It Happened to Me: My Sugar Daddy’s Wife Outed Me in a Letter to My Parents

She found my parent's house and hand delivered an anonymous note to them, calling me a prostitute and blaming me for her husband's actions.

Hi, my lovelies!

What is everyone doing this long weekend? I have pretty much zero plans, which means I'll do 10 million things that are all unplanned. I usually really prefer it that way. (I'm not that excellent at commitments, as those of you aware of my relationship history can attest.) I am also taking the opportunity to not have much of an agenda this weekend because next weekend I have a HUGE life-changing thing happening that I need your help with so badly. I'm going to write about that here soon and can't wait to get your always unexpected advice and your sweet support (or not).

Today, for your reading pleasure, here's another It Happened To Me that was sent in last week (send yours to me too at jane@anotherjaneprattthing.com and they don't all have to be dramatic). See what you think. I love Kayla’s boldness and the matter of fact and shame-free way she tells her story, among other things. And I look forward to talking about the piece and your weekend plans - and anything and everything else - in the comments if you feel like it. I love you!

Jane

Me as a 21-year-old college senior in 2018, shortly after I started sugar dating. In my off time I enjoyed slutting around Eastern Connecticut casinos.

By Kayla Kibbe

My dad’s name in my phone contacts is “REAL Dad.” It’s leftover from a mostly forgotten inside joke from high school that involved me yelling, “You’re not my real dad!” at my best friend’s boyfriend like an angsty child of divorce. I don’t remember why, just that the “REAL” in my actual father’s name was to distinguish him from this not-real dad, and the caps were for emphasis. I’ve kept it that way for ten-plus years out of something I suppose started as laziness and eventually became nostalgia.

Contrary to what you may think based on the fact that I am a sex writer and have a platform called “Fatherless Behavior,” my dad and I actually have a pretty good relationship—distant yet warm, to whatever degree that’s possible.

Dad and me on his birthday. I’m guessing this was 1997.

I’ve inherited his general distaste for social interaction, so we don’t talk much outside my occasional visits home. Still, I’ve never had reason to doubt a mutual if unspoken understanding that we’re good. That maybe we both know we’re a little too alike. That maybe we both see our own worst traits reflected back at the other and love each other in spite (or because) of it.

All of which is to say that when “REAL Dad” flashed across my phone screen one sunny April afternoon in 2021, it was unusual but not alarming. I figured he had a question about my taxes, which he still did for me at that time despite the fact that I was 24 and living on my own in New York, 200 miles and three years removed from under my parents’ roof.

I picked up, expecting to hear his usual, “Heyyy Kay.” He always says it the same, dragging out the first syllable. I can tell he likes the rhyme. Only a handful of people call me Kay. It sounds best when he does it.

Instead he just said, “I don’t care. I don’t want to know.”

Never before or since has anything other than heartbreak knocked the wind out of me the way those words did. It was that same feeling you get when you realize someone’s about to break up with you and the world spins and the air gets sucked straight out of your lungs and your body goes into fight or flight because it thinks you’re supposed to do something even though there’s nothing to do.

Me on the phone with Dad getting the news. JK. This was taken a few years later by a (non-married, non-sugar daddy) lover who’s probably reading this right now.

Except this time I had no idea what was coming. Just that it would be bad.

“This came in the mail today,” he said.