No life, no story. No story, no books.
It’s that fucking simple.
A friend called me out on it. Another said I should write about my dating experiences.
So here we go.
Seven weeks. Seven dates.
All names are fake. All places are fictional.
This is week one.
She’s half your age. You forget her name. Third one this week. It doesn't matter. They blur.
You stare at the message. Gut twists. Another profile. Another fucking waste. Just another box to check. A desperate hole to fill
"10:30, The Lux" Like you’ve done this before.
She's already drinking when you walk in. Tequila. Always tequila. Throws it back like you did fifteen years ago. Like she needs to be numb just to look at you.
"Water" you tell the bartender.
Her eyes cut to you. "Oh, you don't drink?" Like you’re a twisted psychopath who wants to fuck.
She doesn't ask about anything real. Doesn't need to. Just leans in, licks the rim of her glass, says— "So, do you like choking?"
Fucking tease. They always are.
You should leave. Instead, you grab her wrist. Whisper something low, something meaningless, and she leans in like it’s a spell.
Next thing you know, you’re in an Uber. Silent. Her hands on your thigh. Both pretending this is spontaneous.
Her apartment looks like a set piece. IKEA furniture. String lights. A framed ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ print. Like she even knows what that is from.
You can tell she has roommates. Jackets piled on a chair. Someone else’s shoes by the door.
She's got your belt undone before the door clicks shut. Lips wet with tequila and regret.
Calls you Daddy. You don't flinch.
Nails down your chest. Red trails. She fakes it. Obvious. Porn star moans. Practiced moves. You pretend not to notice. Another night of bad theater.
Flip her over. Grip her hair. Fuck her like it matters. It doesn't.
No movie moment. No slow burn. Just release. Reset. Regret.
She breathes against your chest. Fingers trace your stomach. Desperate circles. Trying to keep you here. Feels like death.
Death of what? Of thinking this could mean something. Of the lie we both swallowed.
"That was..." she starts. Doesn't finish.
You grab your jeans. Check your phone. "Early morning." Lie.
You dress fast. She’s wants something. A kiss. A number. Validation You give her nothing. Half-smirk. Nod. Another lie goodbye.
Back in your car you tell yourself not this time. Tell yourself you’ll stop. You won’t. You can’t. Your thumb moves before you even decide.
Tinder. Hinge. Bumble.
Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.
Faces blur.
Fresh fucks for the desperate. Still feel nothing.
The machine owns you. And you go willingly.
Phone buzzes. New match. Profile says 49. One line: "Not here to waste your time." First message simple: "Martini? Le Bar."
You pause. Different game.
Type back: "When?"
…."tomorrow, 9PM."
Man, I've been there we should do a collaboration on uninspiring speed dating. In my experience, I was mostly love bombed in trade for conservations, and it was exhausting in a different level. At least with straight sex you can get to point and move on.
Never hated on anyone for being sober though. That's a weird flex. Espresso exists on this planet there are so many things to drink that is interesting and not just alcohol.
Yes keep making these. It's the gritty reality of life.
this made me profoundly sad