I should tell you I’m married, she said. This after you’d taken off your expired Trojan, the ribbed kind that comes in a gold wrapper; it was so old the gold foil was flaking off so you took the condom and filled it up in the sink after and watched it for leaks. Your jizz chunking up and swirling around like a snow globe. If you had known you would have just stayed in raw and blasted in her. If you’d known some other guy would pay for it. Her husband must be white too. What Mexican married to a Mexican cheats on fucking Tinder. The plan could have worked out and your bloodline might have lived on. Not now that she waited to tell you. No sense of timing. But we’re separated, she says. Ah well, you were smart after all.
Why did you have a ribbed for her pleasure condom in the first place. Not something you would have bought. Not because you don’t care about her pleasure but because it would have embarrassed you to buy something for her pleasure. You couldn’t countenance the Walgreen’s morning clerk with the gauge earrings thinking your penis was inadequately textured. It must have been in a fishbowl in the AIDS testing place, some time in 2008. It was a thick one. You barely felt fucking her, but in retrospect, good, because it held up. Now you could tell the other girl you want that you did not have unprotected sex with multiple partners since you got tested. Just the one. Just the 18 year old and what could she possibly have. You would leave out the part where you went in raw to the hilt with the married girl, a couple pumps just to see what it felt like, which you always do and so does everybody else, always. If she has herpes you have herpes. Why worry, we’re all gonna get it someday.
You meet at a bar. You have nothing to talk about so you talk about Tinder. How long you’ve been on. This is actually my first ever Tinder date, you tell her. Me too she says. Fuck. I wanted a veteran. Now I have to do a bunch of god damn hand holding. Agnes does not want to be with me. She is overseas taking swarthy Mediterranean cock in all orifices. I want what was promised: Grindr for straight people so I can forget her for five minutes.
I miss her and I miss her stupid dog and I keep pushing it down and it keeps coming back.
Paul McCartney is playing at Dodger stadium. The traffic is crazy. Let’s go up to the park and maybe we can hear it, I tell her on her third beer. You still have to say stuff like that. You can’t just say anyway let’s go fuck. The park is behind my apartment. I put her against a tree and lift her up dress and fingerfuck her until she’s hot enough to start biting my lip. Paul sings We Can Work It Out. The old man sounds pretty good. We go inside.
Tonight I have another date. She is also married but up front about it. Open relationship. I want to meet a nice girl but instead I’m going to fuck seven girls in seven days. I start a new job Monday and it’ll kill my dating life. If I get that much new pussy it’ll last me until the stress passes, I reason. She has dreadlocks. She probably goes to Burning Man. Maybe she’ll let me hit it raw.
It’s OKCupid without the words. On OKCupid you scan through profiles. Murmur ugly, stupid, yes, ugly, fat, yes, stupid, stupid. Tinder is ugly, fat, yes, ugly, fat, yes, ugly. People are so stupid they had to make stupid stop being a dealbreaker.
You both hit yes and it tells you and you ask her out. You have one picture up. 21 words. Girls still match with you. You thought you were a wizard before. That girls read your words and saw something. No, they just like your face. You’re a worthless sack of shit and no one will ever love you. But hey, at least you get laid.
In conclusion: three and a half stars.