“So, is this what you do? You bring girls over from Tinder, put on some Netflix, and have sex with them?”
I look down at the stunning, petite, South American woman I brought over for the night. Her eyes are half open, her body still shuddering; we’re both coming down from our sex high while Joe Goldberg is doing his weird ass inner dialogue about Guinevere Beck.
I take a moment to reflect on my situation, my victory. The woman curled up next to me was a challenge. The shit tests were endless, the LMR I had to push through tonight would have frustrated the hell out of the old me, but listening to her deep sighs and feeling her trace her fingers on my chest made me feel proud.
A light tap on my chest brought me back to the present.
“Hm? What’s up?”
“Answer my question.”
We lock eyes and I see that she’s not backing down; she really wants to know.
“Guilty as charged.” I say with a smirk.
“...hm.” She says then lays her head on my chest.
A few minutes pass before I’m hit with the question.
“So, when was the last time a girl was over here?”
Ice shoots through my veins and my mind starts to reel. My old, BP way of thinking starts to come back. What if I answer incorrectly? Will I lose this one? We only had sex once, I want more! We should lie! I take a deep breath and try to keep cool.
“Interesting question. The real question is why is Joe acting out over this one chick”? I say.
“Yeah, he’s weird. Now, answer my question.” She says, now propped up on her elbow and looking at me with a raised eyebrow.
“Wednesday. I-, yeah, Wednesday.” I say. I was almost about to explain that even though another prospect came over that night, nothing happened. But she didn’t need to know that.
“Wow, we move quick, don’t we”? she scoffs. At this point, she sits up completely up and checks her phone.
More minutes pass, but it’s awkward now. Do I explain that nothing happened? Do I ask her what’s wrong? No, I’m just going to sit here and watch a show about a stalker. She let’s out a huge sigh, abruptly gets up and heads to the bathroom.
At this point, my inner BP voice is loud and annoying. You fucking idiot, you ruined it. Why couldn’t you lie? Now we’ll never fuck this chick again. Go and explain yourself! Tel her we’ll stop talking to other people. Do something, anything! No, I’m going to sit here and watch a show about a stalker...but I’ll check my phone too.
The first message of interest I see is from the chick from Wednesday asking when we can meet again. The next message is from a prospect saying she hasn’t heard from me in a while and wants to catch up. My matches and messages have decent numbers on my datings apps. After closing my phone, it clicks. I have options. I. Have. Options. If this doesn’t work out, I have at least two options. If those don’t work out, grab more from the apps. Holy shit, I have options.
At the time of this revelation, she comes out of the bathroom. We make eye contact and she rolls her eyes.
“Well, it’s getting late. I’m thinking of heading out.” she says with a bite in her tone.
She stops in her tracks and looks at me funny before putting on her clothes and packing her things. In that moment, we both felt the power dynamic change. She could no longer hold the power of pussy over me and she knew it. I had options, I had power.
I walk her to her car, give her a kiss, and tell her to text me when she gets home safely. A text was sent later that night and I replied with a thumbs up.
This happened Saturday and I’ve not heard from her since. Does it sting? A little. Do I want to reach out and see if what I said made her mad/hurt? Of course. However, it’s finally clicked that no matter the outcome, I’ll make it. Why? Because I have options.
Thanks for reading 🙏🏾