect anyone to agree with all of it, but it’s just sad who quickly the American male, who chased down goals and taught himself how to do ANYTHING and still had time for a wife and kids, is this pathetic, helpless, directionless couch mold.

Yours, as ever,


Well, the Little Treasure got married

Hello, my droogies.  Again, sorry it’s been so long.  It’s been a hellish month (probably something some of you were counting on) so sit back and relax as I bring you up to date.

First of all, the wedding: my daughter, the infamous Little Treasure, finally married the Human Tool, who is my now-son-in-law.  He’s still working as a temp some place trying to figure out how to get through an interview for a programming job, except for this week, when he’s on his honeymoon.

First of all, we learned that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree when his dad decides that his idea of a reception dinner is going to be himself, his son, my ex-wife’s husband and I at Famous Dave’s on a Sunday afternoon.  They call it a bachelor party, they aren’t drinking and, frankly, I’d have rather been cutting the lawn.

Ladies, your did is going to shell out a lot of money for you to walk down that aisle.  If you’re marrying someone who wants to cheap out on the reception dinner, your dad is not going to forget that, no matter what he says.

What gets better is when he get closer to the event, and we decide to actually HAVE a reception dinner.  Now we go to an Italian restaurant that doesn’t serve wine, he (the Human Tool’s father) decides not to show, and we all end up going dutch.

That was the day before the wedding, and the Little Treasure is going to drop off her cats so that they are here when she leaves on her honeymoon.  She’s coming over in the morning.

Oh, not the morning.  Later this morning.

Well, by lunch.

And they show up at 2pm, and I have 2 hours to get my tux for the wedding, and make it to the practice event.  When I pick it up, there’s a little kid with a tux on, saying, “I don’t like it,” and a line of people behind him checking their watches and exhaling in anger ad the poor fitter tried to make it better.

Once I’m sure I’ll be at least 10 minutes late, I just cut off the like, show my ticket for the tux I already paid for, and leave, letting them know I’ll come back tomorrow morning if it doesn’t fit.

So now it’s the morning of the unGodly event.  I think that I’ve actually increased the per-capita income of East Tennessee at this point, when what happens but: brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

What is that, you ask?  At 7am, that’s the high level alarm going off on septic tank, and my daughter is getting married at 3pm.

Not here, thank God.  But this is a serious problem that can REALLY honk up your house.  So while I’m getting ready and making plans to pick up my parents at the airport, I’m trying to find a septic guy who works on weekends.

In East Tennessee, that’s going to be some bubba who still advertises in the yellow pages.  I’m more of an Internet guy, and it’s not an easy interface.  I get some feelers out and then address the tux.

You know – the one that didn’t include black socks?

So I’m over to WalMart to get those, when I get a call from dad.  Can you pick us up and take us to lunch before the wedding?  No, 73-year-olds.  Go starve.  Well, I’ve got my socks and my tux, so I’m off.

The wedding is at 3p, I get there with the parents at 2:15pm and put on the tux for the first time.  It fits by some miracle.  I’m ready just in time for the wedding planner to find me on a freak out and tell me that the family of The Tool are drinking their own alcohol, and that’s illegal.

Fucking rednecks.

But we get through the wedding, with 10 people who RSVP’d not showing up.  And, of course, me finding out that the people whom I didn’t think drank only do so when someone else is paying for it.  I thought I’d overbought the bar and it was a break-even.

To finish the blessed event, we watched the Kentucky derby and my horse came in.  I wish I’d bet $10,000 on him, because then … no, still wouldn’t have helped me.  He was a 3/5

So I go drop the parents off at their hotel so they can get a plane home at 5:30am.  That’s my dad – an idiot.  I’m kind of surprised that he survived the Days Inn (which I don’t rent on a dare) but he did.  I go home, and I get a text message from my daughter, now Mrs Tool.

“Want to go out and drink?”

What?  You don’t drink.  Well, after seeing 1/2 of her friends get plastered on daddy’s dime, yeah, now she wants to try it.  So we bar hop until 1am.  I’ve never heard so many bar tenders say, “Maybe drinking isn’t for you!” because she thinks it all tastes like show polish.

I go home (again), sleep with Beau the Wonder Dog and three cats, and get up at 6:00am to meet the only septic guy I could find, to pump out the tank.  That bought me a week, and on Tuesday I learned that it was actually a problem with an EFI outlet that they have to use now.

Now she’s on her honey moon, five days in the Caribbean paid for by yours truly.  The family-of-the-Tool gave them about $100 for expenses. They’re back on Saturday, I’m really surprised I haven’t gotten the big call for cash.

Maybe tonight.

Take care, my droogies.  Next post will actually be about a sugar baby


Some words from the father of the bride

Hello, my droogies. This isn’t really an SD post, though I know a lot of you hope to marry some day. I thought I’d share this.

As you may know, or have guessed, or have chuckled over, the Little Treasure (IE my daughter) is getting married in a couple weeks.

Originally I was going to bring the new girl to the fiesta, before she disgraced herself. You can look back in the blogs for that. It’s going to be about 40 people, mostly friends of the Little Treasure, at a local place designed for such things as weddings, with lots of places to take pictures and park and eat and get dressed and other such things as those crazy enough to get married might do.

Yours truly is not one to spend the value of a house on a wedding ceremony. I actually used to sell to Disney World back in my sales/ really heavy drinking days, and I used to see what people would spend on a fairy tale wedding. I think for the price, you could probably cultivate some actual fairies if you had the equipment already. I spoil the Little Treasure, but that just ain’t happening.

And, as you who follow me know, when she wants something, she pretty much wants it, so not having the money for things like a honeymoon, or a cake, or a reception dinner, or shoes, isn’t going to slow her up from HAVING it, so not only did I pay for the wedding but I paid for their honeymoon, which is a 5 day cruise to the Caribbean. That, by any standards, is a pretty good honeymoon, especially considering I got them a balcony suite.

So imagine my surprise when I am informed by the Little Treasure that I am invited to the Bachelor Party, making me one of four people, the other three being the groom, his dad, and my ex-wife’s 3rd husband, “Wide Load.”

Well, there’s a hell of a party, huh? If I go I’m getting a limo because, let’s face it, a DUI is NOT the way anyone wants to start the Little Treasure’s wedded life (unless I’m sure that Wide Load is driving). The idea of the party, however, sparked me on a different question.

“LT,” I asked my daughter, via text on Facebook, “is there a reception dinner being planned?”

“I think we’re all going dutch the night before,” she informed me.

Seriously, what the fuck? I already don’t particularly like this guy, are you telling me that this friendless dimwit ALSO lacks the courage to tell his parents, “Hey, shell out $200 for your only kid to have dinner with the guy who’s spending ten large on the wedding AND the honeymoon.”?

So I told her pretty much that. She’ll talk to him. That means she’ll take him by the ear in front of his parents, the idiots.

I’m just waiting to find out that he no longer wants a reception dinner, meaning that maybe they’re no longer invited to the wedding.

Hey, it isn’t like this is going to be her last wedding.

My droogies, be you male or female, yes, it IS the father’s responsibility to spend some amount of cash on getting rid of his beloved daughter, turning her over to another man to be HIS sink hole for money. This does not mean that he is standing on an island, watching the events go by. Marrying people with no money, even if you yourself have no money, may sound romantic, and I know it worked for some friends of mine, but in fact they’re all divorced now, and the reason always is that very few people want to STAY poor, and when you’ve got money, you aren’t living life like you were when Ramen was a staple in your diet.

So if this happens to you, and you find you’re leaning this heavily on ‘daddy,’ ask yourself not, “Why does dad bite my head off now whenever I come over,” but instead, “Wow – do I REALLY want to be the person who stares wide-eyed at those prices at Big Lots?”

My love, my droogies!


The photo shoot

Well, my droogies, I’ve mentioned a few times that there’s a book I’ve worked on, off and on, which needs a female model to complete. I tried to get it done with one Sugar Babe (the Entrepreneur), and that was a disaster.

Well, I finally buckled down, paid for the photographer and the model, and got the work done myself.

Came out great! I now have all of the female pictures I need and, when I get them back from the photographer, I’ll just need to add a few males and I’m publishing it.

You won’t be able to get it through here. Sorry – really not looking to give up my identity.

What this brought me back to is my days as a model. I was in my late teens, I came VERY close to a shot at being the Marlboro man. As it was, I made a shit ton of money for what I considered to be a fun job, and the only thing that really bothered me was how many of the photographers were gay.

It was the early 80’s and clearly NOT ok to be gay yet. With 18 years behind me, no food in me and a close-quarters dressing room, it was pretty easy for a closeted male to need to ‘adjust’ me. This was right after my very lucrative ‘teaching babies to swim’ period went to crap because the pool where we were teaching got greedy, so I had the bod and the need for money, and I put up with it for half of a year before I went on to the glamorous life of ‘bartender at a biker bar.’

So when I needed to work with this model, I knew how to motivate her expressions (she had two – somewhat pissed off and “I don’t know what you want”), and to pick my mark and turn, so what could have been a really difficult shoot with a LOT of different poses only took 3 hours.

I can tell you that, 30+ years ago, for 3 hours I would have made a LOT more than her, but then I had an agent who was a piranha (a retired female model who insisted on seeing me naked and then pretty shamelessly abused me). This girl’s model was the standard over-weight cheese-eater (think Chumley on Pawn Stars), who can about do a website and who was clearly fucking her – so at least that hasn’t changed. We talked about handsy photographers, scam shoots (“We’ve decided to go in a different direction – now that you’re here, will you do this wacky stuff?”), and having to fight for pay. She didn’t ask to see the money up front so I’m reasonably sure she was lying when she said she’d been doing this for 4 years.

It was kind of interesting but I can’t say I missed it (not that I have a choice in the matter). Girl and photographer got paid. I DID notice that I immediately referred to pictures of myself as ‘him’ when I was deciding which I wanted – but that’s a habit you don’t get out of.

As for the beloved Sugar Baby- the flu that’s been going around caught her. I dodged it. So, probably a quiet week this week

Faithfully yours,


Just finished The Fovean Chronicles

Good morning, my droogies. Thought I would enter this in before the playoffs. I have a real stake in both Seattle and New England today, so we’ll see how that goes.

Because television has been SO BAD in the last year, I’ve been reading more. I like fantasy novels, but I really don’t get into this new beta male character who’s constantly apologizing for his inadequacies, or for women who weight 100 lbs soaking wet, who can kick the ass of a 300 lb weight lifter.

So, I’m more about Lucy Lawless in Spartacus than Lucy Lawless in Xena. Even then, Lucy is over 6′ tall and probably COULD kick the ass of a man about her size.

A friend of mine thought I would enjoy ‘The Fovean Chronicles’ by Robert Brady. I’d actually read a tech manual by him, way back when, so I was thinking, “OK, this is really going to suck,” but it was only 99 cents on Kindle, so what the hell?

I really, REALLY enjoyed it. Plenty of action, plenty of sub plots – another problem with the books of today is that there’s a goal, the main character sees it, he goes after it, you know he’s going to get it, he does, book over. Boring and predictable (and easy to review, which is why authors write that way). In the first book, Indomitus Est (he is untamable, essentially), a man from our world finds himself in another where there’s magic, and where there are gods plying for power, and he’s the pawn of one of them, called ‘War.’

He has a lot of hang ups, which I liked, and he makes mistakes, which I also liked. He also doesn’t actually know what he’s doing there, or what he’s supposed to do which, if you’re a reviewer, is probably really irritating. For me it was more realistic – it takes time to figure out what your life is about. By the first 1/3 of book 2, Indomitus Vivat (the untamable one lives), he’s figured it out, and he realizes not only how bad it is, but its effect on him.

Book three rolls around and all of the sudden the author has switched from a first person narrative to a free-floating third person, telling the story from the perspective of everyone BUT the main character. I almost put the book down but I pressed on, and I was glad I did because it answered a lot of questions for me. Now there’s an older man from Earth and he’s got a young girl with him who really loves him (I could completely identify with that), and they’re here trying to decide if they want to fight the main character or join him.

The fourth book, ‘Indomitus Sum,’ (I’m a little confused on the latin here, but I think it’s ‘We are the untamable one’) comes in the same format and now I’m used to it. At this point he’s throwing a lot of latin and a lot of power around. World-shaking wars are happening, people are picking and shifting sides, you don’t really know who is allied to whom and why, except that maybe it will change. In the end you’re pretty sure about how the wars will go, but the consequences on the man are harder to tell. The ending lets you know there will be more books.

I liked it. It kept me reading, it’s funny in a sort of droll way, and I felt that if I met one of the characters on the street, I’d recognize him. You can buy it on Amazon, and the website for it is here: .

Enjoy the football, my droogies!


Who told my body it turned 50?

OK, yeah, I had the big five-oh a month ago. No big party really – there were some things I wanted to do that I didn’t do.

So I carry on with my life. The Little Treasure (my daughter) is moving back out next weekend, which is a beautiful thing. About 2 weeks ago, I started to wake up with a pain in my hip, but I took Aleve and was rid of it.

In a couple days, it was Aleve twice a day.

By the weekend, the Aleve wasn’t cutting it. Went to the doctor – well, this looks like bursitis. Better give you a steroid shot in your ass.

Pain went away for about three days, and then came back just as bad. I’m looking things up and still trying to work. A lot of programming is about being motionless, so that was working against me.

Then I’m hit last Monday with the worst, most searing pain I could imagine, and I’ve been shot AND stabbed. I can’t stand, I can’t sit, I can’t move without real, unignorable, razor-blade pain in my ass, which is because I have a hemorrhoid. Oh, hurray.

For me at least, this is the most humiliating and least tolerable experience I could imagine. I go buy Preparation H (which does nothing), and it’s like every eye in the store is on me. Putting it in place also involves an act which I’m pretty much not into. I spend four days during which I’m in worse and worse pain, and of course the Little Treasure, on hearing of this, minimizes her time here, because she has better things to do than to take care of me.

Last Thursday I finally get to the doctor again, and of course every single person in the office is female. She takes a look and yeah, it’s a hemorrhoid alright. I’ll prescribe you a topical to kill the pain, but you may need surgery on this.


Even better: the dumb ass assigns me a suppository. I’m ready to throw myself out a window. I try to work with this, I try taking these ‘sits’ baths, I can BARELY program. LT shows up finally and I tell her, “Look – you’re either going help out, or pack your fucking bags,” which actually encouraged her to help out.

On Friday I just say to myself, “Look – you’ve got to drop everything and take care of yourself.” I take a long bath, put one of those dam pills in place, and go to bed early, telling the LT to make sure she feeds and walks the dogs.

In my sleep that night, the ‘rhoid bursts. I wake up not-in-pain for the first time in weeks. Took a while to figure out what happened, but I was so relieved I didn’t care. Spent the day just goofing off and actually healed. Got some work done around the place on Sunday, making the LT and her idiot boyfriend do some actual work while I watched them from the new tractor.

Now I’m sitting here with a hand cloth in the back of my underwear, and although this did nothing for the pain in my hip, I could frankly care because as Nietzsche said, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” and this made me pretty frigging strong.

Well, that’s where I’ve been, my droogies. Sorry this post is kind of a gross-out. At least there was no woman here to go through it with me