I licked my lips as a drop of sweet vodka dripped from my frosted martini glass. Gingerly, I set the glass down on the golden bar and looked at my friend, pursing my lips, anticipating her next comment. “Got one,” she whispered in delight, and her eyes casually surveyed the rest of the room. This is the sweet hunt you read about in the naughty sex section of Cosmopolitan articles: lusting for sugar daddies. We sipped our £40 martinis in London’s most notorious sugar daddy hunting ground waiting to fulfill our perverted, narcissistic fantasy.