“Like make it up to me, you know?”

She continued describing the nature of her loser ass, bitch ass, pussy ass ex-boyfriend’s inability to satisfy her desire to make her feel special on literally the one day of the year that should be about her.

“Yeah, what a loser,” I replied, erect.

Before I continue, it might be helpful to provide an overview of the statistics from this evening thus far:

• Date number: 2nd
• Time into date: 7 hours, 37 minutes
• Time spent speaking (TSS):

- Her: 7 hours, 13 minutes

- Me: 24 minutes

Anyways. As she catalogued the events of the night her narcissistic, vain, and quite frankly probably gay ex-boyfriend forgot to make dinner reservations on the day that the number she used to describe her age was set to increase, and was forced to eat takeout on the way to Tampa because he had lipo scheduled the following morning, I had entered into a phase of deliberation.

To fuck, or not to fuck?

She was the worst. Yes, okay. But as I reviewed the costs I had incurred that night, and reflected on her suggestion to eat at this unforsakenly expensive restaurant and order appetizers and entrees and god forbid she also orders dessert, I welcomed the pleasantly intrusive thought of wondering if I should parlay the $283 I had spent or would soon be spending into a physical reward of getting my cock sucked or fucked or something.

To answer this question, I felt it was important to come to a conclusion as to the reason she was this way. If it’s because she has autism, meaning that it is not her fault that she is this way, but instead God himself, then I probably should not have sex with her.

“…asked if I wanted to pay for my own drinks tonight orrrr…”

However, seeing as she was too pristine a recipient of genetics to be encumbered by the burden of disability, it seemed more likely to me that she had fallen victim to the same thing as many fatally attractive and well-breasted women, in that she had grown accustomed to men letting her talk while pretending to listen, and as such, had developed an irrevocably false sense of being interesting, rendering her unable to conduct a productive conversation, or

“…about how he owns a condo as if I care that his creepy old ass…”

how to, on even the most basic level, communicate in a meaningful way while remaining fully clothed.

To penetrate, or not to penetrate?

I knew with weathered certainty that mere minutes following such penetration I would face a period of self-loathing that would endure the following 2-4 weeks, an unpleasant slog in which I would have to meet a certain criteria of radical honesty and random acts of kindness and phone calls with dying relatives in order to once again respect myself, but,

“…like sure it was a nice condo but like what did he think…”

also, I had not touched a female breast in months or more, and I was moved by the way hers stood at attention just above the table top, a glorious and resounding hold for a woman on the verge of 30, breasts that so so soon and forever after would lay flat on any surface that was a reasonable distance below them, but here, today, sat just above, with the space between those breasts and that table being the most erotic absence of matter I have observed in my lifetime before or since.

“…didn’t know was trash in the can so when I threw it in the toilet it wouldn’t all go down and it had this awful…”

And though I know now, just like I knew then, less than nothing about women’s hair, I could tell by the color it was and the shape it made that it was nice, and it affected my psychology as such. It’s also worth mentioning that her petite oval eyes were the softest shade of green, and her face looked a lot like a woman I used to love.

“…dessert menu yes thank you girl you are so nice what do you recommend to go with the chard because I normally don’t…”

Her ass was small, and did not fill out the seat of her pants in the way Levi Strauss had intended, but her quadriceps and hamstrings made up for the difference, and I’m not sure how legs get like that, but I like when they do.

Decisions, decisions.

Neither she nor I were particularly young, so the task of getting isolated and unclothed and stuffed was not an obstacle in mind, at least not in that instance, but it was rather the decision that was the obstacle. If the obstacle is the way, then I thought, maybe I should. Will she talk during sex? Who cares the pillow will muffle it haha jk jk lol, but maybe.

“…into the living room and he didn’t even know…”

Maybe. Or should I be a hero, a hero to myself, a hero to the millions upon billions of men throughout history who have faced such affliction, who have been lured into the bleak business of entertaining women who have not much to live for but will extract maximum resource from man for as long as they have to live, and say no, I’m not paying for this fucking $54 trout and $36 four ounces of salmon and seven green beans that isn’t even that much better than the goddamn fucking salmon I make in my kitchen from the two pound frozen bag I buy from Walmart for $9.98. No. No no no no no. You wretched fucking whore. For the love of god and Jesus and Mary no, I’m not fucking paying for this fucking shit. No. The buck stops here. No. NO. Fuck you, you asymmetrical-main-character-syndrome-not-even-that-hot-honestly-fucking-cunty-McCuntington. No goddamnit. I’ve been poor for so long and I’m finally starting to make a little money and I’ve never bought anyone a $283 gift, not even the people I love most in the entire world, and I could use that money to take a girl I actually liked on a weekend trip to Fargo or something, and I’d have to put my card upside down out of shame for using a debit card at a fancy restaurant because I used up all of my credit on a business that didn’t go anywhere, and I’m finally for the love of god finally starting to find my footing in my career and life and just no, I’m not going to do it. No. You’re so boring and full of shit and you have no self awareness and I would so so so much rather be eating subway footlongs and laughing with a girl in sweatpants and one of my t-shirts who isn’t wearing any makeup and I’m in love with her and why is it so hard to find a girl like that? And I don’t understand why you would suggest this kind of place when you clearly have no intention of offering and do you do this all the time with guys and just live this unearned life of excess—

“Do you wanna see my room?”

“Yeah let’s do it, let me pay the bill real quick.”

“You’re so sweet, thank you for everything tonight.”

“Of course, it’s no problem at all. I’m happy to. Thanks again, lovely service, have a good night.”

“You were just the best, and you’re such a doll, thank you.”

The waitress brings us our coats. Hers a trench, mine’s a puff. I push my seat back gently and smile at her like she’s the only woman in the world, because that’s what she wants, and so I give it to her.

We stand, the modern decor and diffused lighting of the restaurant around and above us, modestly happy patrons our surroundings. She looks up at me and smiles. Charmed. Academy award for best actress. I mean, I bought it. I didn’t, but then again I also did. White teeth. Auburn hair. Green eyes. Perfect breasts. Flattering outfit. Small hands. Completely unaware of some things, fully aware of others.

I extend my elbow out from my hip while my hand remains closed at my waist, offering my arm, and maybe something more.

“You ready?”