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.