I stopped having high expectations for my dating life when I was thirteen years old. You see, Jacob Carson was the cutest guy in eighth grade. I bravely asked him to the winter dance during our lunch hour, and he replied with a casual shrug and a snappy “sure.” I should have known that his one-worded response would indicate his lack of enthusiasm for the entire date, but I was young and dumb.
Sure was basically a marriage proposal in my mind. I was practically Mrs. Drew Carson already. So I spent hours getting ready and meticulously straightened my hair until it fell flat against my face—that was the style after all. I made sure I looked flawless. I practically bathed in Bath and Body Works vanilla body spray, and I smelled like a fucking cookie factory when I walked into that gym. Jacob, however, showed up in cargo shorts and didn’t even bother to shower. He didn’t dance with me, even though the nineties playlist was bumpin’. Instead of spinning his future wife around on the makeshift dance floor, he fooled around with his friends the entire time.
I’d built him up in my prepubescent mind, and I had our life planned out—spring wedding in Napa Valley, two kids named Britney and Justin, and a large house with a game room. But that night, as I danced alone to Backstreet Boys in my periwinkle tulle dress, surrounded by hormones, helium balloons, and crepe paper, I learned that sometimes guys don’t quite get the memo. They don’t put forth the same effort as women. And that axiom had pretty much summed up my entire dating career since then.
Tonight, my date was boring as hell.
I shaved every inch of my body from the neck down, and yet, he had the audacity to ask if we could split the check. He claimed to be saving money to renovate the basement at his mom’s house so he could have a bachelor pad. Yikes! He then asked me two basic ass questions about my day and made a comment about the weather before selfishly diving into an hour-long monologue about himself.
I couldn’t help but think, why the hell did I shave for this man?
I didn’t mean to be rude about it. I’d always been the type to give someone the benefit of the doubt, okay? But, like, how much was he going to talk about his mother? In forty-five minutes, I knew more about Miranda Sloth than her son, Joseph Sloth.
Yes. Sloth.
I should have known from that name alone that this Tinder date from hell wouldn’t be successful. I mean, he sent me an impressive dick pic. We’d been flirting via text messages for about a week or so, and I decided since I didn’t have to work late tonight, I’d treat myself to a booty call. I mostly agreed to this date simply because he was packing some serious cock. He was cute in a trendy hipster sort of way. He wore a turtleneck despite the summer weather, and the thick-rimmed glasses on his face looked fake. I liked his dark brown hair though. It was styled effortlessly, and the scruff on his defined jaw looked delicious.
Too bad he was boring.
Too bad I couldn’t fuck boring people.
I liked my bed partners to be adventurous. I might have lowered my standards since the eighth-grade dance, but good sex was one hard limit for me.
I nodded as he spoke, not really paying attention to what he was saying. “When my mother has constipation, I usually massage her stomach. I learned how to do that a few years ago, and now she makes me rub her tummy every night.”
Yeah, I needed to leave this date like ten minutes ago. Where was our fucking food? We were in some three-star Italian restaurant, and I ordered a salad because I originally wanted to come across as one of those dainty bitches that nibbled on a leaf, then complained of being full. Guys liked that, yeah? I already had plans to grab a burger with my best friend, Ryan, after this travesty of a hookup. He was going to love hearing about Joseph Sloth.
“You know how mothers can be,” he added.
“Mine’s dead.”
His eyes widened, and his cheeks flushed in embarrassment. I knew the effect my depressing childhood had on people. My parents died when I was twelve, and I bounced from foster home to foster home until I turned eighteen. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “I’m sorry to hear that.”