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.


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?

Mind Over Matter

Before going for a jog, I go to take a hit of albuterol from my inhaler and realize I’m out. The number on the back of the canister reads 0 in red. Zero you’re dead. Fuck. I don’t have a doctor in New York, and I haven’t visited my creepy allergy/asthma specialist since before Miley Cyrus got naked. I could call CVS, but I already know it would only result in pointless frustration.

A brilliant idea comes to me and the more I think about it, the more brilliant it becomes. I will cure myself of asthma by training my lungs to relax without the help of drugs.

Have you seen The Revenant? The human body is incredibly resilient. Mind over matter. There were no inhalers or nebulizers in the ancient times; coincidentally there were no weak, sniffling asthmatics. Or maybe they just died. Whatever. I’m confident this will work; I can feel it in my heart, my chest, my soul, my veins.

During the run I start to feel a familiar tightness, so I have to stop after only ten minutes. When I breathe, I sound like a fucking tea kettle. I’m not discouraged though. Everything is hard in the beginning. Nothing good comes easy. Just watch and see.

This time next month, asthma will be a distant memory. I will think back on my pathetic days of relying on a sad, man-made aerosol device to breathe and I will laugh. It will be the most full-bodied, jolly-rich-man, wheeze-free laugh you’ve ever fucking heard, let me tell you. I can do anything I put my mind to. LOL.

Swipe Carefully

There are a lot of ugly people on Tinder, but Alex is beautiful. I Super like him. We Match. Dopamine hits me like Chris Brown hit Rihanna. But his first message is disappointing:

I’m only looking for a hookup.

Offended, I ask: Why? 

I don’t know. I like hookups.

Awfully immature thing for a 30-year-old investment banker to say.

Would you be disappointed if we just met and didn’t hook up?

Yes. Very.

What a fucking asshole!

I’m indignant, angry. But I can’t stop looking at his pictures. There’s something irresistible about the look on his face: he’s sexy and he knows it.

I agree to meet him at his luxury high-rise upper east side apartment and not once do I feel unsafe because he’s just too damn good-looking to be dangerous (I know these are very stupid thoughts). He lets me in through a side door. Holy shit: he’s even hotter in person. And his accent: not quite French and not quite English, but deliciously nuanced, different.

He’s not the presumptuous sociopath I was expecting; he is surprisingly sweet and considerate, offering me a glass of water and making pleasant conversation about life in Manhattan. And the panty-dropper: he’s also an animal lover. His goals are my goals.

Inevitably he leans in and kisses me, tentatively as first, and then forcefully. I feel his eager hands move over my bra. It comes off. Oh my God your boobs are amazing. He’s moving extremely fast, but it’s ok. My underwear slips over my bare knees, he puts on a condom, and I am breathless with anticipation. He enters me slowly and stays for a few seconds, allowing me to adjust to his exceptional size, and then the fucking commences. He lifts my knees over my head and jackhammers the libertarianism out of me. The pace slows, and I can sense his climax nearing. Although I don’t orgasm, I gasp when he finishes; it’s always a magical moment. He pulls out, I sit up slowly, and realize something is terribly, terribly wrong. My vagina is abnormally wet with what is unmistakably his semen.

The condom—it must have—

Fuck. Fuck!

He seems more distressed than I. He gets up and begins pacing.

It’s ok—this has happened to me before—I can just get plan—


What’s the big—

Strangely he gets back on the sofa and touches my neck with his right hand.

I’m sorry.

I start to fear he may be insane. Dread rises in my chest and explodes into panic when his grip tightens to a choke. This is how I die. He straddles me and chokes me with both hands, mechanically, dispassionately.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

I scream, and he uses one of his hands to cover my mouth. The weight of his six-foot frame renders me immobile.

I’m helping you. It’s better this way. You don’t want to live like me—with this fucking virus where you can’t even go out in the fucking sun–where you constantly crave blood. I’m fucking miserable. I’m helping you. Stop struggling—

Fuck that shit. I’m twenty-one and loving life. No way am I going down without a fight. Since he fucked me in such a hurry, my skirt is still on, and in the pocket is a Swiss Army Knife that I use as a bottle opener. I flip up the blade and with uncharacteristic force, drive it into his chest—where I know his heart is beating. The shock in his eyes is very sad. He’d so pretty. I’m surprised by my own inexplicable lust. I kiss his neck and bite into the smooth flesh. I’ve never tasted anything more delicious except for maybe Cheesecake Factory Original Recipe. I can’t get enough. I drink until the blood stops flowing. He’s dead, and I’m confused. But I’ve won, and I’ve never felt more alive.