How a Sugar Baby Supported Me Through a Major Career Change

Now that many years have passed, I can look back on the biggest mistake in my career with a little less of a pit in my stomach. I won’t get into the details, but I was a prominent chef in a successful restaurant in a big city. And, after a series of stupid decisions on my end (nothing illegal, let’s just get that straight), well, I made the kind of enemies that keep you from being hired anywhere within a 300-mile radius. Thankfully, this happened before the rise of the internet, because maybe I would have been globally screwed. But as it was, I was able to call a few friends back on the West Coast, where I grew up, who hadn’t heard anything about my missteps.

Call after call, though, I was realizing that no one I had grown up with had ties to the culinary world. One said that he had a friend who was a line cook who could maybe hook me up, which was a pretty big gut punch considering that I had been working in Michelin-star restaurants. I was so desperate, I told my buddy to send me the contact info, you know, as a last resort.

Finally, I caught a break: a friend working as a PA in Hollywood knew of an actor who wanted to hire a private chef. After a bit of what felt like con-artistry and a lot of kissing up, I got the job, and was astonished to hear that I was actually going to get a (significant) pay raise from my time as a head chef.

I quickly realized, though, that working as a private chef was nothing like having my own kitchen. This rich actor family was…in my space, all the time. Sometimes I would be performing some extremely delicate and time-sensitive technique, and the kids would barge in, kicking a soccer ball and yelling at each other and being yelled at by the nanny. It was like trying to cook in an episode of Tom & Jerry.

I’ve been in some pretty chaotic kitchens, and this was next-level.

Usually, I tried to put up a boundary between me and the family, only coming out when they requested to thank me or introduce me to their dinner party. As soon as I was dismissed, I would slink back into the safety of the kitchen, where I felt most comfortable.

One night, after one of these awkward introductions, I met Shane, who had been invited as the plus-one of the most obnoxious dinner guest of the evening (he had sent back his plate three times because he thought that I had put cilantro on it; turns out, he couldn’t tell the difference between cilantro and green onion).

Shane apparently also couldn’t stand him. She snuck into the kitchen on the pretense of getting lost on her way to the bathroom just so that she could apologize for his behavior. She was professional, of course, but I could tell her apology was more a way to escape the party, herself.

I’ve never been one to beat around the bush, so I asked her straight out, “What are you doing with this guy?”

I think she could tell that I was trustworthy, so she gave me the real explanation: she was a sugar baby that Mr. Obnoxious had invited to impress his rich friends. She had committed to another hour and twenty minutes, exactly, and then she would be politely ordering herself an Uber Deluxe and going home. At this point, we had been chatting for just slightly longer than a normal trip to the bathroom, so Shane gave me her number and said goodnight.

And, as they say, the rest is history.

Shane had no desire for a traditional boyfriend, which was fine with me because I was spending most of my waking hours making protein shakes, sushi, and peanut butter jelly sandwiches with the crusts cut off for my clients. And, because I had taken a pay raise but had absolutely zero time to spend money, I was in a financial position to become a sugar daddy for Shane.

Looking back, I don’t know if I would have made that first year without Shane. She introduced me to new places around the city that I never would have ventured to on my own. And, in the process, she showed me just how much I had been struggling with the transition.

I mean, think about it: on paper, I had caught a much-needed second break. I was getting paid more, I had a steady job, and no one asked me about my questionable past. But moving from the East Coast to the West (and to Hollywood specifically) was brutal. I had no one to talk to about it because everyone seemed so dang happy and relaxed all the time. Shane was the only person who would listen to my rants about how different things were here without telling me that I was being dramatic. She, herself, was from Philly, and said that it had taken her a long time to know when people were being genuine or fake-nice.

When I told her I couldn’t find a decent Chinese restaurant, she took me to her favorite spot with the pretense of “It’s going to be 75% as good as what you’re used to, but you can complain about it to me afterwards.” Turns out, she undersold it. It was excellent.

And, honestly, the most life-changing thing that Shane did for me wasn’t helping me adapt to my new environment. It was her asking me when I was going to stop complaining about working for my rich client and actually do something about it.

“Look,” she told me, “When I see one of my friends complaining about every sugar daddy she meets, I tell her, ‘It’s time to update your resume, babe, and look for something else, because it’s not going to get better and your daddies are going to smell the stink.”

She looked me dead in the eye and said, “You, babe, have got the stink.”

She was right, I knew she was right. And what I had thought of as a steady gig was starting to turn sour. It was my fault. I wasn’t cooking my best because I was hating every minute of it. And my clients were starting to notice, and starting to interview other chefs.

In the end, I found an up-and-coming restaurant in another part of town that was willing to take me on. It was a significant pay cut and demotion from my previous titles. But I instantly felt comfortable in the kitchen and with the head chef. I knew it was the right choice.

I also knew that it would mean that I couldn’t afford Shane’s allowance anymore, which was the toughest pill to swallow. In typical Shane fashion, though, she took it in stride.

“I know potential when I see it,” she said. “You can give me a call when you’re back at the top of your game, and we can work something out. And in the meantime, I’ll be expecting the occasional reservation for me and the girls. You know, to keep tabs on you, maybe sneak into the kitchen on my way to the bathroom.”

So far, I haven’t reached the level again that would allow me to start things back up with Shane. But there’s no denying that I’m a happier version of myself because of her. And I hope that I can pay her back someday.