What My Sugar Daddy Did to Make Me Want to Leave Him and All His Money: Part 2

Well, you cer­tainly don’t beat around the bush, do you, Kip?” I asked in a non-rhetorical fash­ion before launch­ing into a dis­cus­sion about my older lover with a total stranger—at night, in down­town Seat­tle. I should have been scared out of my wits, but instead, I sat there like an ass­hole ignor­ing Marco’s attempts to reach me, smok­ing the cig­a­rettes he hated, and talk­ing with a total stranger.

Kip, as it turned out, was a home­less man from West Vir­ginia who back­packed his way to Seat­tle car­ry­ing a bag full of his work tools. He fig­ured if he could make it to Seat­tle with his tools, he could find work and make a new life here—all he needed were the clothes on his back and his tools. It was a novel con­cept that I pon­dered for days after meet­ing Kip.

After about an hour of dis­cus­sion, Kip asked to walk me back to the hotel, out of sheer con­cern. He was wor­ried I might get mugged or hurt. I also didn’t know where the hell I was, and didn’t want to rely on Marco yet again to help me after he shred­ded every fiber of my being ear­lier that day. “He may be your sugar daddy, but honey, if he was any kind of real man, he would wise up and accept you for who you are,” Kip said to me as we walked back to the hotel. “Here we are Miss Vivian! You take care of your­self now and don’t set­tle for less than you deserve, honey.”

And here I was, stand­ing at the door of the hotel, prepar­ing to go back to Marco, but some­how won­der­ing if Kip’s back­pack­ing lifestyle had more value to it than the money, cars, or homes that Marco could offer. I stood still for too long; Marco came barg­ing out after step­ping off the ele­va­tor. He quickly hugged me and asked if I was alright, then began yelling at me in the mid­dle of the street. He was gen­uinely con­cerned, and I would have been too, but as I stood there zon­ing out while he yelled at me for ignor­ing him, all I could think about was the day. His words kept ring­ing through my mind, like me being his ”project,” and “not good enough,” and then Kip’s words, like “inde­pen­dent” and “the clothes on my back and tools in my bag.”

Marco took my hand to lead me inside the hotel and up to our room. I didn’t engage in any argu­ments with him, which frus­trated him even more. I spoke to him only when he was pleas­ant and ignore him when he was being rude or abu­sive because he was upset.

The next morn­ing, we left early for the air­port. The flight home was quiet and fast. As I stared out the win­dow from my first class seat, I won­dered if Kip was OK. What he did for me that evening was above and beyond; he showed true hum­ble kind­ness to a total stranger, even though he had noth­ing to offer or gain from it.