Girl on the Net

Check out part one of this story, about the man on the internet who gets off on giving me money. This is part 2, in which I get him to bankroll something bucket list that I could never have done on my own. Note that this piece contains a decision that is morally questionable at best.

It’s been a while since I spoke to my Paypig – sometimes when you’re in a relationship you have to give less energy to your sidequest sexual hobbies. He disappears for periods of time, and it’s been a few months since I asked him for any cash. He’s still there in a few shining bubbles of my memory, and an unfinished blog draft, but we haven’t really been in touch. However, as Julie Andrews wisely notes at the start of The Sound of Music: when the Lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a window. And one of the many windows that’s opened for me since I broke up with my boyfriend is the opportunity to chat to my Paypig once more, and see what mischief he might help me make.

I’m sad on this particular day. Gutted because I tried so hard to get tickets to a bucket-list gig, but the O2 Priority website was a twat, and I missed out. A fun, bouncy gig featuring one of my all-time heroes, at a smaller venue than the stadiums he usually plays. The kind of event for which tickets sell out in a heartbeat. It’s natural that I didn’t get one, but nor did any of the eager punks in my group chat. We lament the terrible website and commiserate with each other, then later that evening I treat myself to a few vodka cokes and a bonus shot of self-pity.

Face value of these tickets was £50 – already a stretch of my miserable budget – and the current asking price on Viagogo is £204. Ouch. I despise ticket touts. They are second only to greedy landlords in my mental Heirarchy of Twats, just a few steps above ‘dog owners who hang poo bags off trees’ and ‘people who make comments about my weight’.

As I sit on the sofa being miserable, and swapping shocked-face emojis with my friends about Viagogo, I remember a game I used to play with an ex many years ago: If I Were Evil…

The game goes: if I were evil, here’s a really clever startup idea. If I were evil, here’s a way to achieve this bucket-list dream. If I didn’t care about ethics, here’s a way to make my business pay more than peanuts. We’d dream about the things we might do if we weren’t weighed down by morals, and in that moment I’m feeling rash, so fuck my own morals too. If I were evil, and I had two hundred pounds, I’d be right there on Viagogo hitting ‘buy’.

Sadly, I don’t have two hundred pounds. And I can’t justify going into debt just to see the man I’ve loved for my entire adult life play guitar and sing right up close…

But in that moment I remember what I do have: something that’s even better than two hundred pounds in cash. I have a man who might get off on giving it to me! A Paypig. One who, although we’ve not spoken in a while, has nevertheless made it clear that he’d like me to get in touch if I have any bright ideas as to how I could relieve him of his money.

The ask

As I say, I’m single now, so I don’t need to worry as much about how I frame my request. I’m not trying to keep things platonic, so my boyfriend could read our messages at any point, and not feel threatened or usurped.

(I set this rule for myself, by the way – I don’t want any of you to doubt that when I believed I loved my dude, I would never have wanted to push this pleasure to a point where it might cause him pain. I did not ‘get off’ on this in a sexual way when I was with my ex, and the closest I came was when my Paypig bankrolled treats for him. I don’t just say this so you don’t think I’m a nefarious cunt, I say this because I care about honesty: that’s how my sexuality tends to work. All the while I thought I loved my ex, for better or worse he was the star around which my sex drive would orbit)

Without my boyfriend providing this star, my drive has nothing to orbit. And that means I can take a more chaotic journey through the world, leaning in to whatever feels good at the time. And what feels good at this time is to pour another vodka and coke, then message my Paypig:

“I’ve got an idea.”

Fire emoji. Yes. He’s in and would like to hear it.

I explain what I’ve told you above, then continue (because honesty’s my jam) that I think if he bought me this ticket, the resulting joy would make for a super cool blog post. I’m not just excited by the chance to go to the gig, I’m specifically and powerfully into the idea of getting him to pay for me. Something about it feels freeing – a way to cement the fact that I’m single now, leaning into my power and revelling in the chance to look through a few windows of opportunity.

Plus, although I feel sick at the idea of giving my money to a ticket tout… this would not be my money! The woman accepting it wouldn’t be ‘me’ as I am, but ‘me’ as this character I’ve been having fun playing every now and again: a woman less obsessed with paying her way, who enjoys the idea of having a man who’ll worship me with the contents of his wallet.

Call it plausible deniability, call it a feeble excuse, call it whatever you like but… I’m feeling a little bit evil today. And good girls don’t get prizes.

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to feature on the blog,” my Paypig tells me.

“Well,” I explain, with a confidence that comes from roleplay (and also from drink), “give me £204 and you will find out.”

More fire emojis. A little uncertainty. He draws it out and tells me that’s quite a big ask.

Gulp.

He’s right, it is a big ask. It’s more money than I’ve ever requested. Still less than what I estimate he can afford, but I’ve no idea what he’s spent lately as we’ve not been in touch. My sensible self takes over, and I waver and almost back down. I’m getting ready to retreat in a way that’s sexy but non-pressured, with some feigned disappointment and a promise/threat to be back soon with a different ask… but something stops me. The way he’s messaging makes me feel like he doesn’t want me to back off completely, just press a little and see if he bends. Besides, he’s assured me that he’s more than comfortable giving a clear ‘no’ if he needs to, and the past interactions we’ve had seemed hotter to him when he got to eke them out.

This isn’t the kind of thing I’d have done before I was single. Nor would I have done it before I got to know him. But I’m learning here, and my confidence is growing, so instead of backing down I tell him:

“Yes, it’s a very big ask, and I understand if you can’t. But consider this: I REALLY want to go.”

Fire emoji.

He umms and aahs a little more, and I taunt him about how pricey this ticket is. I’m getting into it now. Not getting off necessarily, but getting into. I feel powerful in a playful way, which is how I tend to enjoy being dominant best. Not cruel or strict or controlled or stern or serious, but mischievous. Joyful. A tease.

Then he throws a spanner in the works:

“There’s a festival I was planning to go to myself… it looks like I’m not going now!”

Accompanied by more emojis that show me he finds this quite hot, but nevertheless tripping a hard limit I never knew I had: no ruining someone else’s festival-based fun.

“NOOOOOOO,” I tell him, with feeling. I ask what the festival is, and it sounds great. “Obviously I want to go to my gig but… I can’t bring myself to take that away from you. Is there anything else you could give up to make both things happen?”

His responses imply that he wants this, but still… the idea fills me with horror. Maybe I’m a bad findom here, but I can’t push any harder. ‘Do the cool thing that brings you joy’ is such a core principle of mine, I don’t want to trash it and usurp his chance to do his own cool thing. I’d imagined him taking this money out of a pot marked ‘findom kink budget’, not from something as pure as a FESTIVAL.

But those emojis… hmm. If anything, he seems more aroused by the idea of depriving himself to make my dream happen. At least, I hope so. Because the next thing I know, £204 arrives in my account. Just like that.

HOLY FUCK.

Obscenely expensive

I leap up off the sofa and run to my laptop shaking. Am I really going? Is this really happening? That does seem to be the case, as I fire up Viagogo (repressing the part of me that hates ticket touts to the very dark depths of my soul) and I message my Paypig in all-caps, effusive gratitude.

The fees are expensive, but it turns out he likes that. I make it a bit of a ‘thing.’ Establishing consent first by telling him there were fees, but not suggesting he pay them. I’ve already asked for a lot, I don’t want to push it. But he’s right there, encouraging, asking:

“How much?”

“Extortionate,” I say. Then when he urges me to tell him I elaborate: “Obscene.”

More emojis. More thirst. I’m OK with this now – he clearly consents. He is loving it.

To draw it out (and why not? He deserves a good victory lap) he tells me we should make the fee game fun. He’ll send me money in small amounts and keep going till I say it’s time to stop. He sends £20, then £50, and… did I mention how much I hate Via-fuck-themselves-gogo?… Total fees on my ticket were almost one hundred pounds.

He’s pretty turned on.

I’m feeling something as well, to be honest. Not sexy, so much, but powerful. In control. The version of me that always gets her round in, and feels terrible if men try to pay for tickets or dinner, sits quietly in a corner while I let my domme self run free. The woman who feels confident and free and hot. Who feels like she might even be worth two hundred and four pounds plus extortionate booking fees. A woman for whom windows of opportunity have recently been slamming open left, right and centre, who chose to look through one that would lead to the gig of her dreams.

Where’s the payoff?

There’s a part of me that’ll hate myself forever for what I’ve just done. I gave over £200 to the kind of monstrous cunt who’d buy tickets at face value then immediately flip them for four times the price, at the expense of genuine fans like me and my friends. This is a very out-of-character decision for me, one I can only make because I’m leaning into temporary evil. If you judge me for this, and scold me for this, even hate me for this… then I get it. And I vow to never buy from Viagogo again, regardless of whose money I am spending.

But fuck it, sometimes you’ve got to be a little bit naughty. I use tampons with plastic applicators even though I know they’re bad for the planet. I eat burgers sometimes even though I know that being vegan’s the most moral option. I buy knickers from the fast-fashion bastards at Primark instead of shelling out for M&S. I make calculated ethical decisions in my life all the time, many of which actively keep me poor: I turn down sponsorships from companies who don’t meet my ethical standards, refuse to cover this website in spam ads or crap sponsored posts. I’ve turned down deals that would give me financial relief so many times in my life that… fuck it. This time I fancied a treat. I’m human, temptation was there, and I wanted this so fucking badly.

To some of you that will seem terrible, but I suspect (and I hope) that to my Paypig it’ll seem pretty hot. After all, he’s mainly interested in buying me frivolous things. The kind of stuff I’d never buy myself. And holy shit is this something I would never buy myself – not just for the sheer amount of money it cost (which I do not have), but for the ethical dodginess of handing that cash to a tout, for the fact that it’s a huge load to blow on one SINGLE night of joy. For every reason under the sun, this counts as a ‘frivolous item’, and at every stage of this adventure I’ll be getting off – that’s right, getting off now, not just getting into – the power of the fact that I summoned the courage to ask for it.

The second the ticket confirmation came through I stood a little bit taller. Every time I think about my upcoming gig, I grin. With each and every friend I tell, I gain another drop of new-found confidence. This isn’t just hot because I’m domming a stranger, it’s hot because I grew into the role in a way that felt natural for me. What’s more, some of that growth only came once I broke up with my boyfriend, so this is also sexy because it makes me feel free.

I am giddy with joy and excitement as I get dressed at the start of the night. Donning skinny jeans and hoodie and boots and a face full of make-up. I curated a special powerful playlist to enjoy on my way there, then when I arrived I made sure to milk every drop of joy from my extortionate ticket as I possibly could: nudging my way through the crowd to get closer to the stage, finding pockets of people who would dance exuberantly beside me. Drinking pints and rocking out and singing along with my whole fucking heart.

Taking pictures to post so my Paypig could see what joy his money bought me. How close I got to my idol, and how powerful I felt…

…as I watched Billie-Joe Armstrong play punk covers at the Islington Academy.

😍