By Gerry Visco

In New York, everyone needs a sugar daddy (or mommy). Things are too damned expensive. Office drones like me, who have no Swiss bank account, need a patron for the finer things. It’s not my fault I’m poor. Instead of going to law school, I did an MFA in fiction. Writing short stories is hardly a moneymaker. I need someone to spoil me, buy me the things I can’t afford. 

Sugar daddies are no longer just older guys with young girls: It’s all flavors and combinations. For example, I’m an older woman with a younger sugar daddy. My paramour, a multi-millionaire financier, is hot and 16 years my junior. He normally dates actresses and models but seems to needs a MILF fix at the moment. “Get Brazilian Wax,” he texted me. I didn’t know what it meant but soon learned it was the latest sexy method to remove pubic hair. Great for oral sex and other adventures, the waxing keeps the pleasure zone smooth without shaving bumps. It changed Gwyneth Paltrow’s life. I like hair, but if my daddy wanted it gone, OK. Who’s to argue?

My favorite philanthropist offered to pamper me with a day of beauty. Forget about noisy cat fights at Bliss and the conveyor belt known as Elizabeth Arden. La Prairie Spa at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel on Central Park South is the most exclusive salon in town. My treatments would cost $600 before the tip.

“Arrive 15 minutes early. You’ll relax in our lounge and steam room. Experience our spa’s luxury!” the woman on the phone enthused. When I arrived, two receptionists welcomed me. “You’re scheduled for a massage, facial, salt scrub and a Brazilian Wax.” The place was posh with fleur-de-lis rugs, creamy walls, ornate furniture. “Follow me,” a blonde in a pastel uniform said, escorting me to the changing room, aglow with a black and white marble floor and stark white lockers. The service at La Prairie is down-to-earth, a pleasant contrast to the ambiance. La Prairie products and fluffy white towels were arrayed all over the counters. Silver Rain, their signature fragrance, infused the air. The attendant helped me into a Frette robe and slippers. 

“Here’s the relaxation room, where you’ll refresh yourself. Choose any CD you might wish,” the woman said soothingly. 

The room was appointed with drapes, plushy carpets, silk chaise lounges and a bar with fruit and iced tea. I couldn’t find the champagne they were rumored to serve. What a drag! The music was strictly piano lounge and bird calls—no hip-hop. A scattering of insipid coffee table books were available for inspiration.

Exiting the steam room, I ran into a Heidi Klum look-alike, a Sports Illustrated covergirl whose name was Daniela something. “Excuse me,” I said, tripping over the lithe goddess. I looked in the mirror—I needed to lose 10 pounds, maybe more. Half the clientele are hotel guests, but the spa’s a playground for celebrities. Jennifer Aniston is a regular. Her nemesis Angelina was recently seen at the La Prairie Spa in Dubai. A shame they didn’t accidentally share the steam room.

Privacy is the rule with only six treatment rooms. I saw one other customer, a blonde thirty-something plopped on the chaise like a queen. The spa opened in 2002 along with the Ritz-Carlton on the site of the old St. Moritz Hotel.

“La Prairie is dedicated to the process of graceful aging. Our aim is to help you slow down the signs of age...and keep your skin as young as possible.” Great! That’s what I needed to hold on to my own Santa Claus.

I dreaded the massage; I’ve never liked them. Masseurs manipulate your body. Jamie, a short muscular man, brought me to a darkened room. At first, I tensed up as Jamie pressed down on my body. But his firm pressure soon won me over. He released tension in muscles I didn’t even know existed, and I was disappointed when it was over. It was definitely the best massage I’d ever had and well worth the $155. Jamie led me back to the waiting area and gave me a warm hug.

I felt guilty being pampered, massaged, coddled. Shouldn’t I be home working? Would they ask me for a tip? I was broke, and I obsessed about it all afternoon. 

Pleasure would soon switch to pain—the Brazilian wax was excruciating. Remember Steve Carell in The 40-Year-Old Virgin when he gets his chest waxed? The esthetician pulls off strips of hair, Carell is in agony, he bolts, leaving hairless stripes on his hairy chest. I’m no virgin, but my experience was identical—except I stuck it out. 

Krissa, my waxing dominatrix, looked like a fair-haired wholesome angel. She laughed with glee as she tore out my pubic hair. “You’re the first woman who’s ever screamed!” she chortled. Screams, gasps, moans, I’m vocal and not easily embarrassed. The pain lasts an instant but what an instant. “I’m giving you a ‘landing strip’ down there. “You need something—who wants to look like a 12-year-old?” The landing strip is a thin line of hair—as Bette Davis once said, put on your seatbelts, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride.

A pretty girl applying hot wax on your muff is erotic, and your hair pulled out stimulates nerve endings. If that’s not S&M, I don’t know what is. Krissa applied hot sticky wax on my labia. That’s intimate. Flat on my back, my legs spread wide open, soles of the feet touching, she peered at my crotch, dabbing hot, sticky wax on me, drying, then yanking. “Raise your legs high, I’m removing the hairs between your buttocks. “Why not whip out a speculum,” I quipped.

But, no pain no gain. I liked feeling bare. Maybe I’d do it again—it was only $45. They say Brazilian Wax improves oral sex since there’s no mouthful of hair in the way. “Take an Advil or have a stiff drink next time!” Krissa said. Now she tells me!

The scariest moment was coming. “Would you like to pay now?” the receptionist asked. “Well, I can wash dishes,” I joked. What a relief when they discovered the bill—and the tip—was paid in full. The New York City sidewalks and the 6 train jolted my senses, puncturing the euphoria. Thank you, sugar daddy!