Leap Day

I check The Google just to make sure. It’s all true: on February 29th the Lord Our God uses his long fingers to create a ripple in time-space. The consequence is this: nothing on Leap Day counts.

My stomach growls. I open the fridge. All I have is a carton of eight eggs and half a cheese pizza. I crack two of them into a tumbler and slurp them down. The texture if fantastic, but the taste is borderline nauseating. I’m still hungry.

I buy a Caprese sandwich at Whole Foods and heat it in the toaster oven. A beautiful woman is waiting to heat her lasagna. I instinctively remove my semi-warm sandwich because nobody likes to wait. Are you sure it’s hot enough? She asks. I stare incredulously into her ocean-blue eyes. She’s genuinely concerned about my lukewarm lunch.

I cup my hand under her exquisite chin and kiss her soft, succulent mouth. So you wanna get out of here?

We check into the Trump International Hotel using my father’s credit card and have unprotected sex in sixty-nine different positions. She leaves to pick her daughter up from daycare (after flushing the semen out of her eyeballs).

Somehow I’m certain I got her pregnant.

I take an UberBLACK to Savoir Beds in SoHo to meditate on a variety of supportive surfaces. I’ve made my way through six sublime beds when the nervous, nerdy salesman asks if he can help me: what am I looking for? Leave me the fuck alone, I say softly. I see myself out before security arrives.

I stroll into a slick-looking Japanese restaurant. Table for one. I order the Calf’s Brain, which comes in what looks like a tube for toothpaste. I squeeze the creamy substance onto soft pancakes topped with caviar. I wash down the orgasmic meal with a fifteen-dollar Japanese IPA.

As soon as I exit the restaurant I vomit violently into a bush. Some of it comes out of my nose, and it stings. I straighten up, but am hit by another wave of nausea. I hurl cathartically for several more minutes.

I’m exhausted when I get home. I feel lonely so I re-read my philosophy professor’s comments on my term paper. I trashed all my coursework from college, but I saved every document containing her handwriting for desperate moments like these. I call her office and leave a voicemail. I love you. Will you marry me?

I don’t even need Benadryl to fall asleep. It comes to me instantly.

I’m awakened by the gentle hum of traffic. I check my phone: 10:22 a.m.

My stomach growls. I open the fridge. All I have is a carton of eight eggs and half a cheese pizza. I boil two of them to make an egg salad sandwich for later.

 

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Ralph

I’m wary of 34-year-old sugar daddies.

I’m wary of attractive sugar daddies.

I’m wary of scams and serial killers.

Ralph, an eloquent man I’ve been exchanging pleasantries with sends me a picture of himself at a fancy outdoor event where he’s seated next to a heavily made-up Asian woman.

He’s so deformed-looking I nearly choke on my green tea latte.

I’m absolutely delighted.

I love it when things make sense.

Racist Things

When I was in Germany I was robbed by two Turkish guys. They took my purse, which at the time contained: tissues, hand sanitizer, expensive lip tint from Lush, eyeliner, my pre-paid Bahn card, my driver’s license, my credit cards, two hundred euros, my keys, my phone and my passport. 

I stopped eating falafel and smoking hookah after that. 

I used to love falafel. 

I used to love hanging out in hookah lounges.

I used to. 

I told my roommate to dump her Turkish boyfriend.

I swipe left on guys who look like they might be Turkish.

I was watching The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe on television, and the scene where Edmund eats Turkish delight made me vomit all over myself. 

This past thanksgiving, my mom asked if I wanted some turkey, and I started crying uncontrollably. The tears wouldn’t stop. 

The tears. They roll down my face in rivets. 

Up in the club

Every night is fueled with the ridiculous hope I’ll somehow meet my soul mate: a poetic, dog-loving libertarian with an appreciation for craft beer. He’d say: hey there. I think you’re beautiful. I love Asian women. I have heaps of disposable income I want to spend on you.

After Bernie Sanders is elected we would flee to Singapore and read our curious, interracial children excerpts from Atlas Shrugged.

Instead I found myself dry humping a morbidly obese Mexican woman. It was surprisingly pleasant. There was so much to hold on to.

Evidently my theatrical thrusting impressed a sad man (bearing uncanny resemblance to my high school gym teacher), who offered to buy me a drink.

He told me he hadn’t had sex with his wife for two years. Why the hell are you still together? For the sake of our three year old son. Ah. That makes sense.

On a more positive note: I did score the digits of a cute Korean college student. We were dancing innocently face to face. I remember her pale limbs flailing under the strobe lights and thinking: you would be a terrible stripper. She said we should get coffee sometime.

Does that ever really happen?

Anyways.

I have renewed faith in my potential as a laid-back lesbian. I just need to get over my intense aversion to other people’s vaginas.

My Mistake

I once had the privilege of fucking a brilliant professor (courtesy of Tinder)—not some philandering philosopher, hard-working Chinese chemist, or pretentious historian. His thing was theoretical math. How hot is that?

He attended the Qatar Masters Open on a whim and beat undefeated chess champion, Yu Yangyi, who subsequently retired from the game indefinitely due to mental distress and hopelessness.

Mapp Biopharmaceutical offered him an advance of $10 million USD to develop an antibody treatment for Ebola virus disease, which he declined due to disinterest. Wet science was never his thing.

Anyways.

I made a terrible mistake, which will haunt me for the rest of my mediocre life. Let me tell you what happened.

The condom broke, but we didn’t notice until the end. He bought Plan B and I swallowed the evil pill immediately (the earlier, the more effective).

It wasn’t until I got my period that I realized I murdered what would have been a brilliant baby. Even with my average intelligence, the genes would only be diluted two-fold, leaving the kid’s IQ well within Einstein-range. Think of the perks!

By age 5 he would start being useful: fixing my laptop, concocting skin care treatments, genetically engineering our household plants to be self-watering etc.

By age 10 he would write my application to grad school.

By age 20 he would cure my impending Alzheimer’s—halt dementia before it begins.

By age 30 he would upload my consciousness onto a computer hard drive, making me immortal.

I really fucked up. Hindsight is 20/20 they say.

Netflix and Chill

I need to get laid. This is not a drill. The greasy whole-foods cashier is starting to look sexy and the cucumbers—oh my God. It takes all my kegel muscles to keep from jizzing my Wolford tights.

I’m rapid-fire-swiping on Tinder. A gender-fluid artist, an obese lesbian, a deformed-looking chess master—anything capable of penetration (either real or strap-on) will do.

Finally: a match. He’s pale, blonde, intelligent and cute in a baby-deer way—exceeding all my expectations. Let’s meet. My place? Your Place? Netflix and chill?

I score his digits and we begin texting. I see the bubbles on iMessage appear and disappear. He’s thinking too hard. Times-a-wasting. I go to Duane Reade to buy condoms (durex extra large, because I’m optimistic). I don’t need lube because my vagina is literally Niagra Falls.

I’d prefer to meet somewhere public. How about the Starbucks on 49th and 6th?

What a pussy. Does he think I’m a serial killer or some shit? I want the D not his life. Jesus fucking Christ. Everyone’s so paranoid these days. I’m only a block away from the designated meeting spot, so I acquiesce. This better not take long.

We sip on iced green tea lemonade and I stare into his big, sad eyes. His mouth looks perfect for eating pussy. We make the usual small talk: where we’re from, what we do, blablabla. He’s getting too personal, telling me about his family, which he hasn’t seen in two years. They sent him stale cookies the other day, a sweet gesture. I ask him why he doesn’t visit his folks, and he explains his parents are alcoholics who reject him for being bisexual. He cured his depression by cutting off contact with his shitty family. Dude I’m sorry.

I think on my feet. My dad is totally cheating on my mom with multiple twenty-year-old prostitutes. Yay dysfuction! We’re totally connecting, right? And maybe this will steer the conversation towards sex.

The Starbucks is closing. Perfect transition. I invite him to my apartment (my roommates are working late), so we’ll have plenty of privacy to Netflix and Chill.

Wow this place is pretty nice—when did you—

I push him up against the wall and stick my tongue down his throat: like a curious serpent exploring his mouth. I rip my cardigan off. The buttons fly across the hardwood floor. I’m not wearing a bra because I’m spontaneous like that. My pale and luscious boobs are in his face. He looks uncomfortable.

Are you ok? Maybe I scared him with my massive tits. I mean: they’re pretty fucking huge. He swallows nervously. I thought we were going to Netflix and chill.

The Catch

Because I’m a gold-digging sapiosexual, I swipe based on credentials rather than appearance. Aaron’s are panty dropping: dual MBA and MD degree– dermatologist doing his residency. What’s more: he’s not bad looking, just abnormally pale. But he’s also a ginger, so it kind of makes sense.

He messages me first: Am I into older guys then? I guess so! Is he into younger girls? Absolutely. It allows him to be more dominant. He likes that.

He’s one of those BDSM types. I do some research on The Google, and the idea grows on me. All this time I’ve been surreptitiously submissive, wondering why I feel empty and unfulfilled. The last time I had sex, the precarious pussy kept asking if I was ok, and his uncertainty killed my libido faster than the idea of my parents screwing. I want to be used and abused Goddamnit! Is that too much to ask? This is my destiny, and Aaron is leading me there.

We agree we want to meet, but first he offers full disclosure: an infected bat bit him when he was 7 (long, crazy story), which left him with Vampirism. It’s totally under control though! He’s on antivirals and synthetic blood supplements. But he understands if I’m not interested—no hard feelings. I thank him for letting me know, but I could care less; it doesn’t matter! In fact, it’s all the more impressive he overcame such hurdles to get to where he is now. He explains his incident played a major role in his desire to study medicine. He wants to help people. No wonder you were accepted to such a difficult med school; your personal essay must’ve fucking slayed. 9 p.m. at O’Neill’s then? Works for me!

My brother wants to watch Twinsters on Netflix.

Dude—I think I found my soul mate on Tinder. I’m going to meet him like now.

He scrolls through Aaron’s profile. Holy shit Emma—a dermatologist? He must be wicked smart. And he’s like pretty good-looking. Gayyyyyyyyyy. I know you are, but what am I?

There’s one thing though—he got Vampirism when he was a kid—bit by a bat. What do you think of that? My brother winces. There’s always a catch isn’t there. But I mean if you’re comfortable with it, go for it I guess? Just be safe? My friend’s cousin went on a cruise in like 2000 to Alaska and got Vampirism. Now he’s happily married with two kids. From sperm donors obviously, but they’re like totally happy.

I nod a lot. Yeah it’s really no big deal. I get ready to leave. See you later. Yeah see you. I’ll probably be back at like—eleven. Ok yeah.

I’m running ten minutes late because the 1 train took forever. Sorry! He responds: we’ll have to work on that.

I find him easily because 1) the bar is nearly empty (Sunday night) and 2) he’s really fucking pale, like practically translucent. I love meeting someone for the first time because they observe you more astutely than they ever will. Is this person worth my time? I’m suddenly paranoid he wants to eat me.

I shake his hand. It’s colder than Ayn Rand’s heart. Usually when I touch a guy for the first time he feels warm, and I am able to assert my feminine nature by showing off my poor circulation. It’s flirtatious really. It’s like heyyy I’m so cold and weak and you’re so warm and protective protect me please! Not this dude though. I’m not sure I like it.

We sip on Guinness, and I observe his face. He has good features: green-blue eyes, intelligent mouth, and slightly receding hairline. He’s from Michigan. We small talk about life in Manhattan, and I feel myself withdrawing.

He transitions to the juicy stuff: the mechanisms of sub-dom. I force myself to ask questions because he wants me to ask questions. He goes through basic punishments, rewards, safe-words and the importance of de-briefing. I can’t imagine being dominated by Aaron. He’s sick for Christ’s sake. This kink does not spur from hedonism or lust but an inferiority complex. I can’t help but find myself psychoanalyzing the poor guy. His disease makes him feel out of control, so he’s obsessed with taking it back via sexual dominance.

He asks if I want to go back to his apartment (it’s a couple of blocks away), and it pains me to turn him down. I’m temporarily living with my brother at the moment, and I told him I’d be home before ten. Are you sure? I’m sure.

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. I offer to split the check, but he insists on paying. Can I see you again? I think this would be really fun for you.

Sure! I lie, because I’m too weak at the moment to inflict further pain on this already suffering creature. He leans in for a kiss, and I stand there paralyzed. It’s not a peck either. There’s even some tongue. I know you can’t contract vampirism through saliva, but I’m horrified anyways. I try to be subtle when I pull away—I try to smile, but it cracks.

My brother is watching that annoying show Master of None when I get home. Wow—you’re early—how was it? Oh my God Kevin. I start pacing. It was fucking awful. You don’t even know. Like I just couldn’t see past the Vampirism. I’m such a fucking asshole! It’s not even his fault.

Hey take it easy, he offers. You can’t help what you’re attracted to. You’re not a bad person. Stop beating yourself up.

What if you met a cool, awesome girl with Vampirism? Would you go for it or..?

It doesn’t take him long to respond. Well I mean, if I was already in love with her—like dating her seriously—and she got infected, I would be more likely to stay, you know? But if I’m just meeting her… I mean… there’re so many other girls out there who aren’t vampires. Hey don’t look so distressed—

But how do I turn him down? He thinks we’re meeting again.

Kevin unpeels a banana. I’m sure he’s used to it. He’ll survive.

I sink into the couch. Life is so brutal. Imagine having Vampirism—the stigma, the isolation. How can he not be depressed? That must fucking suck.

Kevin chews. Yeah people are pretty strong. I mean what other choice does he have?