Jeff

Not all men teach us a lesson when they’re done with us. Some are just fun for a while and then we move on with a few fond memories and another story to tell. Some teach us about ourselves, some teach us about trust and honesty, and some teach us about sex. But then there are those that so many women meet that teach us something much scarier. They teach us about trusting our instincts and about the danger of overly charming men. They teach us to question ourselves, to second guess every action, and to protect our sexual freedom. I went over 30 years of my life without ever encountering one of these men, until I met Jeff.

Jeff pursued me on instagram after following me and liking my posts for months. He was cute, light brown hair and dark eyes, a few years younger than I was but talked like a man who knew what he was doing. He lived in Aguora Hills or Thousand Oaks or somewhere way up in the valley that I was too lazy to drive to, so I didn’t really know if we’d ever wind up meeting. I liked talking to Jeff; we would talk about the thirsty guys in the comments on my instagram posts, my hilarious date stories, his date stories, and everything in between. We developed a comfortable and flirtatious friendship via text message, which I resisted even engaging in for at least a couple of weeks. It’s not so much that I play hard to get, but I’m a naturally guarded person and when I start to develop some sort of friendship (or more) with someone I truly take my time in making sure I want to give them access to my life. I like to think I’m a good judge of character, but when a guy is as charming and attractive as Jeff was, even I let my guard down.

After a month or so of talking and flirting, I finally agreed to hang out with Jeff. I very rarely would allow a man I’d never met to come to my place, but I felt comfortable with him and I have a taser. We’d had conversations about how men who message me are always expecting something, and I even told him about a time when a guy I met up with got a little too handsy and he acted appalled that someone would behave that way. He seemed to understand where I was coming from, even talked about how he had sisters and how he was very protective of them. I felt comfortable inviting him over because I thought I knew him at this point. I mean, come on, a guy with sisters he’s close to should be pretty safe, right? I was very clear with Jeff that even though I was letting him come over I was not guaranteeing anything physical with him and not to expect sex or anything. I know what kind of image I put out there, and as much as I love sex, I also still feel the need to make it clear that I don’t owe anyone sex. No one does. He said he understood and he was looking forward to getting to know me.

Yeah, sure he was.

Jeff showed up and was hotter in person. At least a foot taller than I was, a gorgeous smile and a typical southern California boy tan. He greeted me with a hug and I poured us each a glass of wine and we talked for a few minutes in my kitchen. He was so cute. I liked the way he looked at me and the way he smirked when he talked. I was still in the process of moving into my place so my living and dining area was completely empty, no furniture yet, and my roommate was asleep so I suggested that we hang out in my bedroom, the only room with furniture at the moment. He sat on the end of my bed and I walked around it and sat on the far corner of it from him. We sipped our wine, talked and joked for a little while and I was genuinely having a good time. That

didn’t last long though. We talked for maybe 5 minutes more before Jeff lunged forward and his tongue was down my throat. It kind of blindsided me and I pulled back and asked him to slow down. I’d never really experienced this before. Why wasn’t I into this? He was hot, I liked him, but for some reason I was suddenly uneasy and turned off. He slowed down and kissed me more gently then we started talking again…for a little while. I barely made it through one glass of wine before he was all over me, on top of me. I did not want this. I resisted for a bit, asking him to stop and slow down a couple of times before I just kind of said whatever and began unenthusiastically kissing him back. Why did I give in? I have never had a problem pulling away or not kissing back when I wasn’t interested. So why did I just let him kiss me? I wasn’t enjoying any of this. I’m always the first woman to tell others that you can say no, that you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. But here I was just giving in. I guess I felt like I owed him for driving all the way to Culver City to see me, or something. Maybe I felt obligated to at least kiss him because after all, I’d flirted with him, I’d invited him over. Everything in me knows that I did not owe him even the privilege of touching me, but for whatever reason, whatever deep, ingrained insecurity about feeling obligated to a man I apparently had, I passively kissed back. Maybe I thought that if I started kissing back I would begin to enjoy it and it would be okay. Maybe I thought he would be less aggressive if he knew I was into it. Or the thought I’m most ashamed of having: maybe he would like me more.

Things progressed to where Jeff was aggressively taking off my clothes. His hands seemed to be everywhere, and before I knew it I was completely naked, vulnerable, and he slipped his fingers inside of me. Too rough. Now, I’m not a prude or some kind of pussy, and I enjoy some moderately rough sex, but I didn’t enjoy this. Sex is supposed to be fun for everyone involved. I was not having fun. He then grabbed me by the hair with one hand and pulled me onto all fours. He slapped my ass so hard it made my eyes water as he pulled his dick out and basically shoved it in my mouth. I jerked my head back and told him to stop and that he was being too rough. He laughed, called me a slut, and said he knew I liked it.

But I didn’t like it. I didn’t want this.

I tried to pull back a few more times and told him to stop again. But he wasn’t stopping. He never let go of my hair and continued to slap my ass and sometimes my face, much harder than I ever wanted. I wanted to stop. I said stop. But he was twice my size and I thought if I just let him finish then it’ll be over. So I just let him fuck my face until he was done. I just wanted it to be over.

When Jeff finished he laughed, tossed my clothes at me, pulled his pants back on and said “I’m getting outta here.” I was shaking. I had never felt this way in my life. A combination of scared, angry, traumatized, and violated. I felt out of my body. You know when you have a dream that you’re throwing a punch or something but you’re moving in slow motion? I don’t even know how I got from naked, on my bed, to dressed and right in front of him, but it was as if my body finally allowed me to react, to fight back, and I felt my face get hot and I tried to slap him. He blocked my swing, and then acted like I was the crazy one and actually told me I should never hit someone. Like are you fucking kidding me?? You just basically raped my face bro, and you have

the audacity to tell me not to take a swing at you? Get the fuck out of here.

I told Jeff to get out and never to contact me again. I blocked him on everything, but not before sending him a lengthy text message letting him know that what he did to me was sexual assault and that I told him to stop. I don’t know if he even gives a shit or ever thinks about it. I’m sure I’m not the only girl he’s done something similar to, and he probably doesn’t think he’s ever done anything wrong. I cried myself to sleep that night. The next night too. My scalp was sore from how hard he pulled my hair and my ass was slightly bruised from how hard he slapped it. Everything hurt.

As time went by after my night with Jeff I started to think, was it my fault? I invited him over, I continued to kiss him, and ultimately I stopped fighting back. So did I have it coming? Did I deserve what happened because of our flirtatious conversations or the way I present myself sexually? Am I to blame for what happened? We are taught as little girls that when a boy is mean to you, pulls your hair on the playground, that means he likes you and that we should be flattered. When that boy pushes you down and kisses you, you are supposed to be thrilled. I never thought about the absurdity of that until I thought about the fact that I kissed Jeff back even though I didn’t want to. We literally teach little girls that abuse is a sign of affection. How fucking insane is that? As a 32-year-old woman with sexual confidence and a good head on her shoulders, that way of thinking was still in my head. I don’t have a daughter, and I doubt if I ever will, but if I do I will never EVER allow her to believe or accept that bullshit.

Hoe tip: Hoes can say no, too.

I have always been a woman who advocates for other women. I firmly believe that your sexuality does not make you any more or less of a person. No one should ever be made to feel ashamed of enjoying sex. Just because I enjoy sex does not mean I owe it to every guy who wants it. I should not have to hide who I am. I do not owe anyone anything. This is my body and I can do whatever I want with it. I deserve just as much respect as anyone else does, sex is my choice. It should have been my choice that night with Jeff, but he took that choice away from me.

I never heard from Jeff again and I don’t really think about him much or what he did to me. But what I do think about is how unfair it is that I spent so much time thinking I deserved what happened. I asked him to stop. I didn’t want to perform oral sex on him. I didn’t want to be slapped so hard I had marks on my ass for days. I didn’t want my hair pulled so hard my scalp was sore the next day. And I certainly did not deserve to get my face fucked when I told him to stop. I enjoy sex. I enjoy rough sex sometimes too. But on my terms, and with my consent. As women, we shouldn’t have to hide our sexuality or feel like we owe a man sex for any reason other than because we want to have sex with him. And in that same way, men shouldn’t feel that they owe a woman sex for any other reason either. Sex isn’t a form of currency. It should be fun for everyone involved. And after that night with Jeff, I promised myself that I’d never let anyone make me feel differently.

According to U.S. Rape Response Services, one in five women have been the victim of attempted or completed rape in their lifetime. One in two women have experienced or will experience some form of sexual violence other than rape in their lifetime. I’m part of that statistic now. Think about your friends, your family. Your best friends, your sisters, cousins, aunts. Not one single one of them deserved it. Sex is a choice, and everyone has the right to say no. I never reported Jeff to the police. I felt like it would just victimize me all over again, and at the end of the day it was a he-said she-said and likely nothing would happen. I knew I would be blamed for it and that he would argue that it was consensual. So many women never report their sexual assaults for the same reason. They get dragged through the mud and made to feel that they are to blame. I don’t know if that’s going to change, but I sure hope it does. Instead of teaching women they should censor themselves and be less sexual beings, how about we teach men to respect consent? While we’re out here being diligent and teaching women how to prevent rape, how about we spend time teaching men just not to rape?

I hope you read this, Jeff, and I hope you realize what you did and hope that next time a woman asks you to stop, you fucking listen.

*Name and locations have been changed for privacy reasons as no formal charges were filed*

Chames

You ever see a guy so insanely attractive you don’t even know what to do with yourself? The kind of guy who is distracting to look at? The kind of guy who immediately has you under his spell, and you start to figure out ways to get him to go home with you at least just once so you can tell your friends about it. A guy who knows he looks like a Greek god and you have no problem with allowing to hit and quit it and never call you again.

Well, that was Chames.

I went out to The Abbey, a gay club in West Hollywood, on Christmas Eve with my friend Ashleigh. It’s one of my favorite places in LA, especially on Christmas Eve. It’s become our tradition to go to The Abbey and drink tequila and slide $1s into sexy male go-go dancers booty shorts. (Hoe hoe hoe, right?)


We walked into the appropriately festive club, couples hiding from their families, scantily clad men wearing Santa hats, and no shortage of attractive people. As we went to the bar to order a drink, this gorgeous, shirtless man took our order while giving me the sexiest smile I think I’ve ever seen. I swear he looked like a hot, bearded Aladdin with a thick French accent. It was almost dizzying to look at him. Ashleigh and I got our drinks and retreated to a spot towards the side of the dancer’s stage to admire the view and catch up. Ashleigh was in the process of moving to Los Angeles from Australia and splitting up with her fiance, so we had lots of catching up to do.  But it was difficult to pay attention to Ashleigh because each time I went back to get another drink, I’d notice sexy Aladdin run from the other end of the bar to take my order.

After playing this game for a few rounds, Sexy Aladdin altered his serving loop and took a holding pattern by the area where Ashleigh and I were standing. This seemed odd to me—this guy was beyond out of my league and there was no way he was actually looking at me of all people, but then Ash nudged me and said, “He’s totally checking you out!”

“No way,” I said. But when I looked back, I caught his eye again. Sure enough he was up-downing my leggings and tight sweater, smiling that sexy smile again. Holy shit. Sexy Aladdin was definitely checking me out.

I began to throw glances his way too, returning his smile, and finally it happened. He crossed the dance floor to me, leaned in, and whispered in my ear, “You have the most beautiful smile, I have to take you to dinner. I’m Chames.” It was like James, but with a shhh in front, like he didn’t want me to tell his secret. Cue the fucking waterfall in my panties. I gave Chames my phone number, and he texted me later that night that he couldn’t wait to see me.

Our first date was the next day, Christmas. We were both away from our families and didn’t have the chance to go home for the holidays, so it seemed like a perfect opportunity for a first date. Chames took me to a little sushi place, one of the few places open in West Hollywood, and we had a great time. He was funny and sweet, a total gentleman and incredibly well dressed. I swear he was in head to toe Balmain. He confessed was a model, because of course he was, and that he was originally from Nice, France with family in Morocco. He was into real estate and had plans to become some sort of international real estate mogul, which was a pleasant surprise from the usual ambitions of the typical LA “model” guy. After dinner we kissed goodbye, and he said he had to see me again soon, so we scheduled another date for later that week.

We went on a couple more dates—a late night drink at a little speakeasy near my place and dinner at this incredible pizza place in Sherman Oaks. This boy knew to take me to pizza within the first 3 dates? Um yeah, he was definitely coming in hot. Pizza and champagne are pretty sure-fire ways to get into my pants, and after that night, finally, he came home with me.

Just seeing him naked was enough to turn my panties into his personal Slip N Slide. Chames was the perfect mix of sensual and aggressive, kissing that felt romantic and soft, but with a firm handful of my hair to show me who’s boss. As turned on as his body made me he seemed to be obsessed with mine, which only made me that much more into him and ready to do just about anything he wanted to. And the French dirty talk. He could have been telling me I was ugly and he hoped I got hit by a bus, I literally would have had no idea, but it sounded so hot, and the orgasms kept coming (pun absolutely intended).

We continued seeing each other and having amazing sex for about a month. And when I say amazing, I mean hot, sweaty, multiple orgasms, and positions you pretty much only see in porn, fully utilizing the fact that an entire wall of my bedroom is mirrored. I mean, I took dance growing up and everything but I had no idea I was still that flexible. I noticed that he never went down on me, which, in my experience isn’t all that surprising with men like Chames. It’s like the hotter they are the less they feel they have to try to please you. Not that it ever stopped me from agreeing to sex with the guy. We soaked my bed nearly every time which only turned him on more. I literally had to change my sheets every time we had sex.

Hoe tip: never assume you’re not a squirter.

I thought I just wasn’t able to do it, but apparently if you get into the right position and have a guy bang you out just right (and a nice sized dick helps) you too can have to do laundry every fucking day. I’ll be real honest here: I can do without squirting ever again. It really did nothing to enhance my sexual experience and as someone who likes having clean sheets at all times, it really just annoyed me when it was all said and done. But Chames was allll about the squirting. I swear the things we do for hot guys…

After about a  month of exciting sex and what I thought was the beginning of what could possibly turn into a relationship, things began to fizzle out. The nice dates and sweet texts stopped, and the only times I would see Chames were when I went to The Abbey or when he’d come over and fuck my brains out, then leave. Seeing Chames became less frequent as our schedules were very opposite, and it became purely sexual. (Or maybe it had been sexual the whole time? Maybe he was simply playing the game well and I was too blinded by his beauty to care.) As with most things, I started to lose interest. Mostly because I don’t particularly enjoy just being a thing of convenience, but also because he didn’t eat pussy, and I don’t care how hot you are, you gotta eat pussy to remain on my roster.

I still hear from Chames from time to time, and I’m sure I’ll fuck him again at some point because it’s fun to have a hot French model bang you out every now and then. For now, I’ll see him at The Abbey and brag to anyone within earshot that I’ve hit that. Guys like Chames are so alluring and it’s fun bragging rights to say I’ve had sex with this guy who’s so hot most women would only dream of sleeping with him. Next time I don’t think I’ll delude myself into believing this would ever be more than just sex. Charm, hotness, and a French accent can make you believe all kinds of things, but at the end of the day a spade is a spade, and a fuckboy is a fuckboy.

John

Okay, I’ll be honest. Sometimes I go on Tinder dates just because I’m bored and want to spice up my hook up rotation. It might be a little misleading, but come on, who’s on Tinder to find their soul mate anyway?

 

Enter John. A random Tinder match that I decided to say “fuck it” and grab a drink with one Monday night. We agreed to meet at a bar between our places and, as per usual, I was running a few minutes late. I almost never care about being on time to dates like this. No, I’m not going to make a guy wait for an hour or anything absurd, but I’m also not going to stress out about arriving exactly at 8pm for a guy I’m pretty much intending on hooking up with a couple of times and never seeing again.

 

Alright, I’m an asshole. Whatever.

 

Anyway, I walk in to find John sitting at the end of the bar. He was cute, not hot, but I thought “he’ll do.” He turned out to be actually really cool and our conversation was great. He was also a writer, and had read my blog and was enthusiastically asking questions about my social media and point of view. It was flattering to be complimented by someone who was a significantly more accomplished writer than I am. We talked about everything, our childhoods, our past relationships, what we liked in bed, and it turned out this guy was definitely my sexual equal, even suggesting we hit up a swinger’s party sometime, and I decided I was definitely going home with him that night.

 

We kept drinking and laughing, and began making out at the bar. I hate being those people but when I’ve had enough tequila I could probably mount a guy in public and not give a fuck who’s watching. He had his hand running up the inside of my thigh and could tell I wasn’t wearing panties under my leggings. To be fair, I pretty much never wear them, but I could tell it turned him on. I playfully pushed his hand away and told him he better take me home so I could sit on his face.

 

Look, I never claimed to be the classiest girl in Los Angeles. I blame tequila.

 

He quickly got his check and called an uber and we were on our way to his place. Once we got there, it wasn’t long before my leggings were off and he was face down in between my thighs. Well done, John, well done. After he finished me off and we kissed for a while it was my turn to gladly return the favor. Now, I know every girl thinks they give a great blowjob, but I’m not lying when I say I have talent. As soon as I got started John’s eyes rolled back and he was extremely vocal about his appreciation. I kept going and just as my ego is at an all time high from John’s obvious enjoyment of my oral skills, he grabs my hair and says my name.

 

No wait. Not my name. His ex girlfriend’s name.

 

I stop everything and jerk my head back. “Kristin? Yeah, dude my name is Meredith.” I was so insulted and pissed. Like okay, fine, you’re not over your ex, but how fucking hard is it to just not say anything while your dick is literally in my mouth? Maybe this was just karma for essentially using him for sex with no intention of actually dating this guy. Or maybe he was just an idiot. He was rightfully embarrassed and clearly felt like shit, but I was just too annoyed to even entertain his apology so I rolled over, said goodnight, and went to sleep.

 

Hoe tip: don’t hook up with guys who aren’t over their exes.

 

When I woke up in the morning he was trying to kiss me and be apologetic, and while I kind of didn’t care, I was still a little annoyed. He obviously still felt horrible about the situation, so I milked it for some more unreciprocated oral sex, and then called myself an uber. As I left he asked if he could make it up to me still and I just rolled my eyes and said “congratulations John, you made the blog.”

 

To be perfectly honest, I’m not even that mad. I got head 3 times and didn’t really have to do anything, and I don’t even have to call him again. Not bad for a Monday night; thanks John!

Michael

You know how you have that checklist for your ideal man? After dating for 15 years, I’ve gotten pretty specific in what I’m looking for. And I consider myself lucky if the guy on the other side of the table checks off any of these boxes, let alone most of them.

Until Michael.

I met Michael on Bumble, and before I ever even spoke to him I was extremely interested. His profile revealed that he was a good looking, thirtysomething entrepreneur who had traveled the world and decided to settle down in Southern California and find someone real.

Well I’m fucking real, Michael. Sign me up.

I messaged Michael and we chatted a little back and forth before we exchanged numbers. The text conversation was easy, and once the conversation got going, those boxes on my list continued to be checked off one by one.

He was a millionaire who owned his own island. He was attractive, funny, and adventurous. And he wanted a woman to take care of and enjoy his retirement with.

At age 37? I could think of a few things to keep Michael busy in his retirement. I’m not a gold digger, but every woman likes a successful man.

Michael invited me out to a nice restaurant and I was beyond excited to meet him. I recognized him immediately—tall with a warm smile and all of the gentlemanly manners I’ve come to love from growing up in the South.

Dinner was amazing. The conversation flowed perfectly and we laughed the whole time. I told him about my Instagram “fame,” and he loved it, and thought I had potential to do big things. More boxes checked off.

Once dinner was over, he took me home and walked me to my door, kissed me on the cheek, and said he’d love to see me again soon.

We scheduled another date a couple of nights later for a few drinks, had the same great conversation and banter as the first night, and at the end of the night we kissed. I felt like this was something real, like I could see myself with this guy for a long time.

I went over to his an incredibly nice condo (as was expected) that weekend and we had a great night just enjoying each other’s company.

Then, finally, we had sex. So cliché, waiting until the third date, but I thought maybe that’s how it was supposed to be? The sex was good, nothing over the top exciting to write home about, but it was good. We both had fun and felt comfortable with each other.

That night, Michael gave me a “just because” gift. Not flowers or something he saw in the check-out line at Whole Foods that he thought I’d like—an Alexander McQueen bracelet. Holy shit! It was beautiful and clearly expensive, and I was totally surprised. I loved it.

Michael and I continued to see each other for a couple of weeks, and I noticed that when I wasn’t with him, I really didn’t miss him. I thought: Maybe that’s how a healthy relationship is supposed to be. One in which I’m not obsessing over what he’s doing or who he’s with. I felt comfortable and knew that I’d hear from him at some point that day and there was no need to wonder if he still liked me or not. Maybe this was what normal dating is supposed to be.

Or maybe something was off.

One night he invited me out to dinner somewhere really nice, and I decided to dress to kill. The top buttoned all the way to my neck, but I made sure to leave an extra button undone just to show off a little for him. He complimented the way I looked when he picked me up, kissed me, and we were off to the restaurant. While at the table, mid-conversation, Michael did something that left me almost speechless: he reached across the table and buttoned my top.

He buttoned my fucking top.

I was so shocked I couldn’t even say anything and just carried on conversation as normal. I literally had no idea what to even say. Who the hell do you think you are? I’m a 32-year-old woman with a great rack, I can display my cleavage if I so choose!

His gesture was stuck in my head the entire night, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. We went back to his condo, and I tried to let it go, but I couldn’t. I stayed the night and left early the next day. I agreed to see him one more time. I thought, “It’s not a big deal, but if it happens again, say something.”

Was it wrong that I wanted to check off the box of him appreciating my body?

We decided to spend the day at his place hanging out, lounging around. After we did watched a movie and had sex a couple times, he said he needed a few things from Whole Foods. So, like a real basic LA couple, we headed for the Whole Foods on Santa Monica. Halfway through shopping, Michael realized he needed more than a few things and grabbed a cart. I helped him grocery shop, and I decided to snag a bottle of water and a soup to go.

As I helped Michael load his cart full of groceries onto the conveyor belt, I placed my soup and water at the end of his purchase. As the cashier began ringing his items, Michael put the plastic divider between his things and my water and soup.

No fucking way, bro!

I have $15. I don’t care. I can buy my own soup and water but also, what the fuck, man? We just grocery shopped like the goddamn basic LA couple that does the fucking crossword in bed on Sundays and goes to game night with our boring couple friends, and you can’t throw my fucking soup and water in with your over $200 worth of stuff, Michael? You refuse to let me pay for anything when we go out to dinner and drinks but a bottle of water and soup is where you draw the line?

What the fuck?

I decided to slowly end things after that. I declined his next couple offers to go out, and he told me he understood and that there were no hard feelings. And that was that. But after a few days, he texted me asking for the bracelet back, which left me with a moral dilemma: When you give a gift, isn’t that the point—that it’s a gift?

Bad gift giver: check.

Either way, I’m not one to stand on principal, and I said that I was happy to return it. I asked if I should send it to him or let him know when I was home that day to stop by. But I certainly wasn’t going to go out of my way for this bullshit. And after I forgot to text him later that day, he messaged me the following morning saying he would be around if I was going to be home to stop by. Unfortunately, I hadn’t stopped my life so Michael could get my gift back, and I was busy and didn’t respond.

The next day he messaged again about the bracelet and I finally responded that I’d get it to him ASAP since it was clearly such an issue to him. I’d just been incredibly busy and not around. But we missed each other a few more times, and then shit got real:

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Sad? Who are you Donald Trump? Damn dude. First of all, it was a fucking gift. Second, we’d agreed things were over and I’d been busy for the last 5 days. Thirdly, chill the fuck out!

I laughed it off and realized that I got out of this relationship before things got worse. Because Michael clearly has issues. I had a good laugh about the guy and what an asshole he was with my friends and moved on.

After Michael was tequila’d out of my system, I headed straight back on Bumble and went on with my life. Michael didn’t get to waste another minute of my time.

But you know what they say about 37-year-old retired guys with small dicks—they always come back for the last word. And about 3 weeks later this text message came through:

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Hoe Tip: If you accept an expensive gift from a man, you have to know he’s trying to control you with his money.

I looked back at my entire interaction with Michael, and I realized how he controlled and influenced every part of the situation with his financial status. He wanted a woman to sit there and be pretty and belong to him. Chances are that up until he met me he’d been pretty successful at it. I felt stupid in hindsight for being so preoccupied with checking off my boxes that I failed to see the warning signs.

It’s easy to think you’re having a great time when the backdrop is somewhere nice. Fuck that. I need a man who checks of the box of respecting me as an independent woman.

And remember, gents: sometimes a cup of soup means more than an expensive piece of jewelry.

Jason

I matched with Jason on bumble shortly after moving to LA, but our communication was very sporadic and I didn’t really think we’d ever wind up meeting. First of all, he was gorgeous, and I almost assumed it was a fake profile given how infrequently he would message me and how long it took for him to ask for my number. But I held onto the idea that he was a real person because he was a catch by any standards. Tall with dark eyes and hair, a perfect smile and chiseled body. He was in his mid-thirties, a former model who owned a business and had homes in Denver and Beverly Hills, looking for something with substance. Hello dream guy! After a couple of months of back and forth communication, Jason and I were finally going out to dinner and drinks and I was really excited.

Jason walked in and I felt like the heart-eyes emoji. He was just as good-looking in person, and our chemistry was amazing. He had me laughing all throughout dinner, and we wound up sitting there for hours before we realized the place was closing and we were one of the last couples there. I’d taken an uber to the restaurant, and Jason offered to take me home. We arrived at my place and he got out to walk me to my door, and the goodnight kiss was like fireworks. I could not wait to see Jason again, and he quickly asked if I was free the next night. He came over the following night and we had a couple glasses of wine and paid absolutely zero attention to Netflix (no idea what we were even watching), and there was no chance of us keeping our clothes on.

The sex was amazing. He was generous and immediately started working his way down my body with his mouth until he was going down on me. We rolled around in the sheets for what seemed like an hour, and then once again in the morning before he left. Jason was definitely a keeper, and I was sad I’d have to wait another two weeks to see him again as he was heading back to Denver for some business meetings. He promised he’d let me know as soon as he was back in town and I couldn’t wait. Two weeks go by and I get a text from a girlfriend:

“Is this your dude?”

She had apparently matched with him previously on bumble as well and he was messaging her, all while telling me he was still in Denver. Okay, maybe he just got back, no big deal. She kept messaging back and forth just to see if he would admit to being back or get some more intel. Maybe Jason wasn’t as great as he seemed. He made weekend plans with her, all while ignoring me. I waited for him to finally respond, and when he did it was as if nothing had happened and he asked me out for the weekend as well. I said yes, and couldn’t be mad, after all I was going out with other people too and we’d only hung out twice, no harm no foul. But I was immediately suspicious when his timeline of being out-of-town didn’t add up.

I told another friend of mine the story and she wasn’t buying his excuses. She decided to do a little FBI work and what we found blew my mind. Jason, a self-proclaimed “good Christian man” had an entire family back in Denver. A wife, kids, the whole 9 yards, and he was just looking for his LA side piece. I went back and forth on whether or not I should track down the wife on facebook and tell her, or if I should just leave it alone and ghost on him. Jason made that choice pretty clear for me. The day before we were to go out again he texts me:

“Hey, you’re really great and a lot of fun, but I just don’t see this going anywhere. Take care.”

Looks like Jason either found a side piece who wouldn’t ask questions, or maybe he had no intention of seeing me again after he slept with me. Either way, I dodged a bullet. I have no interest in being the other woman, and for Jason’s wife’s sake, I hope he’s keeping it in his pants.

Pete

Let me just start by saying Pete is a categorically unsexy name, so when he messaged me on snapchat I wasn’t exactly optimistic that he would be hot. I have never been more happy to be wrong in my life. Pete snapped a few pictures of himself to me and I was almost positive he was fake–that’s how hot he was. He said he’d seen me on bumble and wanted to know more and I was happy to tell him anything he wanted to know. Here’s the thing about dating in Los Angeles: people are hot. Beautiful women and men are everywhere, and I am very much aware of where I fall on the LA hotness scale.

Spoiler alert: it’s not high.

You see, back in Texas, I’d say I could be considered a solid 8. It never really occurred to me when I moved out here that number rating would not transfer. Here, in the land of beautiful people, I’m pushing a hard 6 on a good day. I don’t have a flat stomach or fake tits or an ass you can bounce a quarter off of. I probably outweigh all of my female friends here by a good 20 pounds. So when an insanely gorgeous guy with chiseled abs and the face of a slightly fairer skinned 28 year old John Stamos says he wants to go out with me, I’m naturally skeptical he is a. real, and b. into me. But Pete was both.

I first met Pete at a dark lounge bar around the corner from his place in Hollywood. Convenient. Within 5 minutes of meeting this guy I thought “yep, I’m fucking him tonight.” Clearly, Pete thought the same thing. We barely made it through two or three drinks before we had to get out of there. As we’re walking, his hands are all over me and we keep stopping to make out and grope each other. He was aggressive and dominant and it turned me on like crazy as he would push me up against a telephone pole to kiss me while he had a firm fistful of my hair. Pete and I wanted each other so bad and before I knew it I was bent over the hood of a car with my skirt pushed up, one of his hands full of my hair and the other on my waist, right there along the street where he lived. After a couple of cars drove by we decided to head into his building, where we couldn’t help ourselves and we started going at it in the elevator on the way up to his apartment. Once inside, Pete threw me on his bed and wore me out. It was so hot, so animalistic and rough, and after we were done he laid with me and asked me about my life, my family, and genuinely seemed to want to get to know me.

We were both clear with each other that neither of us were looking for anything serious, and I think that’s why this thing with Pete and I worked so well. We could talk about things, and genuinely be friends, but we knew that sex was just sex and that it didn’t mean anything more than that. I saw Pete maybe 5 or 6 more times, stopping by his place for a lunch time quickie when I was in the neighborhood, heading over when I was leaving a bar at 2am, or just for a low key night in, involving lots and lots of rough, sweaty, hot sex. I even stopped by Pete’s place one time on my way to a date with another guy. I felt a little guilty about that one, but when the sex is that good how can I pass it up?

Things cooled off with Pete, and I’m not really even sure why. Our schedules just got busy and it became less logistically easy to meet up, so we just kind of drifted. We’ve matched again on bumble and tinder since then and always make jokes about it, but nothing really ever materializes. Maybe I’ll text Pete tonight and see what he’s up to…

Matt

You  ever hear that phrase “young, dumb, and full of cum?” Well, that was Matt. I met him through Instagram, oddly enough, when he slid right in my DMs after saying he saw me on bumble and had to take me out sometime. Matt was cute, and had a nice body, but was only 25—well under my typical age cutoff by a couple of years, but I figured why not. He seemed sweet and eager to please, so I agreed to go on a date with him. I honestly can’t even remember where our first date was, I just remember him being so naive and sweet and so clearly not cut out for dating in Los Angeles. He had a thick Minnesota accent and was average height at best, but he had a nice smile and he was sweet.

We wound up having sex on maybe the first or second date, I’m not sure, but he definitely knew what to do when it came to oral. I think he was just so excited to be with an older woman he basically did anything to get me off, which I appreciated, and honestly loved that I could be so totally selfish with this guy and he didn’t seem to mind. And then I realized that this kid had never had casually dated in his life. He literally only knew how to be a boyfriend and I was being his teacher on how to fuck without feelings.

Apparently, I’m a shitty teacher, because this boy fell fast.

I realized it when we went for a hike at Runyon. Halfway up the trail this guy was trying to hold my hand and when  we got to the summit to rest for a minute he started trying to hug and kiss me. Okay dude, I for sure smell horrible and taste like dirt and sweat, the last thing I wanna do is make out with you. I should have called it all off then because I knew I did not want to date this guy, I was just in it for the sex. But being the true asshole I am, I kept stringing him along for a while for whenever I didn’t have plans or needed a date or something. I started to feel kind of bad, but then I thought, wait a minute. This is EXACTLY when men do all the time, and nobody seems to bat an eye.

So why can’t I?

I felt like I’d been clear with him in that I did not want a relationship and that this was casual, so where was the wrongdoing? Isn’t that what men do? I’m not a dick for this, right? I continued to go out with and sleep with Matt until one day at his place when we were watching a movie. I don’t remember what was on, but I realized in that moment that Matt was so, so dumb. He kept asking questions every 5 minutes that I felt like were so totally unnecessary. “Why is he acting like that?” “What is she doing?” “What is going on?” I DON’T KNOW, MATT, SHUT UP AND WATCH THE FUCKING MOVIE!

Fewer thing turn me off more than a dumb guy. I knew after that I was done. But here was the hard part about dating like a man: how do I end it when the guy hasn’t done anything wrong, I’m just over it? So I did the shitty thing, that I HATE having done to me, and I ghosted. I’d say I went at least a couple weeks without responding to Matt’s texts when I think he finally got the hint and stopped trying to reach me. Until this text came through:

“I miss your tight pussy.”

Oh Matt. I don’t even know how to answer that. So I didn’t. Fuck, I’m an asshole. I could have at least given him the classic “it’s not you, it’s me” (see Tyler), line, but no, I just went MIA on the poor kid without any explanation. I don’t exactly know where Matt stood with this, but the next thing I knew I saw on Instagram that he had moved back to Minnesota and was done with Los Angeles.

Oops. Sorry, Matt.