2018 was a weird year. I was 22 and just graduated college with an art degree that I still haven’t used to this day. I was planning to be the next Ryan McGinley, taking photos of handsome twinks around New York City. But I was still naive and living with my parents, working with my dad over the summer to make quick cash while I applied to photography internships around Manhattan. All unpaid.

I was flat broke, so I got my very first credit card, which funded a much-needed new mattress and a ticket to Firefly Music Festival with some of my besties. But I realized I needed more money.

I made an account on Seeking Arrangements, banking on being young and broke being enough, but to no avail. I went on Omegle with the tag “sugar daddy” so I could find someone who would let me bully them for incremental payments. That didn’t work either. I gave up on my sugar baby fantasy. 

Until I got to Firefly.

It was a hot weekend. Low 80s. No rain. I saw SZA and Kendrick and Eminem and Arctic Monkeys and MGMT. I was spending a lot of money on food inside the festival grounds. And I was horny. A little horny. Nothing crazy, but I was 22. If you’ve ever been 22, you know.

On the first night, we got back from the festival late. Past midnight. There were four of us in the tent and we were all sharing a Jackery power bank, rationing it so it would last the weekend. My friends were all asleep but I was still awake, phone charging, scrolling Grindr. Tons of profiles. Hot guys from Maine and Ohio and Michigan and Pennsylvania and even the United Kingdom flocking to me and me to them, all under 500 feet from me. Then, a message from a blank profile a little over 2,000 feet away.

“Hey,” he said. I didn’t reply. No pic, no chat.

A few minutes roll by.

“Can I give you some money? You don’t have to do anything.”

My eyes widened.

If I received a message like this now, almost 10 years later in 2026, that would be an easy ignore. Grindr is packed to the brim with bots pretending to be real people offering money, fake sugar daddy arrangements, or claiming they want to use your photos for an art project. It’s weird and these bots don't do a great job of hiding it. In 2018, this wasn’t the case. If someone was offering you money, yes, they could be a scammer, but it was less likely.

“I don’t have to do anything?” I replied.

“Nothing. Just send me your email for PayPal and I’ll give you money,” he answers.

Too good to be true. I google, “can someone hack your PayPal if you give them your email?” and got a clear answer. No, they can’t. Unless they have your password.

“Why do you want to give me money? What do you get out of this?”

“Being used financially turns me on,” he tells me.

Whatever. Sure. I told him to keep the payment light because I felt bad. I told him to send me $30. A minute later, I got a notification from PayPal, saying someone sent me $30. A first and a last name. Let’s call him S.J. (not his real initials). I look him up on Facebook and he’s real and he lives in Maryland and he’s an uncle and he works at a bank or something. He’s sort of handsome.

“Can I pay you throughout the weekend?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say. I fall asleep.

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The next morning, I didn't tell my friends. I don’t want them to think I’m going to pay for their drinks or anything. That $30 is for me. I bought Arancini Bros and Island Noodles. There’s not much cell service inside of the festival. It’s better at the campgrounds. So, the whole day, I’m practically off the grid. When I get back, I have another notification from PayPal. The guy sent me $70. So, I have $100 total. I go back on Grindr to thank him and his profile is no longer there, meaning he either deleted or blocked me. Bummer. But, now I have $70 more to spend. I’ll live.

The weekend continues. I spend his money. The weekend ends. I go back home to New Jersey, working the same job with my dad at the courthouse. It’s around two weeks later and I remember how much the money sucks, and then I remember S.J. I look back at the PayPal receipts. Full name. I find him on Instagram. I send him a message. I don’t follow him.

“Hey man, how’s it been?”

He replies immediately. He doesn’t follow me either.

“You’re telling me,” he replies.

“Speaking of, I’m wondering if you can send me more? I’m just out of college and really struggling with bills right now.” I’m trying to make him feel bad.

“Yeah, I can only send $50 right now, that ok?”

“Yeah.”

He sends me $50. I say thank you. He asks if I want to start a payment plan and I tell him yes and we agree on a number. $250/week, but he can’t start until the following week. I tell him that’s fine. I’m excited. Easy money. For f*cking nothing. No conversation. No nudes. No nothing. Just money for the sake of money.

I wait a week and receive nothing. I message him. Hey. No reply. A few days go by and I message him again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. I send him around 50 heys with no reply for the rest of the summer. 

He replies one night at 3 a.m.

“Hey.”

Sh*t. I missed it. 50 more heys. No reply ever again. I forget about him.

I get a new job. One that pays like sh*t, too, but with potential to grow. I’m saving money to move to Brooklyn the following June and I’m doing an excellent job. It’s October 2 of the same year and I get an email from PayPal. 

The email says S.J. was charging back $50 to dispute his second payment. Why? He claims I did not provide the service I was supposed to perform. I look back at his payments. The first and third were sent as gifts from family and friends. The second he sent as a payment for services rendered. Services that never existed. I was just receiving money because he wanted to give it to me.

I call PayPal. I tell the guy on the other line exactly what happened. He sounds young and polished and it makes me trust everything he has to say. But he gives me information I don't love. What I did was a sex act, technically classified as financial domination, which their terms of service did not permit. PayPal's current terms state that it does not permit "services whose purpose is to facilitate meetings for sexually oriented activities." I'd never heard of financial domination (also known as findom). I tell him I didn't do anything sexual. He knows, he says, but given the circumstances, that's what was happening. This could suspend my account entirely, but he's leaving me with a warning. They're taking the $50. And another $20 for dispute charges.

Damn. This f*cking guy. I send S.J. a strongly worded email. I curse him out. I call him a loser. I call him pathetic. I call him a thief. I just lost $70. $70 I did nothing for, but still $70. $70 I spent already. I send the email. I’m fuming.

He replies minutes later.

“That was so hot.” 

I reply. I’m still heated, but I try one last time.

“Yeah? You think so, you worthless loser? Send me $50, you filthy piece of trash.” 

Returned to sender.

I look up his Instagram. It’s gone. I look up his Facebook page. It’s gone. I type his name into Google. I find no way of contacting him at all.

I never hear from him again.

And, S.J. if you ever see this, my contact information remains the same. I could still use that $50.

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