I’ve had some—although only a few—not ideal and even a few fucked-up situations with providers since I began this hobby.
The first notable one happened...
I’ve had some—although only a few—not ideal and even a few fucked-up situations with providers since I began this hobby.
The first notable one happened back in 2019. I was visiting my soon-to-be sugar baby. She stayed in an area known for housing a lot of girls from Asia and South America. The apartment was located in a basement. One day, while we were getting into it—deep French kissing, hands wandering—the doorbell suddenly rang upstairs. We both froze when we heard someone shout, “Copenhagen police!”. The basement was very sound, so we could hear everything upstairs.
Chills ran down my spine, and hers even more so. I knew I wasn’t doing anything wrong, since it’s perfectly legal for gentlemen to visit providers in Denmark. But that didn’t stop the adrenaline rush. I’ve never seen a girl go from playful to pure panic so fast. In broken English—which, honestly, sounded adorable in that moment—she whispered, “We go bathroom. Hide.”
So that’s what we did. We tiptoed to the bathroom, locked ourselves in, and waited. Fifteen agonizing minutes passed. Eventually, the police left. Nothing happened... that day. But five days later, they came back—and this time, they arrested her along with three other girls who were working from the same location. Not a great ending.
Now, onto an actual fucked-up situation.
The absolute most fucked-up situation I’ve ever found myself in happened in 2022. I’d arranged to meet a girl from Romania. The location was in a rough, industrial part of town—two huge apartment complexes that probably housed half the city. Not unfamiliar territory for me. The deal was too good to pass up: $160 for a full hour, everything raw. BBFS. Ridiculous, I know—but curiosity got the better of me.
After some effort, I found the right building and made my way up. I got buzzed in—not by the girl, but by another woman wearing a headset who seemed to be the organizer. She welcomed me, offered me a Coca-Cola, and told me to wait because “Leila still has customer.” I didn’t say anything, but in my head I thought, “Isn’t that just convenient…”
Twenty minutes later, the organizer came back out and said, “She’s ready—room number 5.” I got up and headed in, expecting a warm welcome. What I saw inside stopped me cold.
The girl was stunning—but absolutely coked out of her mind. Her pupils were huge, her jaw tight, her energy manic. I’ve seen that look before. As someone who have bought coke for a friend before, I know how people on it looks when on it. This wasn’t sexy. It was heartbreaking. It was 11 in the morning and she was clearly already deep into a high.
I felt a wave of discomfort—guilt even. Imagine needing coke just to get through your day, to meet random strangers in a setting like that. I quietly said, “I’m really sorry—I have to go, there’s a family emergency.” Before leaving, I handed her $50 out of respect.
I left quickly. Out of the room, out of the apartment, out of the building. Straight into a cab. My heart was pounding the entire ride home.
That day stayed with me.
Anyway, just two of the many things I´ve seen throughout my venture in the amazing hobby. I thought it would make up for good reading.
