Gigi Cashslot’s Dubai “Business” Trip: Bubbly, Botox & Sugar Daddy

Darlings, let me tell you about my very professional business trip to Dubai — the glamorous desert playground where oil money flows faster than Jack Gamble can lose a paycheck. Officially, I went to meet a client. Unofficially, I went to meet a “business partner” I connected with on OnlyFans—no wait, sorry, I mean Instagram. It’s easy to get those two confused when your DMs are full of Rolex-wearing sugar daddies and crypto bros calling themselves “investors.”

Anyway, the plan was simple: fly in, flirt a bit, secure the bag — and by “bag,” I mean actual money for:

• Fresh hair extensions (the last set melted in a sauna),

• A full face of Botox (I’m starting to feel feelings again and that’s unacceptable),

• Lip fillers (we’re aiming for “pillow with attitude” this time),

• And maybe, just maybe, new boob implants because the current ones are starting to point in opposite directions when I lie down.

Oh, and if things went really well? A new Hermès Birkin and a Cartier watch. You know, essentials.

The Yacht of Sin and C-List Royalty in DubaiNext thing I know, I’m on a private yacht the size of Jack’s overdraft, surrounded by men named Amir, Omar, and one guy who insisted I call him “Prince Tony.” We sipped champagne like it was hydration, and I accidentally told someone I run a “boutique skincare line,” which I think means I once posted a photo of a serum on Instagram.

The evening got blurry somewhere between the fourth bottle of Dom Pérignon and someone offering me “just a little something to keep the energy up.” No idea what it was, but suddenly I was dancing in heels on teak flooring, yelling “THIS IS FOR THE BOTOX FUND” while trying not to fall overboard.

Spoiler alert: I fell.

Not into the sea, thank God, but flat on my ass on the yacht deck in full view of at least six oligarch-adjacent strangers. I vaguely remember being lifted by two sharply dressed men with suspiciously nice teeth and tucked gently onto a cream-colored leather sofa “to rest.” Very gentlemen-like, if you ignore the fact I was wearing a see-through mesh dress with no bra.

The Morning After: Dubai Bubbles, Berries & Mild Amnesia

I woke up feeling like I’d been kissed by a concrete truck. But there, beside me, was a plush breakfast tray with strawberries, croissants, and yet more champagne (because nothing cures a hangover like restarting it).

Across from me sat a portly gentleman with a golden tan, open silk shirt, and more chest hair than a bear in a heatwave. He smiled, offered me a strawberry, and purred: “You have very elegant cheekbones.”
I think he was German. Or Turkish. Or possibly a retired magician from Monaco. In any case, he had money, manners, and — most importantly — Wi-Fi, so I immediately checked my phone.

27 Missed Calls from Jack Gamble

Jack. Oh, Jack. Poor, sweet, useless Jack. I had apparently sent him eight drunk texts the night before, including:

• “BABE I THINK I’M ON A PIRATE SHIP LOL”

• “I’M GONNA BE RICH JUST U WAIT”

• “DO U THINK I SHOULD GET LIPOSUCTION ON MY KNEES?”

To his credit, Jack had replied “please don’t fall off the boat,” followed by “do we still have rent money or nah?”
To which I had responded with a champagne emoji, a dolphin, and what appears to be a selfie of me passed out between two bejeweled throw pillows.

We Don’t Have Rent Money

Look, I may have promised Jack that this trip would fund our next month’s rent and groceries. I may have even said I’d buy him a new PS5 “if negotiations go well.” But the truth is, I didn’t even manage to secure cab fare back to my hotel. My ride home came courtesy of the mysterious breakfast gentleman, who kissed my hand and said, “You are like flower. Delicate, confused flower.”

So now I’m hungover, overdrawn, and still kind of drunk. But I’ve got a few new contacts, a vague promise of a wire transfer, and a killer photo of me holding a glass of rosé on the yacht, captioned:

“Securing the bag ?? #BossBabe #BusinessTrip #Blessed”

I’ll let Jack know about the rent… eventually. Probably once I’m back. Or maybe once he stops crying on WhatsApp.

XOXO,
Gigi Cashslot
(Marketing visionary. Lip filler connoisseur. Possibly an owner of a yacht.)