Kat’s Musings

Tag: Boston

  • From Sugar Baby to Trad. Wife:

    From Sugar Baby to Trad. Wife:

    I will say it out loud, no shame: I used to want to be a full-on Sugar Baby. Not the cheap fantasy version you see online, but the real thing—pampered, polished, and possessed by a man who could afford to keep me dripping in luxury and attention. I was never on Seeking Arrangements or any of those sites, but when I got really sick, that dream became my secret lifeline. While my body was failing me, my mind was busy painting a future where I was not disabled anymore. I imagined myself as this feminine goddess: luscious long hair cascading down my back, completely hairless and smooth everywhere that mattered, skinny, full makeup—the whole package. The kind of girl men could not look away from.

    I joined a private Facebook group full of girls who knew exactly how to weaponize their femininity. They taught me how to dress, how to move, how to speak, how to flirt with power and money. Every post, every tip, every “how to make him obsessed” thread lit a fire under me. It gave me something to fight for on the worst days. While I was stuck in a wheelchair, I was mentally rehearsing the version of me that would turn heads and drain wallets. I wanted to be noticed. I wanted to be admired. Craved. Spoiled. Chosen. Deep down, I did not feel worthy of any of it yet—but that fantasy made me believe I could be.

    And then… it actually happened.

    When we first connected on Twitter (yes, Twitter, before Elon Musk saved us with X) the sugar baby lifestyle was all that I hoped for and I absolutely was not looking for anything real. Commitment? Hard pass. Feelings? Too risky. But attention and shiny new toys? Those I could handle. So that was what I settled for. I strung him along, playing it cool, dropping hints about what I wanted without ever sounding desperate. He read between the lines perfectly.

    He knew the game from the jump. I gave him a PO Box instead of my real address at first—safety first,—and every single week, like clockwork, a new package would show up. AirPods? Delivered with a cheeky video of him on the Apple website ordering them while I was lounging in Cabo, both of us convinced our flirty Twitter phase was fizzling out. A Pretty Woman DVD (yes, an actual physical DVD, the man has taste and nostalgia). Barstool Sports gear for days because we bonded hard over the unfiltered sports talk that made us both laugh like idiots. He spoiled me rotten, and I let him. No guilt. No apologies.

    Every girl should experience sugar baby vibes at least once. There is something powerfully feminine about being pursued, pampered, and provided for while you keep your little heart in a little locked box. The hundred-dollar Venmos, the surprise drops, the thrill of knowing he is thinking about you every time he swipes his card—it is intoxicating. It is not just about the stuff. It is the power dynamic. The way it makes you feel desired, expensive, worth the chase.

    But then it got real. 

    The constant contact—the good-morning texts, the voice notes that made me smirk in public, the weekends that turned into three hour-long FaceTime coffee dates—started cracking my walls. What began as “he buys me things, I give him attention” slowly became I can’t quit him. The sugar daddy arrangement was the gateway drug, but the real addiction was him. His humor. His voice. The way he matched my chaotic energy and then some.

    Now? He still pays my bills. No more random Venmos, but the support is deeper, steadier, sexier in its reliability. He is not just a sugar daddy anymore—he is my man. My love. My favorite person on the planet.

    Yet those Baby and Daddy vibes? They never left. They evolved into something deliciously playful and immature that keeps the spark filthy and fun.

    We act like absolute children together. The kind of childish that involves wrestling over the remote (when we are physically together), ridiculous nicknames, and the kind of uncontrollable laughter that turns into happy tears and breathless squeals. I have never laughed as hard in my life as I do with him. The squeals he pulls out of me—they are embarrassing and addictive. When we first started talking, I used to slap my hand over my mouth— hiding my crooked smile from his view. We are talking full-on belly laughs that leave my abs sore and my face hurting. Pure, unfiltered joy. The man makes me happy in a way I did not know was possible. The kind of happy that makes you glow, that makes everyone side-eye you like, “Who the hell are you right now?”

    There is something profoundly hot about a relationship that can go from “Daddy’s spoiling his baby” to deep, soul-quenching love without losing the playfulness. The power exchange is still there. He provides, I tease. He leads, I challenge. He has me feeling both safe and completely unraveled.  A feeling I never expected. I thought that I would be the other woman. Or a sugar baby. Not the main event. 

    So if a man is willing to show up for you like that—financially, emotionally, playfully—do not be afraid to lean in. Sugar baby energy is not about being shallow; it is about knowing your worth and letting someone prove they can match it. And when the gifts turn into genuine love, when the “arrangement” becomes “forever,” it hits different. Deeper. Wetter. Louder.

    I went from stringing him along with a PO Box to being completely, stupidly in love with the man who still makes me feel like the most spoiled and cherished woman alive—went from a sick girl who did not feel worthy of being looked at to the woman who gets spoiled, and loved so intensely/passionately it leaves me ruined for anyone else.

    And those squeals? They are just getting started.

  • Physically.

    Physically.

    I am still buzzing from last week —just lying there, tangled up in sheets, his arm slung over me. 

    I swear, nothing feels better than finally being in the same room as him. No more FaceTime lag, no more “can you hear me?”—just his stupid grin, his real voice, the way he smells like his high end cologne collection. I melt every time he opens his arms towards me . Like, actually melt. My shoulders drop, my jaw unclenches, and suddenly the whole past —my parents criticisms, constantly feeling ignored and not understood —evaporates. 

    He does not even have to say anything. Just stands there, arms open . We did not do grand gestures. No roses, no playlists. Only sweet treats waiting for me upon arrival. Then him flopping onto the hotel bed, me curling into his side like it is the only spot that fits. His hand finds mine—always does—like it’s muscle memory. And I think, “God, this is it”. This is what I have been waiting for.

    The best part? He gets quiet too. Like he knows I need five minutes of nothing—just us breathing, the TV on mute, his thumb rubbing slow circles on my knee. I could stay like that forever. I do not care if it sounds sappy. I am happy. Not content or fine—happy. The kind that makes my chest ache a little, like it is too big for my ribs. And yeah, I miss him. But right now? I guess I just wait. 

    The waiting is terrible but necessary and I hope —temporary. When the bleed took my body away from me, I was waiting to go back to university (I thought I would physically be back on campus), but instead, my parents made me apply online and finally finish my Bachelor’s degree TEN YEARS LATER. Then came the waiting for my recovery—I realized that I wasn’t made for the indoctrination and fake “wokeness” of the “real world.”

    But when I met my man I thought that this waiting was over. He loves me as I am—so I no longer needed to rush anything or force myself into school/ work. 

    I found that in these settings, I was constantly being penalized for having the “wrong “ opinions in my essays and papers, but would immediately be rewarded and praised as soon as I brought up my disability. I did not want to use my situation as a crutch. I hate pity.  So I chose to be myself. A little right wing, conservative and definitely against any kind of diversity. And everyone hated that. Except the love of my life. 

    But when I am back home alone again—in my own little bubble—the quiet hits different—like the rooms are too big without him breathing next to me. I miss the way he rolls over and pulls me closer—I keep replaying it: his fingers tracing lazy circles on my back, the way he mumbles to me even though I’m already half-asleep. It’s stupid how much I crave that—his weight, his heat, the dumb little sounds he makes when he is dreaming. And yeah, I know it is cheesy to say out loud, but… I am happy.

     Like, stupid-happy. Not the Instagram-filter kind—just the real, messy, I-cannot-believe-this is-mine kind. I never had this before. Was I ever truly happy?  I manipulated my way into graduating with straight As and everything else I had done was always done through force or for someone else. This is mine. My life. My happiness. So here’s to him. To us. To every second I get to be physically right there, skin on skin, no screens, no distance—just him and me and this ridiculous, perfect quiet… I guess I have to go back to waiting for this feeling again. 

  • Insecurities/ Love Is In The Air.

    The insecurity began when I was just ten years old. I used to hate looking in the mirror. Not because I was ugly—just because I was not her . My cousin was three years older, but honestly? She looked like she had stepped out of a magazine before she even hit puberty. Blonde hair and a waist so tiny I could circle it with one hand, and yeah… those boobs. They showed up way too early, like nature decided to fast-forward her body while I was still wearing training bras and praying for a growth spurt. She’d walk into a room and every head turned. I’d follow behind, invisible. And I would constantly hear about it. 

    Every morning I’d wake up to her stretching like a cat, hair perfect even before breakfast, while I’d tug my pajama shirt down over my flat chest and wish I could disappear. 

    Eventually I would hear “you’re not enough” from family, friends and the universe as a whole. As if I was supposed to be grateful for second place. 

    I would cry in the shower until the water went cold. But eventually, something shifted. Not because I suddenly loved my body— but because he does. I finally found someone who taught me how to be good enough.  I realized: my cousin wasn’t perfect. She was loud, clumsy, terrible at math, and secretly terrified of being just a pretty face. We were both insecure. Hers was just louder. 

    Years after she left ,the scars remained: I had a battle with an eating disorder and I even began competing against my own mother. It was not until I fell into the depths of hell and was pulled out by the greatest man alive, that I grasped the fact that I could be good enough too.

    Now I find myself struggling to drown out the “you are not good enough” feeling again as I prepare for last solo flight to Boston this week.

    I have always loved flying first class. Not because of the champagne or the extra legroom—though yeah, those help—but because it is the one place where no one needs anything from me. No texts, no calls, no small talk. Just me, an aisle seat, and five hours of quiet. I can finally exhale. 

    This trip will be different. Like it is final. Like I am closing a chapter mid-flight. For years,  I have  been doing this dance: Boston one weekend, home the next. He’d send the ticket, I’d pack, we’d laugh and spend time together and pretend the miles didn’t matter. First class made it bearable—luxury as a bandage. 

    But bandages don’t heal distance. They just keep the wound from bleeding on the carpet. 

    This is my last solo trip. Next time I land in Boston, I’ll be stepping off with him—or not at all. I love the flight. I love the quiet. But I don’t love the back-and-forth. I’m done commuting. As I introduced myself as the obedient good girl, he had never pictured me saying no. And honestly? That felt better than the seat upgrade. It might have made me cry in the shower again. But I am not giving up on us and I am not going to hit rock bottom again. I’m just giving up on pretending this works. Love shouldn’t feel like a layover. 

    This is goodbye to the solo aisle, the complimentary mimosa, the little blanket they fold into a square. And hello to whatever comes next. Maybe it will be messy, but I know that I cannot be ruined like before. At least it won’t be 30,000 feet apart. I think I’ll miss the quiet. But I won’t miss the goodbye.

    The goodbye is the worst. We spend time together at the airport— having drinks, getting food and maybe he even buys me some memorabilia. But then at the gate, I rehearse it in my head—keep it cool, keep it short trying not to get too clingy. But then my throat does that stupid thing where it knots up and suddenly I am choking on “see you later” like it’s a confession— something that I am ashamed of . Worst part? He always knows. He hears the crack in my voice, the way my eyes flick away from his. And we both pretend it’s fine, because saying “I don’t want you to go” feels too real, too needy. 

    But honestly? I just say it. I have hidden for far too long. Maybe I should have just told my cousin to stop calling me “Miss Piggy” and actually stood up for myself instead of letting my insecurities morph into a brain tumor that would eventually steal half my body. 

    I guess the real glow-up isn’t boobs or blonde hair. It’s deciding you don’t need to be anyone else to be enough.  He shows me that I am good enough so I will let it hurt. Goodbye tastes like metal anyway—might as well make it honest.

    Well I am done hurting. Maybe this is the way

  • Saved by Boston Sports.

    Saved by Boston Sports.

    Back around 2015, one of my girlfriends had me watch every Seahawks game on television (it was local) so that I could get into the game of football. I got into it, because I needed a distraction, but I wanted to find a team that was a little bit more classy, and still had some personality (I wanted to be able to drink champagne and eat caviar while watching!). I was watching the game—then bam, the Patriots popped up. 

    They popped up because I eventually went to see a Functional Neurologist in Windsor, Canada. Hockey players would often see him after suffering from a concussion and I really enjoyed seeing him and being with him (I might have had a teeny crush…. It happens with patients and their doctors sometimes). But this neurologist also made football feel… scientific. Like, watching a touchdown wasn’t just pretty—it was physics in real time. I got hooked. 

    Tom Brady was suspended at first, but I absolutely loved watching the backup quarterback throw zingers to Gronkowski and the good looking receivers on the team (what can I say?  I am just a girl who enjoys the good eye candy). I felt saved… a distraction to forget about my current situation. Finally. 

    By the time Brady came back, I was hooked. I had been a drowning. Not in water—just everything else—nights spent staring at the ceiling wondering if tomorrow was worth it. Then Sunday rolled around, and I flipped on the TV. Pats versus whoever—didn’t matter. Brady dropped back, Gronk hauled in a bomb, and for three hours I forgot how broken I felt. It wasn’t just the wins. It was the rhythm: the crowd roaring like they knew me, the way Bill Belichick stared down the refs like they owed him money, the stupid little fist-pumps I’d do alone on my wheelchair (eventually I would watch the games while I leaned over the counter, but that is neither here nor there). That team—those jerseys—gave me something to root for when I couldn’t root for myself. 

    So I watched every snap, even the losses. Learned the playbook like it was therapy. When Brady left, I had just met my boyfriend and he was shocked that I cried—real tears—but then Drake Maye eventually stepped in, I realized: the Patriots weren’t just players. They were proof you can rebuild. 

    Now that I met someone who likes football almost as much as I do, I still yell at the screen when they blow a coverage. But now it’s joy, not desperation (I also taught him to watch the game without being too negative and always being positive that everything is happening for a reason). So thanks, NFL. Thanks, New England. You didn’t know it, but you carried me through the dark. If you ever need a fan who’d run through a wall for you—well, I’m already here.

    Now I’m just yelling at referees over bad calls, tracking stats on my phone, even wearing my boyfriend’s old merchandise like it’s armor. Turns out sports aren’t just noise—they’re stories, strategy, heartbreak, and weirdly, therapy. All because some guy in Windsor loved Tom Brady more than sleep.

    Today I am all-in on the whole Boston sports family. Patriots, Bruins, Celtics, Sox… no favorites, just pure hometown loyalty. It may not be my personal hometown, but I owed my savior (the New England Patriots) the loyalty. And because of this fandom…. I was able to find my new savior— my man, my one true love.