Baby, You’re So Sweet

*Names have been changed to protect the subject’s identity. 


Anna dyes her shoulder-length, naturally black hair a striking shade of turquoise. Her hands shake consistently, her lips rest pursed. She has thick, dark brows that frame her angular face. Anna does not spend her evenings in the ways other 18-years-olds do; Anna is a sugar baby.

When Anna turned sixteen, her parents cut her off financially.  This meant she had got accustomed early on to paying for everything on her own. Like a lot of high school seniors, Anna stayed up late, researching ways to pay for college. One night, she came across an article about women in the Ivy League stripping to pay their way through school. She thought if these girls could do it — she could, too.

Anna moved to Manhattan in August of 2015 to attend NYU. The summer before she moved to New York, she discovered Seeking Arrangement, a dating website designed to connect sugar parents with prospective sugar babies. The interface is simple: sugar daddies, mothers, and babies create profiles free of charge, and all parties can view and message one another. A sugar relationship may ensue, in which a baby is paid by a daddy or “momma” for dates, conversation, sex, or all of the above.

After researching sugar babies, Anna decided that becoming one would be easier than working at a strip club. As a sugar baby, she wouldn’t have to work long hours, and she could also have the luxury of choosing whom she worked with. So, with a bill due in November, Anna created an account on the Seeking Arrangement website.

“No one is paying for my college except me, because I work and I live as a sugar baby,” she told me at the time, “that’s how I’m paying for my college. That is all me. I could be doing it for extra cash. I’m not.”

For young women at NYU, the term “sugar baby” is used lightly, even comically. It’s relatively easy to come across female students who joke about becoming sugar babies to pay the bills. I sat in a study room at NYU for an hour-a-day for one week to see how many times students talked about sugar daddies. On Monday night, a student named Claire searched online for plane tickets she would have to buy to travel to her study-abroad location. Laughing, she said, “Imma get myself a sugar daddy! I gotta get them coins!” On Wednesday, another student talked about how she recently made an account on Seeking Arrangement to pay for an expensive textbook she needed to purchase. On Thursday, a third student asked the girl who was sitting across from her if she would like to go get something to eat. The girl replied, “I can’t spend money. I need a sugar daddy for food.” With so many people talking about sugar babying at NYU, it’s safe to say it’s become a new fad.

Anna ultimately received a generous scholarship. Her tuition is covered in full — the only bills left are for campus housing and a meal plan. However, housing and meal plans average out to about $15,000 per year at NYU. So if Anna were to take out subsidized loans, she would graduate $60,000 in debt. People like Anna feel that becoming a sugar baby is their only option. It allows for quick cash, which leaves time for internships, homework, and friends— essentially, the life of a normal college student. And sugar babying isn’t so bad… right?

Seeking Arrangement’s Instagram page features photos of the glamorized life of a sugar baby: dashing older men, loads of cash, designer shoes, handbags, and jewelry. But after taking off the rose-colored glasses and stepping into the actual life of a sugar baby, it becomes rapidly clear that most real-life sugar daddies are extremely misogynistic. The life of a sugar baby isn’t all fun and games (or in this case, Gucci and Prada).

One of Anna’s first sugar daddies was an art dealer who lived in the Meatpacking District of Manhattan. She was paid $500 for sexual relations, and was expected to stay over at his apartment from 10PM to 10AM. “He pretty much fucking treated me like the fucking maid,” Anna said, adding that he made her make the bed in the morning, but not before lint-rolling the sheets first. After they ate breakfast, he ordered her to clean the table and leave everything spotless. “I was just the fucking maid in the morning,” she said.

Anna explained that, in her experience, most sugar daddies “are just looking for ignorant girls… who don’t know any better [than] to just fuck them and go.” She says many sugar babies don’t know any better than to just have sex for pay. In Anna’s eyes, in order to be classified as a sugar baby rather than a prostitute, there should be relationship-esque qualities in the exchange. “[Sugar babies] are basically a live-in girlfriend. That is a fucking luxury service, and a lot of guys will try to cheat these girls out: sleep with them on the first date, and then give them like a hundred bucks. That’s completely wrong.”

She went on to explain some of the lessons she had to learn on her own: “You’re supposed to discuss allowance. They’re supposed to take you out to dinner in public, meet in a public place. You discuss money first, and a lot of them will not be down for that.”

Seeking Arrangement has popularized the concept that sugar daddies are debonair, successful businessmen who simply do not have time to go out looking for women. While this may be true of a select few, the reality is that the majority of sugar daddies need to pay girls to date them because they are emotionally abusive. By hiring a sugar baby, men are essentially paying off the emotional commitment that comes with healthy relationships. Wealth, the glamorization of sugar daddies, and sites like Seeking Arrangement provide wealthy men with an outlet that facilitates and validates obtaining young girlfriends — while this exchange benefits some young women, it also has the potential to be emotionally abusive. Anyone interested in becoming a sugar baby should carefully consider their decision. 

Anna says she puts on a new persona when she goes on dates with sugar daddies. She becomes the misogynistic ideal of feminine qualities older men idolize. When meeting a potential daddy, Anna wears short, tight dresses with heels; rather than the hippie style, flared jeans and cropped shirts she opts for on a day-to-day basis. She spends hours straightening the curls out of her blue hair, layering on foundation, outlining her eyes, elongating her lashes, and applying lipstick before going out on dates.

“As a sugar baby, I believe that I should be allowed to be who I am, but you can’t fucking do that. It’s a business. I’m here to make money… It does become hard,” she admits.

Getting paid for sexual acts is an intrinsic aspect of sugar babying for most people in the trade, which creates marked parallels to prostitution. But the term “sugar baby” undoubtedly softens the occupation. By softening the occupation, joking about entering the business becomes a normalized topic, and this makes it easier for people to transition into that line of work. 

If you decide to become a sugar baby, remember to stay safe. Meet in a public place, and don’t forget to tell a friend where you’re going and who you’re meeting with.


Did I Make The Right Choice?

The consequences of your choices never quite hit you the way you think they will. Especially when choosing to terminate a pregnancy.

Towards the end of my senior year of high school, I had a casual encounter with a guy who was a little older than me. One thing led to another and we ended up having sex. In the past, I have always tried my best to be safe. I was on the pill throughout my sophomore and junior years, but had to go off of it due to hormonal complications. This time, though, I wasn’t being careful.

Nearly four weeks and a missed period later, I found out I was pregnant.

I immediately broke down and had no idea what to do. Coming from a strict Catholic upbringing, abortions were very taboo, and although I did (and do) have a pro-choice stance, I never thought of it would be a decision I’d ever have to make. After my panic settled, I turned to a few close friends —my mom, and the guy I had slept with — for guidance and support. I went through a roller-coaster of emotions and discussions. Finally, the decision I made was to have abortion.

Having very limited knowledge of what exactly happens at an abortion appointment and not knowing anyone personally who had ever had one, I was going in blind and very scared. I went into my two appointments alone and cried pretty much the entire time. When it was time for the abortion — choosing the surgical option — I changed into a hospital gown and was given a combination of pills to prepare me for the procedure. They made me stay in a private waiting room with two other girls who were also there for abortions. The nurse called my name, brought me into another room, and made me lie down. At this point, I felt the medication kick in and was slightly lightheaded. The clinician then explained to me what was going to happen before we started. The procedure itself went by really quickly, around five minutes, and then I rested and bled out for about an hour. I went back home after that and rested for the next couple of days. Physically, I recovered pretty quickly and was able to return to everyday routines only a few days after the procedure. But the real price to pay for my decision was the emotional turmoil that followed.



Before even getting an abortion, I had to find out and deal with the fact that I was pregnant when I didn’t want to be. After I saw those two lines on the home pregnancy test, I took two more just to be sure, bawling my eyes out after each read positive.

18 years-old and a few weeks away from graduating high school, I was nowhere near ready to be a mother. Although the guy I had conceived with was a good guy, there was no way a co-parenting situation was going to work out between us. I was in flat out shock that I was pregnant, not because I didn’t know what I did was wrong (I’d had unprotected sex), but because I never thought my carelessness would catch up with me. I thought, how bad could it be? It was just one time. I wanted to believe that my pregnancy wasn’t real. This attitude carried over into getting the abortion, as well. I just tried my best to act like nothing had happened and not acknowledge all the feelings I was sweeping under the rug. And it worked at the beginning. What I didn’t realize was that I was bottling up my emotions — and they eventually caught up with me, too.

This is when I started getting the worst flashbacks. They felt like a consequence… as if because I was ignoring the situation, I had to be reminded of it by living through everything over and over again.



Having a pro-choice view on abortion, I understood that the embryo I was carrying was not a full-grown baby. When finding out I was pregnant, however, there was no way to stop the what ifs and and maternal instincts from taking over. I knew deep inside that I wanted to keep the child. At one point, I even thought of names and how I was going to raise him or her. You could even say I was slightly excited to be a mother. I knew being a single mom was going to be tough, but at the end of the day, the child was going to be a blessing. Yet the hardships I would have to face were too much to handle, and I was not ready to raise a child.

When it was time to make the final decision, despite electing for a termination, I still hadn’t quite let go of the maternal attachment and all the optimism I had for raising my baby. It was going to be my child. After the abortion, I couldn’t help but feel like I had lost something or someone so dear to me.

I struggled with validating my feelings of grief because, in truth, I had chosen the outcome. I still have recurring thoughts of how I could’ve chosen differently. But I’m slowly starting to go through the process of mourning the loss of my baby and asking for his or her forgiveness.



If I’m being completely honest, I haven’t quite reached the point where I can say that I’ve found peace through all of this. What I have learned so far is that the journey to recovering from this emotionally has a lot to do with acceptance, growth, and rebuilding myself. Accepting that I was careless and let the heat of the moment slip was the first step. I can never change that, but what I can change is how I will handle and prioritize my reproductive health in the future.

When it comes to accepting my pregnancy and ultimately my decision to terminate, the process of healing has less to do with the situation itself than it does with finding the will to forgive myself. I had begun to see myself only in the light of my mistakes, and this made me realize the effect the situation had/has on my mental health. I am not my mistakes. And although our choices make us who we are, I can’t define who I am based upon the shame, guilt, and turmoil I have placed upon myself.



This is a point I can’t stress enough. It’s super important to have a loving support system when going through tough times. For some people, they see an abortion as one of the best decisions they’ve made in their lives and have no trouble with it afterwards. As this clearly wasn’t the case for me, I needed the help of people close to me. That said, I wasn’t so keen on reaching out to loved ones. I felt the weight of my situation, and didn’t want to pass it on to others. It also didn’t help that the fear of being judged or shamed was something always running through the back of my mind. Ultimately, I knew this wasn’t something I could go through alone, as the guilt and internal conflict were starting to eat me up.

I began by reaching out to anonymous support groups online where I could join forums with other women who shared their own abortion experiences and how they got through it. I was able to receive really helpful advice and relieve myself of the shame surrounding what I had gone through. I will probably never meet these women in person, but I have no idea what I would’ve done if I had never come across them. When I became comfortable with talking about it, I started reaching out to a few close friends. These were probably the first moments when I felt that things were going to be truly okay. I am so blessed to have the close friends I have, and they reinforced the love needed to get through this.


Life after an abortion

Everyone tells you that part of being an adult is making tough decisions, but I never quite understood the magnitude of what that meant until I was faced with the consequences of one of the toughest personal experiences I’ve ever gone through. At the tender age of 18, the experience did mark a very significant point in my life. It’s easy to think of it as just a decision about my future based on my present circumstances, but it’s hard to ignore the realities of how this impacted everything I see and do from here on out.

Will I be able to be intimate again without the mind-crippling anxiety? How will this affect me in the future when I’m ready to have children? I still struggle with unanswered questions. Yes, I will heal. Yes, I will cry about it again. Yes, I will learn. Yes, I will continue to go over this time in my life again and again and again.

And I still worry that I will never be able to say I’m truly “okay,” but I hope I’m wrong about that one. Through the time and space I am giving myself to find peace, I know deep in my heart that I’m doing my best to get through this.

Even after everything that has happened, I still believe in a woman’s right to choose. Although deciding to get an abortion was and is a very conflicting experience for me — and I’m sometimes visited by feelings of regret — I understand that every woman’s experience and circumstances vary; there is no one-situation-fits-all when going through with an abortion. Every woman’s story is different and each woman should have the right to choose what happens to her body and her life. I hope to one day draw enough strength from my own experience to help other women go through what I am going through.


*  *  *

Click here to read a previously published personal account of what happens at an apportion appointment. 

If you are considering getting an abortion and want free, unbiased information, you can call the NAF Hotline at 1-800-772-9100 — representatives are available to speak with you during the week from 7AM-11PM, and on weekends from 9AM-5PM.

If you’ve already gotten an abortion and are seeking emotional support after-the-fact, you can call Option Line’s hotline at 1-800-712-4357, or live chat with a representative on their website here

Stop Calling People “Exotic”



Some have said I “look more Asian” while others have noted that I “look pretty white.” I look like both and I am both! My mother is Chinese, my father mostly German; and I’ve received my fair share of reactions to that my whole life.

As the phenomenon of Eurasian children is relatively new — or at least mixes with Chinese genes are, since my country only globalized in the 70s — culturally insensitive remarks don’t always get to me. While more often than not, these remarks are well-intentioned; we should be aware of how we treat people’s identities. I’m sure that future generations will habituate and react properly to mixed cultures, as they’re becoming increasingly mainstream, but for me today, this is still an issue. 

I moved back to Europe from Asia a couple of months ago and have since become all too familiar with “yellow fever,” or the fetishizing of Asians. White people have also been throwing an interesting term at me a lot more often: exotic. It provokes a little churn in my stomach and feels different than being called “interesting” or “beautiful,” though that is generally what is meant or implied.

In the dictionary “exotic” is either a noun that points to “a plant or animal,” or an adjective that signifies “attractive or striking because colorful or out of the ordinary.” Let’s set this straight from the get-go: the only way in which I fit this definition is that I am an uncommon embodiment of two particular cultures, and as a result, have an unconventional and interesting set of physical features. Being biracial may be “out of the ordinary,” but not in the way some white people interpret it. 

For them, it seems that I am “out of the ordinary” simply because I’m not entirely white. Which suggests that whiteness is the default race and defines what’s “normal.” To them, what makes me “exotic” isn’t the fact that I’m biracial, but the fact that I’m something other than Caucasian. Being held to a Western standard makes me feel like a perpetual foreigner.

As this is my first time dating outside of Asia, I’ve had to ask myself quite a few times whether someone was interested in me for the anticipated “exoticism,” or for me in my entirety. Am I “exotic” because I have an awesome heritage and an interesting phenotype? Or are you simply looking at me like a fetishizing colonialist who’s going to swaddle me back to his homeland and show me off like a parrot? No, really — seeing a white guy grin and exclaim, “Fuck yeah!” when he found out about my origins made me shudder.

Preference of certain physical aspects over others is completely normal, but having a thing for blondes is a different matter than othering entire ethnic groups. There are colonialist elements deeply rooted in history that make “exotic” coming out of a white male’s mouth sound a wee-bit sketchy, to say the least.

The word “exotic” itself was used by colonists to describe new territory, animals, and plants. They hyper-sexualized and exploited indigenous Asians’ (among other ethnic groups) “exotic-ness” in human zoos,  in which audiences were made up of white men and women. The word is historically charged, but most people aren’t aware of that and use it with innocuous intent.

I remember being called “exotic” by my Latino and Black friends in the past, but honestly didn’t think twice about it. I didn’t feel linked to any kind of stereotype or alienation, and I knew the word was being used as a way to describe my mixed background. From their mouths, it took on a different connotation; one that embraced both my unique features and my awesome culture.

This doesn’t change the fact that the word has a problematic past that makes using it today uncomfortable for everyone involved. Context does affect how the word makes myself and others feel, and we should be more mindful of how we regard others’ identities. 

RoleModel: Julia Fox

*RoleModel is an interview series highlighting badass individuals.


To be honest, I was always a little intimidated by Julia Fox.

Smart, beautiful, and talented, when I first moved to New York it seemed everyone knew who she was. She was the downtown It Girl. But Julia’s contributions to nightlife are the least fascinating thing about her.

Whether she was launching a fashion line or premiering a deeply intimate photography exhibit — she displayed a knack for spinning personal struggle into unforgettable art. She doesn’t shy away from her demons, and in a city that often deals in artifice, it’s refreshing to meet someone who’s the real deal.

I caught up with a 27-year-old artist and talked sex, toxic relationships, healing, and living on your own terms.



How do you sexually identify, if you’re open to sharing that?

Julia: I don’t know. I’m never really attracted to anyone by the way they look. You’ll never hear me be like, “Wow, I wanna hook up with that guy. He’s so hot.” I guess [I’m] sapiosexual — just attracted to someone’s mind. 


I don’t think you have to label yourself. When I label myself I feel like I’m succumbing to someone else’s idea of who I should be. I’m attracted to who I’m attracted to. If you don’t get it… it’s not your life.

Yeah, to be completely honest I’m attracted to pieces of shit. Like that’s my thing. Love ’em! The more disturbed or just like a bad guy, I’m like, “Ugh, it’s gonna be so fun.” Wild roller-coaster ride of hell.


Where are you from?

I’m from here [New York City] — well actually, I was born in Italy. My mom is Italian, but I grew up here with my dad. I think that’s something that we have in common. You also grew up just with your dad, I can tell.

I don’t take shit, I’m very comfortable around men, and I also know how to fight back. When you’re in a house full of crazy men, you have to learn to stand your ground. For the longest time I was a tomboy, and then I was like, actually, I can get way more stuff if I’m being hot and slutty.


*Eileen laughs*



What type of influence do you think growing up in New York has had on you?

The worst. But what I can say is that I’m very comfortable around all different types of people from all different walks of life. Because I am a city girl, I’m always prepared for battle.


I went on a road trip to Louisiana last spring, maybe you could describe the experience you had down there?

I’ll tell you a little bit about where I was mentally. I was coming out of this really terrible two year relationship that ended in this huge scandal [because] my boyfriend attacked me, physically. I called the cops. It became this really big thing  — it was on Page Six, and everyone was taking sides. People didn’t believe me. People were like, “Julia’s just crazy.” Why the fuck would I make up something so humiliating? I was so mad. 

Then I put out my first book: Symptomatic of a Relationship Gone Sour and I actually published photos of the abuse that was inflicted upon me. You don’t believe me? Well, here’s some photos. Then it blew up and went viral, and I couldn’t handle it and I had this breakdown/breakthrough. I was like, I’m leaving.

So I bought a car, went and picked up my friend from upstate who I knew would be down, [and] we just left. We didn’t know we were gonna end up in Louisiana. Eventually, we ended up there. I stayed with some friends. I didn’t think that I was ever gonna come back to New York. I went to Walmart and applied for a job. I was literally like, I’m gonna live here and just be this.

Three months in, [a friend] was on my private Instagram, seeing all these people I was meeting, all the things I was doing, and he thought it was so fascinating. So for Christmas, he gave me a camera. He was like, “Julia, I really want to curate a show when you get back.” And I was like, “What do you mean ‘when I get back?'” But, obviously I came back. After six months of being [in Louisiana], the walls started to close in. We were getting in trouble and the town was like, “Who are you people, why are you here?” So we had to go.

I came back to New York, which was really difficult, [because] at that point I had excommunicated almost everyone. I came back and was like: who are even my friends. What did I use to do? Who was I?

I realized that I was not [the same] person. I wasn’t materialistic anymore. The thought of carrying around a twenty-thousand-dollar bag was completely unfathomable. I became more humble because I had pretty much lost everything.

It took a really long time to recover from all of that trauma. That’s why [I had a photography] show called PTSD. Not only did I lose the love of my life, but I did it in such a public manner that I never had time to mourn. 


And with the added stress of people not believing you and [the case] becoming a public spectacle.

Yeah [it was] like the People’s Court. I had people that I used to hang out with everyday be like, “Come on, Jules, you’re breaking up the friend group.” I was like, are you fucking kidding me?


I feel like a lot of your artwork or photos I’ve seen center on your personal life. Does intimacy or a lack of intimacy inspire you?

I don’t know. I guess at that time, love and codependency was such a drug. I would just get high off it and it was so unhealthy. Now, I steer clear and I don’t want any type of romantic relationship with anybody. But back then, I needed it like a drug. I think that that’s why all those images are so dark.


It was a part of you that you couldn’t even control?

Yeah and it was purging, I had to let it all out. Years and years and years of crazy relationships.

Even in my first book, it wasn’t just about what happened at Happy Ending with [my ex]. It was also about stuff that happened ten years prior, with my first real boyfriend who was also abusive. I was a runaway, and then I was a kidnap victim because he wouldn’t let me go home. It was so crazy. If he hadn’t gone to prison, I don’t know what would have happened. Then he terrorized me from jail; had people follow me in cars, threaten my family — it was just so bad. I remember having a breakdown and going to the mental hospital, and after two weeks they were like, “You can go now,” and I was like, “No, please. I don’t want to go. I want to stay here.” And they were like, “Well, your insurance ran out.” 

I [have] never really talked about these things.


It seems like you’re in a better place now. Do you have any advice for other people who find themselves in either codependent or even physically/emotionally abusive relationships?

Stop being afraid. It’s your fear that’s holding you. All your obstacles begin and end in your head. Take the plunge. Leave. It won’t be as hard as you think it is, but you have to really want it. You can’t kinda want it.


And there is something so addictive about that discomfort.

And the adrenaline when you’re fighting, or even the making-up ritual afterwards. It’s just such a vicious cycle. Don’t let your fear hold you back — that shit’s not cool.



You recently got your Instagram deleted. Do you have any thoughts on social media censorship, especially when it comes to women’s bodies?

I think it’s such a joke. Oh you’re afraid of kids seeing [women’s bodies]? If your kids are seeing it they already have an iPhone and could easily Google porn already. It just seems really outdated and an antiquated way of thinking. [Instagram] needs to be a little more progressive.


Have you had any experience with sex work?

Mhm! I was a dominatrix in high school because I didn’t live at home [or] have a way of making money. Come on, I wasn’t gonna be a waitress.


How did you get into it?

In 7th grade, I used to basically live at my friend’s house, and her sister was a dominatrix. She was so cool. [My friend] was the only one who had a full length mirror in her room and I was just sitting on the floor [when] she walked in wearing these black fishnets and patent leather platform, open-toed shoes, and this really amazing corset situation. I just remember looking up at her like, wow. She was a dominatrix, and I was like, if she could do it, I bet I could do it.

Later on, at seventeen I had heard about another girl who was doing [dominatrix work] and making so much money. I was like, I’m just going to go on Craigslist see if there’s a job. I met this guy who owned a dungeon [the next day] and he was like, “You’re hired.” And the rest is history.


Did you ever feel nervous about your safety?

It’s legal in New York, so it was controlled. There was a legit establishment. I did have out-calls [out of dungeon appointments] but it was always with regulars that I had seen before. No, I never did [feel nervous].


What did you do on a normal day? Obviously it’s a lot of verbal…

Yeah a lot of verbal degradation, which I always thought was so corny. Like, “Yeah, you fucking pig!” It was just so corny. Some guys wanted to get their balls stepped on with stiletto heels — 


Shut up!

I’ve made men’s balls bleed. Like literally. These men would want to get pinned up to the wall by their neck and get kneed repeatedly in their balls. I loved those sessions.

Then I had guys who wanted to be paddled with a wooden paddle as hard as I could go, to the point where this one guy, every time I would hit [him], blood would squirt out. I was getting butt blood on me; it was so lit. He’d be taunting me like, “That’s all you’ve got?” I was like, this motherfucker.

By the end, my arm was sore for two days. It was the craziest workout of my life.


Do you think doing that at such a young age shifted your perception of men?

Yes. Entirely. I feel like maybe that’s why I’m so uninterested [in romance]. Because I feel when you start looking at men more [from the perspective of] what can I get out of you — they’re no longer humans with feelings. I’ve learned now that love isn’t enough. Love is great but it’s not gonna hold together a home.


What would you tell someone who says because you’re a dom, you didn’t respect yourself? People who slut shame you?

My profile went up on this website and I remember I showed my friend, and [then] within a week everyone in the city knew. Everyone saw it, everyone talked about it. I never felt… I don’t know. I feel like being a waitress and being disrespected by one of your customers and then [getting] a shitty tip — that would be not respecting yourself. I’m just not a sub.


You’re taking your life in your hands and doing what you wanna be doing.

Exactly, and I never did anything I was uncomfortable with.


How did you set up boundaries?

They’re not allowed to touch me. No way. So gross. It was just what I wanted to do. That’s the beauty of being a dominatrix as opposed to being a stripper or prostitute. When you’re a stripper, you’re grinding on these guys and letting them touch your tits — it’s just a little more invasive and you’re a little more of an object. When you’re a dominatrix, you’re this goddess. You’re on a high. Like this man will literally drink my piss right now and pay me extra for it. Not saying it’s for everyone — I’m sure a lot of girls wouldn’t be able to do it, to be around those types of freaks.


Did you ever have repeat customers?

Oh, yeah. I’m still in contact with a bunch of them. Even after all this time, they’re so loyal. They really worship you and think you’re the best goddess ever. They want to be your slaves — we call them slaves — and they want to be your slave forever. They want to go grocery shopping for you, be your chauffeur.


Now for some rapid fire questions we like to ask at KAAST. Dating apps or meeting people IRL?

In real life.


Hand job or oral?

Hand job. Blow jobs are gross.


Sub or dom?

Me? Dom.


Sex on the first date or no?



What turns you on in a partner?

Being funny.


What turns you off?

Being judgmental.


How do you let someone know you like them?

I go to their first Instagram photo they ever posted —


 — and like it.


No, you do not, Julia!

Yeah I do.


Do you send nudes?



Do you have any advice on taking them?

Don’t put your face in them.


What’s the worst thing a former partner has ever said to you?

I would never have kids with you because you’re a junkie.


What’s the best thing a former partner has said to you?

That I’m the smartest, most powerful girl he’s ever met.


How do you personally deal with rejection?

I always say rejection is God’s protection, so if you’re rejecting me it’s because I’m probably too good for you. Something better is gonna come and you’re gonna feel so bad when you try to hit me up again and you’re cancelled. So it’s fine.


Have you ever been in love?

So many times.


Do you have advice for getting over heartbreak?

Fall in love with something that is just yours and doesn’t depend on anyone else. Have a project that you can put all your passion in because validating yourself through something you love to do is so much better than any validation you’ll get from someone else. But also, for a lot of my friends, having sex with someone else helps — but that didn’t work for me. What worked for me was doing a creative project.


If you could say one thing to one of your exes what would it be?

Can we get back together? To one of them. 


How important to you is sex in a relationship?

It’s very important. But I really think communication and meaningful conversations are way more important. 


Any tips for people who aren’t as confident as you?

No one cares as much as you do. Don’t live up to other people’s expectations, only live up to your own.


What’s your sign?

Aquarius. What’s your sign?



I love Leos. So loyal. Would you say that you’re loyal?


I’m so loyal, to a fault.



Photo of Julia Fox by Mike Krim. You can follow her on Instagram here.


Muscle Memory

The following content may be triggering to those affected by sexual harassment/assault. 


I quit the local play when I was fourteen, because another cast member sexually assaulted me.

Of course, at the time this wasn’t what I thought. I thought he grabbed my stomach fat and touched my breast because he had a crush on me. Because, I had been told, that’s what boys do. When I told him to stop it, he said, “But you’re smiling,” and he wasn’t technically wrong. After he had taken his hand and bounced my breast up and down, I broke into a nervous smile. I stayed nervous after rehearsal when he walked with me to the parking lot.

“Who’s the boy?” My dad asked when I got into the car.

I was also nervous a week later when this boy asked me to go to the movies with him and I answered, “Okay, but just as friends.”

“Why just friends?”

“I don’t see you that way,” I answered. 

“Think about it,” he said, before ruffling my hair and walking off.

So, I quit the play and didn’t tell anyone why. If people pressed for an answer, I gave vague excuses about having too much homework. I told him I was busy and hung up when he called me. He never called again. I had it all figured out. No one had to know.

I pushed all of this to the back of my mind after it happened. I even went to go see the play. I thought that it wasn’t assault because he didn’t jump out of the bushes and pin me against the side of a building in a dark alley. I thought that it wasn’t assault because I didn’t stop it from happening in the moment; I gave him my phone number; he asked me on a date; I laughed at a joke he told once; he said I smiled when I told him to stop.

*  *  *

A year ago, when the #MeToo movement first began to go viral, it all came flooding back to me… a hot rush of adrenaline and blood to my cheeks as I felt his hand on my breast. The anxious unease that I felt for the rest of the day afterwards. The fear that other cast members would think I was “easy” for spending any time with him at all.

For the first time, I was able to find the right words for what had happened to me. I was also able to forgive my past self for thinking she had done anything to invite this boy to touch her without her consent. But once I had forgiven myself, I boxed the memory back up and stuck it in the back of my brain.

Then Brett Kavanaugh was confirmed to the Supreme Court.

I wasn’t exactly surprised. I knew he had the votes. But I was devastated, and the memory I had carefully boxed up was once again ripped open. This time, I focused on a new detail: at the time, a friend of mine in the play told me that he had done similar things to other girls. A group of them brought it up to the director, and she said that he was “harmless” and “had a disorder where he didn’t realize he was being inappropriate.”

I can think of a few other men who may have that disorder. One of them is sitting on the Supreme Court. Another is in the Oval Office.

Women have always been expected to ignore the predatory behavior of men, and if that’s not possible, to make excuses for it. Not only that, but we’re also expected do everything we can to prevent men from being creeps in the first place.

I never get in a subway car unless there’s at least one woman there already. I never take the subway alone after midnight, which means I make sure I have cab fare. I pray that the driver (almost always a man I don’t know) will drive me straight home and not be a creep about it. I walk home with my keys between my fingers like claws, just in case I need to fight someone off. I politely smile and nod at men who acknowledge me as I walk past them, terrified that they’ll lash out if I ignore them.

It’s ingrained. I barely even think about doing these things anymore. But I’m fucking tired, and I’m so scared that putting a sexual abuser in this high-power, lifelong position will embolden even more men to assault.

Hours before Kavanaugh’s confirmation, my boyfriend and I sat outside a bakery near my apartment with coffees and pastries. A woman sat on the next bench over, wearing a New York Yankees hat. She looked to be about my age. “You’re a big Yankees fan?” A much older man passing by stopped to ask her. My ears pricked up and I watched the two out of the corner of my eye, the way I always do when I see a man approach a woman he doesn’t know. It’s muscle memory at this point.

They made small talk. She sounded a little bored but not nervous. Okay so far, I thought. He wasn’t raising his voice or saying anything nasty, but I kept listening just in case. After a few minutes, the man went on his way. The woman was looking down at her phone with a neutral expression.

I exhaled.




The following content contains explicit descriptions of assault which may be triggering to those affected by sexual harassment or violence. 


The first time I was sexually assaulted, I was 16-years-old.

I was a junior at a prestigious boarding school that I had begged my parents to let me attend. That night was the second weekend of the school year. It’s over three years ago now, but I still remember what the early fall night air smelled like as I walked home from the gym with the boy who assaulted me. I still remember the strange, bitter tang of soap in my mouth as I scrubbed my tongue in my friend’s dorm room. 

The second time I was assaulted, I was still sixteen. I still went to the same school, and this time it was a different boy who made me feel so horrible that I spent all night scrubbing my mouth out with soap until I was gagging.

When I left high school, I thought I was leaving that part of my life behind me. I was no longer going to be the girl who had a panic attack in the fluorescent-lit bathroom, digging her nails into her forearms.

I thought that I could choose to be happy, to leave my experiences with violence in the past. I started my freshman year at Dartmouth, and immediately joined a group that does work with sexual violence prevention. I met amazing women, and I felt like the work I did was making a difference. At a college with an overbearing drinking culture and a dominant Greek system, I felt my friends and I were making campus a little safer, even if we only influenced a few people.

Then, I was raped at Dartmouth.

It had happened to girls I vaguely knew, even close friends. But when it happened to me, I finally realized what it was like to feel unsafe at all hours of the day. Sure, it was helpful being around people who I knew cared about sexual violence prevention and cared about me, but no one can spend all-day-every-day being protected. Alleged rapists walked freely not just at frat houses or dimly-lit parties, but through the dining halls, libraries, dorms. They are in the places we study, sleep, and eat. Nowhere felt safe for me anymore. I was terrified and unhappy — but that was not the worst part.

The worst part was that people knew and still know that this kind of thing is happening, and they choose not to care. Not caring is easy. Being complacent is easy. Being friends with perpetrators is easy. What’s difficult is acknowledging one’s own participation in the vicious cycle of harm.

People don’t care. They show up to soccer practice, to frat meetings, to parties, but not to anything that might — God forbid — make them uncomfortable. I hope that some of you will read this (hello frat boys!) and I hope that it ruins your day, just like every single day of my life is ruined by the harm I have experienced. Unlike the rapists who so easily run away from the fact that they are rapists, I can never run away from the fact that I am a survivor of sexual violence.  

In places that are overrun with sexual violence, we need men to step up and do the work. Not because women don’t want to do it, or are tired of doing it, but because people listen to and respect men. I wish this weren’t the case, and I’ve tried to do prevention work while ignoring this fact. But the simple truth is that men listen first and foremost to other men. Their teammates, their fraternity brothers, their friends. Women can share their stories —  I can share my story — but people don’t give a shit about things unless it starts to affect men.

I believe men at Dartmouth care about preventing sexual violence insofar as it helps their own reputation, or the reputation of their fraternities. For most of these men, the issue is not life and death. They don’t spend their days on campus ducking into bathrooms to throw up because they saw a rapist, or running home at night because they’re terrified of being alone in the dark. Some men at Dartmouth will say that they’re “passionate about sexual violence prevention,” then shove your head onto their dick so hard that you’re gagging.

A friend of mine once said that he “couldn’t even get the guys to show up to paintball,” much less care about sexual violence prevention (sometimes frat brothers play paintball together for some fun, non-hazing bonding). Somehow, rape and paintball have become analogous in our world — something the guys might have the time to worry about, but probably not.  

I organized a march against sexual violence over the summer with my best friend who is involved in the same prevention organization as me. We took turns screaming from a megaphone, holding our signs above our heads as people joined in the march. For about an hour during that August night, it felt as though other people maybe gave a shit about the innumerable women who were (and are) violently raped at Dartmouth. But the next day? Not so much.

My friend’s rapist had the audacity to show up to our march. He stood with his fraternity brothers, yelling that “rapists are not welcome here” while our march snaked down fraternity row and across campus. He left the march after a short while, probably to go get shitfaced with his brothers and rape someone else.

The boy I had been sleeping with all summer did not show up to the march. When he saw me a few days later, he said that he was at a party, getting fucked up. “You would have hated it,” he told me. “Thanks for coming to the march,” I replied sarcastically. He slipped on his ray bans and changed the subject, because he didn’t have to care.

So, as one frat brother once asked me, “what are some implementable night-to-night solutions?” Well, show up to paintball. Start thinking about sexual violence — no, caring about sexual violence. And not just because some guy who isn’t your frat brother assaulted your friend’s girlfriend or your little sister. Care because sexual violence ruins the lives of women on Dartmouth’s campus and around the world. Care because you are all complicit —  no, culpable — in the cycle of violence that rules my life, and the lives of countless other strong, amazing women.


Gonorrhea 101

Gonorrhea — also referred to as “the clap” or the “drip,” is a sexually transmitted infection (STI) that can affect the genitals, rectum, or throat. 

Gonorrhea is a very common STI.



Like many other STIs, gonorrhea is often asymptomatic — meaning that there are no obvious symptoms. However, when symptoms do occur, they differ depending on the genitalia of the person.

For someone with a penis, symptoms of gonorrhea may include

  • Burning sensation when urinating
  • Yellow or green discharge
  • Painful and swollen testicles


Symptoms of anal gonorrhea include

  • Discharge
  • Itching
  • Bleeding
  • Soreness
  • Pain during bowel movements


Symptoms that may present for a woman or an individual with a vagina include…

  • Painful or burning sensation while urinating
  • Increased discharge and bleeding in between periods


Oral gonorrhea, or gonorrhea of the throat, may be accompanied by persistent itchy or sore throat and/or trouble swallowing.



Gonorrhea is transmitted through sexual fluids (semen, pre-cum, vaginal fluids), and therefore acts such as vaginal, anal, and oral sex carry a high risk of transmission. Contrary to certain myths, gonorrhea CANNOT be spread through casual contact such as sharing food/drinks, hugging, holding hands, or sitting on toilet seats.

According to the CDC, there are certain groups of people who are at a higher risk of contracting gonorrhea compared to the general population. These groups are…

  • women who under 25
  • older women with certain risk factors such as multiple sex partners or a partner with and STI
  • sexually active men who have sex with other men

The CDC recommends testing at least once a year for people within any of these groups.

Gonorrhea can also be transmitted from mother to child during childbirth. If a baby is infected from their mother during birth, they can develop blindness, sores, and infections. The Cleveland Clinic has a comprehensive guide to STIs during pregnancy, you can read it here.  



The only way to totally prevent all STIs is to practice abstinence, but there are ways to practice safe sex that lower the risk of transmission.

  • Condoms/Dental Dams

Using a condom and/or dental dam during vaginal, anal, and oral sex reduces the risk of transmission by limiting the contact with sexual fluids. Check out the CDC’s guidelines on how to use a condom and a dental dam here.

  • Regular STI Screening

If you are sexually active, it’s important to get tested regularly for any sexually transmitted diseases or infections. Screening does not necessarily prevent you from contracting a disease, but it can prevent any further transmission and empowers you to begin treatment before the disease becomes more serious. If you are in a relationship, consider discussing this with your partner.

If you have never been tested for STIs, the American Sexual Health Association has a basic description of what each test entails, which you can read here.


Diagnosis + Treatment

The only way to know whether you have gonorrhea or not is to get tested.

The most common method of diagnosis for genital gonorrhea is an urine test. For anal and oral gonorrhea, healthcare providers can use a swab to collect samples that can test for the presence of the bacteria. Because gonorrhea has similar symptoms to other STIs, your medical provider may administer a few different tests — just to be sure. Being honest and open with your healthcare provider about your sexual activity can ensure that you get the best possible care.

Because gonorrhea is a bacterial infection, treatment is fairly simple. Antibiotics are the most common form of treatment, and the strength of the strain of bacteria determines how many antibiotics will be needed and for how long. It is crucial that the antibiotics be taken as directed. Cutting treatment short can result in the bacteria returning.

If you test positive for gonorrhea, your partner(s) may want to be tested, as well, to avoid passing the infection back and forth. Planned Parenthood recommends that once you are diagnosed and begin treatment, you refrain from having sex for 7 days. If you feel scared or uncomfortable talking to your partner about STI testing, read this guide from Planned Parenthood for tips and advice.

Once you treat gonorrhea, you are not immune and can get infected again. Getting in the habit of practicing safe sex and integrating a full STI screening into your regular check-ups can help prevent the return of any sexually transmitted infections. For tips on practicing safe sex, read Planned Parenthood’s guide here.  

Though gonorrhea itself is not a serious threat to your health, leaving it untreated can lead to more serious complications. If you suspect you’ve been exposed to gonorrhea, get tested as soon as possible. 



Gonorrhea is a very common sexually transmitted infection that poses no major threat to your health — unless it’s left untreated.

The infection is often asymptomatic, so it is the responsibility of any sexually active person to make sure they are getting tested regularly to avoid any dangerous complications and further transmission. Starting an honest and open dialogue with your partner(s) and your physician about sexual health and the risks of STIs can ensure that you are living a happy and healthy life.

Have fun and play safe!



What Does It Mean To Be Alone?


I live in a city with 8.5 million people.

That’s 8.5 million faces, 8.5 million smiles, and 8.5 million hearts. Yet, I still ask myself why I feel like I’m invisible. I don’t mean invisible in that emo high school way, more like I’m a red herring. I’m going the wrong way, swimming in the wrong direction; why should I care if they notice or not? At least I’m fucking swimming.

I’m only 18, but I’ve come to recognize that one of the hardest adulthood battles is that against solitude. Of course, I have my family and friends who I couldn’t live without, but this battle regards romantic love; it’s against being alone. I’ve come to realize that our lives, more are less, are defined by the periods we spend in and out of love. Yes, life is much more than those two simple periods, but in a way, isn’t our humanity defined by the people we choose to be around and even more so by the people we choose to love?

I’ve recently entered my first out of love period. I graduated high school, moved across the country from the palm trees of South Florida to the high rises of New York. I start college in the fall, and I can count the amount of people I know here on one hand. As much as life’s new developments fascinate and scare me, I can’t help but think about how I just broke up with my first boyfriend.

As I work my way through the anxiety of a new home, new friends, and a new life — I realize I’m doing it all on my own. There are no kisses to make things better, no hand to hold, no sex. I’ve lost the individual who was the very first person that represented love to me. And I can’t even say that I lost him, because I chose to be alone. I could feel something ethereal telling me the relationship was over — and as it turns out, it was. 

I’ve been in my first out of love moment for over a month now. I’ve started writing again, which is something I’m genuinely proud of. I’m getting a tattoo, something I’m slightly terrified of. More importantly, I’m getting genuinely appreciative of being alone again. I grew up ferociously independent, so when I found my first love it felt nice having someone else to tell me things were going to be okay. I got used to that, as anybody would, and I was afraid to let that feeling go. As scared as I was after we broke up, I was ready. I was ready to get back to being who I was when I was alone: a little too loud, boy crazy, and fucking alive.

Now that I’m single it feels like I’ve made some grand return. I was off vacationing for a while, gone from my own skin and body, but now I’m back to being a little too loud, boy crazy, and fucking alive. Not to say I wasn’t those things while I was in love, but I have to admit they feel a little more true now. I don’t have to share any part of myself with someone else. I get to hold onto all of me. Maybe that’s a little selfish… but I damn well deserve it.

As I wade through my time alone I find myself thinking about the need humans feel for connection. Maybe the problem is that we’re terrified of being alone. To some extent, I get it. There’s comfort in knowing you have someone to sleep with every night, but there’s also comfort in knowing who you are when you close your eyes. We should be taught that it doesn’t matter who you attract, who wants to fuck you, or even who loves you if you aren’t able to understand and love yourself. Being alone gives you that opportunity to genuinely appreciate what makes you who you are. Having moments where you become the main reason you wake up each morning is truly precious.

By accepting periods your of aloneness, you don’t run the risk of giving yourself up to find a person to spend the rest of your life with. When you find them, you’ll already know who you are. You’ll be able to cherish those moments you had to yourself, because being in love with yourself is crucial to loving another.

We can either accept or reject the periods of our lives where we don’t have someone to be in love with. Whatever your choice, try harder to relish your being alone sometimes. As much as I love love — the time I spend out of it is the time I can truly focus on being and becoming me. There’s no distractions, no fights, no sacrifice. When we’re alone, we get to do whatever the fuck we want. 

I hope you accept your time, cultivate the love you have for yourself, and make that the best love story there ever was.




Listening To My Body

The following content may be triggering to those affected by eating disorders and/or body dysmorphic disorder.  


We’ve heard that confidence is one of the most attractive qualities in a person. Someone who doesn’t have many insecurities, someone who can approach another with a smile and conversation, and someone who walks around with their head up and shoulders back. But how do you become confident? How do you just wake up one day and decide that you’re happy with what you look like?

One of my biggest issues the past few years has been my body image.

I believe being signed to a modeling agency for roughly a year was a major contributor to the undiagnosed body dysmorphia that I may have. On top of that, having a social media account that has access to hundreds and thousands of models, artists, and “Insta baddies” has not helped. What has helped is accepting that my body was made to be cared for, nourished, and treated well. It was not created so that I could skip a meal for a smaller waist, destroy my knees while I squat to further tone my butt, and to be treated as if the only purpose my body served was to be some flawless object that supposedly grants me acceptance or perfection. To this day, I am not quite sure why I care so much. 

Only just last year did I start to make the shift into a healthier, healthy lifestyle. I was working out two years ago, but for six days a week I was doing too much cardio, straining my knees, and crunching as if the “pouch” on my stomach wasn’t supposed to be there. Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure that pouch is supposed to stretch out enough to hold a child. So it definitely serves a purpose and wasn’t created to destroy.

During that year, I devoted myself to eating beans and rice for dinner and cutting out pizza, cake, and ice cream. I found myself spiraling downward. There’s nothing satisfying about waking up in the morning to check on your body before doing anything else. Most people wake up, stretch, meditate —  instead, I was walking up to the mirror, pulling up my shirt, and checking how thin or toned I looked. I feared going out to dinner with friends, anxious about what I could order that was low carb, low sugar, low fat. Indulging in pizza, my guilty pleasure at the time, was something I’d look forward to a week in advance. I’d plan the day when I’d allow myself to have it, and then after eating two slices, I’d usually walk into my room and cry, scared this moment of “weakness” would setback my progress.

While I don’t blame social media entirely for this sick obsession with being toned, scrolling through and seeing beautiful, glowing women definitely contributed to my constant body insecurity. Even reminding myself that roughly 60 percent of these photos were Facetuned and Photoshopped did not help.

I’ve always had this extremely confusing relationship with my form.

Growing up, I despised being thin. I was teased constantly, told by boys I had crushes on that I was “too skinny to date.” As I grew up, I worked to gain weight. I hit the gym, drank protein shakes, and ate as much as I could. After a few months of that, when the weight added on, I went back to wanting to be thin. I was never satisfied with what I was seeing.

Today, I can say I’m happier with myself than I was before. I haven’t consistently hit the gym in about a month. Some may label me as a lazy college girl that can’t find time to be healthy, but to me, this is progress. My 19-year-old self would have an absolute panic attack if she missed two days of the gym, or inhaled the amount of tortilla chips that I just had. Eventually, I’m going to find myself back there and on a routine, but this time, hopefully my mindset will be healthier. I still have my days, but there is something about not obsessing over the way you look that’s relieving.

I’m happy to say that these negative thoughts are not as constant as they were before. I always told myself I needed bigger lips, a smaller nose, a bigger butt, a slimmer waist… the list goes on. Now, I look at myself and have accepted that my flaws are only flaws to me. If you let go of the voices that label parts of yourself “bad” or “ugly” — maybe you’re stop viewing them as flaws. Unfollowing the insanely “perfect” models on Instagram helped me with this. I no longer wish that I looked a different way (well, maybe sometimes), and I’m finally free from the insecurities that held me back from living as happily and fearlessly as I could.

So what can you do about this? The feeling that you don’t look good enough to wear a two-piece swimsuit, that jeans accentuate your “muffin top,” or being scared of eating something covered in cheese. Well, some of these things helped me heal: 


  • Surround yourself with people who share the same goals as you. If you know someone trying to recover from an eating disorder or someone battling body dysphoria — work together to make progress. Go out for pizza and stay with each other until the next day. Go for jogs together, talk about how happy you are with the parts of your body that you once considered flaws.


  • Stay out of relationships that hinder your progress. Being told by someone you care about that your butt is too flat, your arms too hairy, or that your crooked tooth looks funny is mentally harmful. Take a step back and think about the way life would be if you cut out this toxic criticism.


  • Stop looking in the mirror so often. It does nothing positive. Use the mirror to apply your makeup and get ready, but if you are catching yourself staring in the mirror too long, tell yourself to walk away and find a distraction: Netflix, a book, talk to a friend — don’t get on social media.


  • Wear clothes that you are comfortable in. If you’re having a bad body image day, pair an over-sized hoodie with some platform boots, wear a big t-shirt with a pair of shorts, or put on a loose sundress. Wear things that will make you feel good.


  • Last but not least, do NOT overwork yourself. Listen to your body, people! Doing so will lead us to the right decisions. This goes for everything. If something in you is saying, “I’m tired, please take a nap instead of running 5 miles” or, “I think you want dark chocolate and wine,” — please listen. Everything should be in moderation, of course.


You are not alone in whatever insecurity you are struggling with, and even the people you least expect to be going through it — are probably going through it. You are loved and so are your love handles.