Say “let me come over and suck you off.” Right now. Right this minute. Don’t imply that you might suck me off after messages and phone calls and a long evening of drinks at my expense. Come out and say it. Say you’ll come to my house and fuck me. That’s what it’s gonna take.
I admire your persistence but, obviously. Whatever you’ve been peddling so far, I’m not buying. The prospect of talking to you. Of being out in public with you in a nonthreatening environment. No. If I interact with you at all, ever, it is going to be you show up at my apartment, doorbell rings, you walk in, and you are sucking my dick. I want you to be an outcall prostitute for free.
And you know this. You know if you said that, I wouldn’t say no. As opposed to the fifteen other messages you’ve sent me alternately praising my profile and hamhandedly “negging” me, trying to bait me into asking for your number. This is the limit of a woman’s ability to initiate anything. Dudes do this all the time, sending ten thousand god damn messages to the same fucking chick, so jaded by endlessly getting nothing back that rejection means nothing. Dehumanized themselves and dehumanizing of the other person. But guys will say “hey, wanna fuck.” At least they’re asking for something. You… you, with your little hooks trying to engage me in a conversation—it’s an invitation for me to do work. For me to step in and lead and ask you out on a date.
I’m not gonna work for you. Other guys might, but I already have a god damn job. If you want me so bad, you have to put something on the table, and that thing is you eating my cum and then probably leaving immediately afterwards.
So how about it.