I'm a serial dater of undatables. There are three basic types: (1) the musician (already married, to the band), (2) the funny guy (met at a bar, never leaves the bar), and (3) the foreigner (by the time he learns English, he has to go back). None of the three ever has annny money. You NEVER go on a "date." You're always "meeting them there"—walking or cabbing by yourself, paying your own cover charge, paying for your movie ticket or food or drinks, then paying for your cab ride home. This has all been fine for years, but we're in a recession, and fuck me running, I'm BROKE!

I heard about Sugardaddie.com from a friend who went to dinner with a guy who, on the very first date, brought her a full-length white-fox fur jacket. They had dinner, they talked, and then she had him drop her off at a rock show. No sex. No kissing. No second date. Both Sugardaddie.com and its skeezy little brother SugarDaddyForMe.com promise the chance to date a wildly successful sugar daddy, and both stress that they are not sites for prostitution. I signed up for three-day free trials with both. After fiftysome e-mails, certain things became crystal clear. On SugarDaddyForMe, there are definitely some married men looking for sex. Their profiles boast the biggest incomes and have zero pictures. One guy who checked me out had a profile that stated: "She will like cuddling, deep passion kissing, and long play times reaching mountain top experiences," but then went on to profess, "A pig's orgasm lasts 30 minutes, while there are lions who mate 50 times a day. I would prefer the pig." And many really, really rich dudes surprisingly don't know how to spell and/or form complete sentences: "I'm a high class casinova – Inruige me!"

After the free trial, I had 17 e-mails on "Sugardaddie.com that I couldn't read unless I signed up. I had to know: Could they spell? Were any of them musicians? I bought a $19.99 one-month membership. In my in-box: three doctors, one dentist, one lawyer, and one drugged-out-looking Italian from New Jersey (I bet he plays guitar). I exchanged e-mails with a few of them and planned a date with a 47-year-old "Executive Manager" whose profile tag read: "Simple Man Looking for Wonderful Woman to Take Care Of." He was gap-toothed and a decent writer. Then today he sent me an e-mail titled "Babe Come Home to Daddy" that read like a poem: "Baby won't you please come home/'Cause your daddy's all alone/I have tried in vain/Never no more to call your name/When you left you broke my heart/Because I never thought we'd part/Every hour in the day/You will hear me say: Baby come home." Hmm. I think I'll go meet a friend at the Comet for a coupla $1 beers and think that one over for a while.