D is for Disappointment
It hasn’t been a secret that I’ve fallen into a funk since coming back to Vegas. I’d rather spend my nights mixing my meds with strong drinks and shallow company, pouring over my many failures in life than to bother slathering on rouge and getting back on the dick circuit. And as I’ve said before, Las Vegas is the ninth level of hell when it coming to dating. So there I was sitting at the bar one night, three sheets to the wind in a pair of jammie pants and my favorite serial killer Crocs when a rather striking specimen walked into the bar.
At first I gave him no mind. He was clearly good looking and much much younger. I was sitting across the bar in unwashed clothes rocking my homeless look, a real vagabond. A few minutes later he waved to my friend and she went scurrying off. After a few loud whinies like an excited pony, she brought him back to sit with us. I again paid him no mind, not even glancing in his general direction or making small talk. Eventually I moved around to the other side of the bar to give me (and Cutie) some space where I could plainly see him. He looked military with a high and tight buzz cut. He had thick tribal tattoos coming down his right arm giving him even more of a fuckboy vibe. The hair on his arms was thin but his veins popped out, and I am a sucker for vascularity. So my girlfriend and he chatted away while I threw back premade gin cocktails until she made a calculated comment about both of us being single. I instinctually rolled my eyes but engaged the conversation as it turned to dating and sex and all my favorite banter. He dropped a couple hints of interest but in my state of dishevelment, I really couldn’t tell if he was making a pass at me or was just generally flirty with middle aged women who’ve fallen on hard times. That is, until he said “You should get my number.” I handed my phone straight over. He beep boop bopped bopped and thirty second later D on Demand was saved to my contacts.
To my surprise, he texted me the next day. We went back and forth for several hours and it felt a lot like a dating “thing”. I was reluctant but didn’t want to scare him off by being myself so soon so I went along with the driest conversation I’d ever had in my life. It was nothing but pulling teeth and one word answers, a stark difference from the guy I met the night before. I went to my friend and asked is this dude really this uninteresting? Was I that drunk last night? Didn’t he seem moderately interested the night before? I had to admit to myself that maybe, just maybe, I was so intoxicated that this entire interaction was simply a misunderstanding and nothing else. Let’s be honest, why else would he be picking up random hobos at the local tavern.
He continued to text, my interest waning with each LOL. In fact, our contact was hanging on by the fragile thread that I didn’t have a life and therefore had no other options, and what a thin thread it was. I moved into the new apartment and in a roundabout way he let me know that he couldn’t help me move but was available, later, without his kids. This is direct guy speak for don’t inconvenience me with tasks, but I have time to get my dick sucked. Duly noted. That was pretty much the final straw for me as I grew up in a day and age where men did things just like move, or change a tire, or hang a tv in the hopes of getting a blow job. This was old school rhetoric. Now here we are twenty years later in a dating world that I barely recognize where men don’t even pretend to be gentlemen anymore and women carry their own bags. It’s not for me. So I moved my own shit, changed my own tire, and hung my own tv, keeping my knees unchaffed and my dry spell going strong.
In true guy fashion, he didn’t disappear for long. He’d still send me ambiguous texts here and there to stay relevant and on the radar. Smart because you never know when someone is at their absolute lowest and might just decide to fuck someone they’d already deemed completely unfuckable. Case in point - me. So there I was almost two months later, having an absolutely horrible day, when up he popped on my screen wanting to “hang out”. I told him I could use an orgasm, not that I even halfway expected that to happen. In fact, his dry personality and complete lack of effort had convinced me that this might be the most boring sex I’d ever had. I expected him to show up and get undressed: no heat, no excitement, no foreplay whatsoever. I imagined he would lean back expecting his precoital blow job, as all men do, a long standing tradition as we all know how hard it is for them to get in the mood. Then I would likely get on top for two reasons: #1 He seemed like he wasn’t really into doing any work and #2 It wasn’t like I had any choice if I was actually trying to enjoy myself.
I start drinking at the house, a rookie mistake because there is a direct correlation between how much alcohol I drink and the number of orgasms I have. But I found myself in deep need of a libation as I dragged my ass across the street, without makeup and dressed again in sweats, only to potentially fuck a guy I’d already decided sucked. I got to the bar and there he was. Still cute, still moderately disinteresting. As I drank, he became a little better. Conversation wasn’t as awful as it had been in the past and while I looked at him through gin colored goggles, I decided to do it. Don’t misunderstand me when I say I wanted to sleep with him. What I wanted was to knock the dust off and get back in the game, to reclaim my power that I lost with the last excuse for a man I dated. I didn’t want to have sex with him specifically. There was no desire, no excitement. He was simply a dick in the right place at the right time.
We got to my apartment where he walks around for a quick second, trying to make strained smalltalk until I pointed to the bedroom and instructed him to take his clothes off. I was a little nervous, just because I hadn’t ridden a bike in awhile but still fairly intoxicated. I crawled naked into bed next to him and there he laid, on his back, as if expecting a present. The first kiss was so hollow, so uneventful, and I just knew the entire 15 minutes was going to go this way. I’m a lady so I’ll give you the abridged version. In terms of excitement, on a scale of 1-10, we might’ve peaked at a 3. I (big surprise!) did all the work. Then he had the audacity to ask me "Did you come?” Well sir, if you have to ask then you fucking know I didn’t. I lied because I didn’t want to break the lifelong streak he had of women lying to him about his disappointing performance. Everyone got dressed and I hugged him at the door.
In all honesty, the only person I’m really disappointed in is myself. Not because I picked up a rando for a good times but because, as always, he’d already exemplified less than acceptable behavior and I rewarded him with a no effort orgasm for basically being the dick that he told me he was. To kid myself into believing that sex with this guy was going to be anything but subpar was an affront to myself and my vagina. I knew he was going to be a lackluster, low effort, lazy fuck, and that’s exactly what I got. In retrospect I should have known that a man who writes D on Demand under his name but can’t meet because he’s got his kids or making kimchi or washing his clothes but might be able to meet up next Thursday between 8:30-8:45 because he has to work in the morning is not “on demand”. That is on a tight schedule, just trying to fit a low effort fuck in where he can. So the next time you meet a guy while you’re out and he seems kinda cute, kinda funny, kinda interesting, follow it up the next day with a quick text. If he’s anything other than magnificent, throw the whole man out and start over.