Pull up to Nobu in your sugar daddy’s White Ferrari, wrists dripping with ice you couldn’t afford from your waitressing job. That’s where he comes in. White Ferrari smells like a $100,000 credit limit. It’s the way you feel when someone else slides their black AMEX onto the check. It’s white faux fur, luxurious (but woke), Dom Perignon and Christian Louboutin. It’s cocktails and caviar in the penthouse suite, and the way the butler at your fave hotel irons your socks. White Ferrari is extravagance in all its forms, even if you’re still paying for your own apartment.
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