There’s something delicious about watching a sub’s dignity crumble under the weight of their own credit card bill. Why would I spend my own money when your very existence is designed to finance my elegance? I’ve been fantasizing about a walking wallet with terrible taste—someone I can correct, parade, and drain in broad daylight. Your face, as I swipe your card for a new pair of Margiela tabis, is almost more satisfying than the shoes themselves. Almost.

We’ll meet somewhere suitably upscale and begin our day of indulgence. You’ll follow behind, quiet and useful, as I browse boutiques, approve purchases, and select exactly what I want—when I want it. Your job is to carry everything, pay for everything, and accept my candid commentary on your style and posture. You may also be directed to try on items I’ve selected for you—not because they’ll suit you, but because I want to see you attempt to rise to my standards. Lunch will be delicious, on your card.

You’ll leave poorer, arms achier, and a touch more refined. If you’re lucky, you’ll gain a clearer sense of what pleases me—and how far you are from achieving it. I’ll leave satisfied, better dressed, and possibly amused. Maybe, if you serve exceptionally well, I’ll even let you carry my coat next time.