I’ve realized that my neurosis and obsessions these past few months/year are a direct correlation between my lack of sexual fulfillment. Instead of delicious cramped sweaty back-seat sex … I then focused on organizing my closet by color. Instead of being pressed up against my floor-to-ceiling windows… I focused on making sure that all my fitted sheets were folded perfectly. Instead of sneaking to the back row of a movie theater to give/receive some head… I would complete entire series of shows on Netflix. Instead of having lazy, lay in bed all day and have marathon sex… I focused on going shopping for items to flip on Poshmark.
Yes, this used to be my life. I used to have that unapologetic rough sex. The sex that would leave the images burned into my mind, and the bruises on my legs as badges of honor. The romantic marathon sex that would result in mini naps throughout the day to replenish my energy enough to go again. The sex that would result in multiple orgasms that every neighbor would hear and curse me with envy. God, how much I miss all of that. I became half of a cracked fortune cookie that spent weekends at Bed, Bath & Beyond. I’m not sure when the passion disappeared. Come to think of it, I’m curious if there was any actual passion between #whiteboy and I.
All I know is that there has been an itch that has been left to fester and borough inside of me. Who knew all it would take is a photo of a sexy man and a dick pic to bring this beast back to all of it’s blazing glory. FuqBoi is sexy and has a fashion sense that turns me on more than his 7-inch dick. As we exchange a barrage of dirty texts and pics, we finally agree to meet. I take notice that he didn’t ask me anything about myself, and neither did I. Focus was on the ultimate goal here: Mo needs to get laid.
As our meeting time comes closer, I begin my prep work. Shave legs and of course the Star of the Show. I look into my carefully curated closet for the proper ‘fit that will say, “She’s sexy, fashionable, cool and looks effortlessly put together”. I begin to feel the flutter of a butterfly’s wing that I haven’t felt in about a year since Cub came to visit me. And just like that… the insecurities of my failed romantic relationships spill out in front of me. Do I dress well enough to be matched for this young-fashionisto who’s #OOTD leave me drooling. Will this young babe think I look much older in person? Will his chiseled abs be disgusted by my body and will be unable to keep his dick hard? As with all things that stress me out, I try to shake it off, practice some ujjayi breakthing, and of course… frantic texts gets sent to the indestructable group chat where I can embody the strength of 5 other brilliant and gorgeous women. I chill the fuck out, slap on another coat of mascara, recheck my hair, call a Lyft and dash out the door.
We agree to meet at my new favorite local lounge/bar which I chose because it looks a little shady (like me), plays the Sunday jam sessions that was mastered by Art Laboe, and has a good happy hour menu. I wanted to make sure that I wasn’t getting catfished by a disgusting pervert who just happens to have numerous dick pics and who now has my address. So what’s the harm in at least having a cocktail before the festivities commence, right? During the 3 minute ride that it takes to get there, the flutter of a butterfly wing has now multiplied to an entire swarm that is now making my hands and legs shake. Shit. What did I do? Did I really commit to having a fuck session with some random guy I met on Tinder? Shit. Is it too late to turn around and leave this guy hanging? The “what-if’s” leave my head and enter the group chat. Which I’m sure are coming in rapid-fire and in a flurry of desperation.
FuqBoi finally be-bops into the bar about 15 minutes late saying that he couldn’t find any parking spots. However by this time, I’ve already shown my entire deck of cards of insecurities to my girls, the jitters are in full swing, and sweat is pooling onto the inside of my palms. What is it about these boys on these dating apps, they always seem so cool and collected when they walk in the door. How do I also gain the same level of composure? They are able to chit chat about whatever without the slightest stutter and speak effectively. While I sit on this stool and can only focus on, “Shit, these jeans are digging into my stomach, I should’ve eaten a salad today.”
I realize I’m zoning out on the ramblings going on inside of my head instead of focusing on how cute he is IRL, and there’s no way that this guy is 30. He looks like he could be my age, easily. Unfortunately, now that I’m paying attention to what he’s actually saying, I’m thinking, “Yeah… you’re definitely 30. Maybe 25. God, he’s a complete imbecile”. He just sounds so uneducated, as he just rambles random thoughts that entire his head. So I ask myself one question: Would you still get naked with this guy? And the answer is, “Abso-fucking-lutely”.
Me: I’m ready to go, are you?
We finish off our drinks and make our way back to my apartment where my roommate just so happens to have people over. Great. Now I have to introduce this guy to people? I literally herd my one-night-stand to my room and thank god he got the clue that we’re not here to make friends. I love when a guy with big thick lips knows how to use them instead of just shoving his tongue down my throat as if he’s trying to taste what I ate for dinner. Thanks God that although this guy doesn’t know how to form a normal sentence at least knows what say when no words are necessary.
After 3 rounds of saying absolutely nothing to one another except for direction and demands, it’s time for this FuqBoi to leave my apartment. Thankfully he had to go to work to do …??? Honestly, I don’t really remember, nor do I care. He tried to say that he wanted to stay here and spend the night so we could continue this in the morning. Which actually, I was honestly considering. But to think that I would have to listen to this idiot for a few more hours, no thanks. I began to wonder if this is what some guys go through when they take a gorgeous girl home, and their answers are “Uh-huh” with a empty glaze in their eyes. I walk FuqBoi out to his car, he hugs me and palms my ass to bring me up to wrap my legs around his waist, and tells me that he’ll give me a ring tomorrow.
Lying back in bed, with the smell of sex hugging me close, I feel this sense of ultimate release. Finally all the clouds have lifted, the stress that I’ve been botox-ing out of my forehead has gone on vacation, and my work goals have become crystal clear. The anxiety that I was facing each morning as I started my day seems like years ago. Who knew that all I needed was some good ole’-fashioned (Enter Favorite Food Emoji Here).