Like every basic bitch, I love compliments. They are the validation I need to convince myself to spend $28 on three ounces of foundation. I assume heaven is just a place where someone follows me around and tells me things they like about me. So it should come as no surprise that I’m on Tinder.
After a long night of dancing on tables, drinking to the point of toxicity and shoveling various fried foods into the black hole I call a mouth, I can lay down in my bed as hundreds of strangers feed me empty, insincere compliments. Isn’t technology amazing?
I rarely hook up with the dudes I meet on Tinder. I hate to be a tease, but I also hate the idea of having to tell my doctor that yes, I caught something again, so could she please stop giving me that judgmental look and write the damn prescription?
But every now and then, I do. This usually happens when every person I know gets into a relationship, during the insane pre-period horniness that even masturbation can’t solve, or when someone is insanely attractive. Sometimes, it’s all of them!
So, when it came to John (I’d change his name, but he is not an innocent, so why should I protect him?), I wasn’t taking any chances. I’m a generous seven. He was easily a nine, and super into me. He laughed at all my jokes, we had mutual friends so I knew he wasn’t going to murder me and wear my skin as a suit, and he was hot. And funny. And interesting. And really fucking hot.
My sexting style usually fluctuates between a seventeen-year-old who hasn’t lost her virginity yet and a bored housewife going through menopause, but this time, I pulled out all the stops. I may not be an expert, but even I know if you throw a “Haha!” and an emoji at the end of a text, your message will be received loud and clear.
After a mere two days of communication, I dove in. I set a normal-ish date time, freaked out because meeting while the sun was still up is a commitment I am not ready for, made up a shitty excuse and canceled. I then consumed some liquid courage, waited for sunset and invited him over to Netflix and chill.
He offered, as the gentleman I thought he was, to swing by the store and get a six-pack, so I ordered a pizza. He came over, a six-pack in one hand and a brown grocery bag in the other, and we settled into the highly uncomfortable routine that is Netflix and chillin’.
After about twenty awkward minutes of drinking and watching the boring non-RomCom I had selected in order to seem ~cultured~, we finally got down to business. With some vodka, a few beers and enough pizza to seem cool but not grotesque inflating my confidence, I whispered a few suggestions as to what we could do if switched into a more horizontal position.
Into my bedroom we went, and he quickly excused himself to grab something he had brought. I leaned on my bed and wondered how I had been so lucky as to swipe on a guy who was so hot, into me, and cared enough about safe sex to bring his own condoms?
He appeared back in my room with the grocery bag and pulled a small bottle of lube ands something long, green and most certainly not latex from the depths. My mouth dropped.
This motherfucker wanted to stick a cucumber into my vagina.
“What the fuck,” I said. He looked shocked.
“It’s not weird,” He insisted. “It’s no different than using a dildo. You can use it to get off while I watch.”
I screamed at him to get the hell out of my apartment, because, yes, as a matter of fact, it’s very different. I don’t care how many cuCUMber jokes I made on Tinder. I don’t care how many eggplant emojis I sent. I am not a prude, but under no circumstances would I ever put a vegetable into my vagina. I don’t even put vegetables into my mouth. .
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