We’re already halfway into January, and I don’t even have a date lined up. Last year was a complete disaster. I’m never using dating apps again. The losers on there are not only creeps, but some of them are con artists.
Two of them tried to lure me into sending them money for their supposedly ill relatives. One had a grandmother on her deathbed, and the other one’s sister would die in the next twenty-four hours of a brain tumour if she didn’t undergo surgery.
I blocked both of the scammers. But a few days later, I wondered if either of the cases was genuine. I didn’t care about the grandmother dying. I mean, when it’s your time, it’s your time. But the guy with the sister either was a highly experienced wordsmith or she really needed the surgery. Neither of the cases was my problem, so I felt that I had made the right decision not to send them money.
As a joke, I considered unblocking the guy with the sister and asking him if she was still alive. That would be highly inappropriate if she really was ill. Oh, well. I guess everything’s fair in love and war. And dating feels like a constant battle.
I’ve just hit thirty-five. I know—that’s a big number. But the years flew by. In my early twenties, I focused on college. I had to get a degree to secure myself financially if I didn’t have a man to take care of me. And even if I got married, nothing lasts forever. He could leave me for a younger woman, and I would struggle to make ends meet if I had no education and work experience.
After graduating, I travelled the world while working remotely for an advertising agency. That was the best time of my life. I visited exotic locations, ate delicious food, partook in amazing social activities and met some fantastic people. Of course, most of them were guys. I didn’t plan it like that; it just happened.
It’s not my fault that I’m a leggy, tall blonde with green eyes and a charming smile. Men in South America and some parts of Europe are extremely direct and flirtatious. I enjoy that. Even if they weren’t my type, their boldness turned me on several times.
Since I’m the only one who has access to my diary and I’ll be dead by the time someone reads it, I can jot down some of my naughty experiences. The first one that comes to mind is Julio. Oh, God. Talk about mind-blowing sex. When somebody says that they’re going to bang your brains out, you interpret it figuratively.
Julio shook my core with his aggressive thumping. I felt like his dick had penetrated my stomach, and I lost my consciousness several times. My eyes rolled to the back of my head, and I regained consciousness as he rattled me awake. While drifting off, I felt a wave of orgasms drowning me as they crashed on top of each other.
Just as I thought that I’d completely passed out, Julio’s thrusts revived me. I was impressed that he kept up the rapid pace for over half an hour. His experience was evident.
I came twice, and he finished on my face. The sex was so hot that I wouldn’t have minded if he had gotten me pregnant. At least, that’s how I felt in the heat of the moment. Later, I would’ve regretted it and possibly have gotten rid of the baby. I know that’s a terrible thing to consider, but I want to raise a child with his or her father.
Julio was a player. He didn’t call me after our night together. I really wanted to see him again so that I could relive the mindblowing orgasms, but it wasn’t meant to be. I guess he was too busy pleasuring other women.
The other encounter that stands out is the threesome in Kenya. I can’t remember the names of the two guys. Ugh, it doesn’t even matter. The only important thing is that they were packing. I never fantasised about being with two black guys at the same time; it just happened.
I was in the middle of the dance floor throwing my arms up and screaming after having numerous tequila shots. And then, I felt something hard poking my bum. I looked over my shoulder and saw a guy with the whitest teeth I’d seen, smiling and grinding me.
Not wanting to be a party pooper, I carried on dancing, thinking that he’d eventually back off. But he didn’t. His dick got harder, and his hands wandered all over my body. Another guy, who I later found out was his friend, glided across the dance floor towards me and grinded me from the front.
My drunken stupor prevented me from walking out of the club, and my two companions were kind enough to escort me to a taxi. We ended up at my hotel room, and they undressed me in a jiffy.
Next thing I knew, I sucked the one guy’s dick while the other one rammed my ass. Thank goodness that neither of them came inside of me.
I had plenty more encounters, but those two were probably my raunchiest.
After visiting more than a hundred countries, I went back home, bought an apartment with the hopes of settling down.
I met Ryan while walking along the waterfront. I was convinced that he would be my husband. The first date was amazing. He did everything correctly, impressing me immensely.
On our fourth date, he told me that he was serious about making our relationship official. I was excited until he asked me the dumbest question: How many men have you been with?
I was baffled. How dare he ask me such a personal question?
He noticed my facial expression change and said that his intention wasn’t to upset me. Well, too late. He didn’t even have the nerve to apologise, but dared to maintain his frame of inquisition.
I replied, “I’m not comfortable answering such a personal question.”
He escorted me to my building, and we shook hands before parting. I never heard from him again.
I went on several dates after meeting Ryan, and most of the guys probed into my past. I don’t know what their deal was. A woman’s history is none of a man’s business.
Of all the dating challenges I faced, that’s the one hurdle I couldn’t get over.
I’m seriously considering throwing in the towel romantically. The nosey guys are extremely unattractive, and my experience has shown me that they’re everywhere.
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