Dating. Fucking. Sucks. 
It’s ridiculous. The rules. The thirty-seven subcategories of commitment. Are we talking or FWB? Was I ghosted or curved? Breadcrumbed? Modern dating is literally making the case for masturbation. It’s cheaper, involves zero human interaction, and it’s not nearly as confusing.

I’ve been out of the game for a while, so I’m still trying to navigate this shit show. I enlisted my friend C on this last little experiment mainly because she set me up with Sleeves and also because they used to bang. Weird. I know. Don’t judge.

Me: “I can literally put a stranger’s penis in my mouth, but I shouldn’t text him the next day? What kind of shit is that?!”

C: “Don’t let him know you like him.”

Me: “His fucking penis was in my mouth! That’s generally a pretty good indicator. If he left a part of him inside me, I don’t feel like a text is completely off the rails. Frankly, he needs to be the one calling me. That shit is magical.”

*shakes head*

So I text him. We continue to hook up. We go out and do shit. Casual. Then, right around the 30 day mark, it’s time for the ‘relationship’ talk. I do not initiate this talk. I would rather put pens in my eyes than have this conversation. It’s not that I don’t value open communication, but less than a month in, I’m still deciding if his penis makes up for his unfamiliarity with the proper usage of “too” and that he ends every text with an exclamation point! He insists. Fuck.

I have to admit, it wasn’t exactly what I had expected to hear, but that’s what made it so interesting. He REALLY wanted to make sure I knew he was IN NO WAY looking for anything real. He has shit to do, doesn’t know what he wants, blah blah blah. Whatever. What’s fascinating was his assumption that I was getting close to or had already fallen face first in love with him.

I suppose when you routinely date girls two decades younger it could happen. I mean, he does have a car and a house and probably decent health insurance, but I’m a grown up. You’re buried in your coupe and you don’t own a silverware caddy. Calm the fuck down.

At this point I think it’s important to note his penchant for Jameson and rope. He’s pretty fucking kinky and he drinks like Hemingway. It’s important, because the sex is fantastic, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t remember much of anything else. I can only imagine what it’s like to wake up and stub your toe on a rouge butt plug or trip on a riding crop on your way to the bathroom with zero recollection of who’s in your bed. And as much fun as it is to listen to the same story seventeen times, it’s really not. At all.

For example, I was recently brutally fired. It was personal. There are lawyers. It’s kind of a big deal in my life right now. We’ve talked about it no less than three times. First thing out of his mouth at dinner, “Do you work tomorrow?” I finally gave up and just started answering the question, “What do you think?”

The sex is pretty fucking good, but to believe I could overlook the inevitable therapy required to recover from an actual relationship with him is just absurd.

I’m not sure what happens next, but one thing is certain, he needs to address his silverware situation ASAP. 



I am an asshole. 

Turns out, ‘the talk’ didn’t mean what I thought it meant. Well, it did, but for a different reason. I can say with absolute certainty I would have done the exact same thing. I, however, would have likely NOT taken the time to explain as I can be incredibly selfish and self absorbed. He gets a pass on this one. Just the talk, not the silverware. 


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