It was winter 2013 and Tinder was in full swing. The nervousness associated with online dating was ever present but the allure of having consensual temporary encounters left everyone's loins tingling with possibility. I should have known something was off when I saw the high camera angle of her photos and her name, “Harley.”
I'd been on a considerable winning streak and after a swipe right, yep, another match. She sends a message almost immediately which triggers my “this is bot” red flag. After passing a quick Turing test we start the banter and before long my second head starts talking.
She asks me where I live, I give her my number and after seeing blue iMessage bubbles, send her my address.
By now it's 0130 in the morning and I was firmly ready for bed when I'm surprised to hear a knock at the door. Turns out this woman just drove almost 2 hours to get here and boy, what's standing in my threshold is not what I signed up for.
It’s the same girl, just with +50lbs on her 5’2” frame. This is not right. The doubts start kicking in, but I push past the smell of Virginia Slims and let her in.
She starts talking and out comes a hideous sound of southern....something. It wasnt a coastal drawl nor a foothills twang. The only way to make it stop is to kiss her. Ah yes, the unfamiliar taste of cigarettes.
Things move to the couch and her mouth has moved from my face to my cock, at this point anything to keep her from talking again.
The thing I'd learned during my Tinder Sporting Days about chubby chicks is they give some incredibly enthusiastic head. I could muse regarding reasons why, but it's neither here nor there. So there I am, my eyes closed, being blown by an imaginary 10 when it’s closing time.
After re-orienting I figure there should at least be an attempt at a little reciprocation. I’ve made up my mind that I won’t fuck this lying asshole, but a casual finger blasting should be worth her drive up.
She unzips and I get to work, sliding my fingers past her folds, teasing her slit, plunging into the dep- sniff sniff In my mind I think, “What’s that smell?”
The intro to Colt .45 by Afroman starts looping in my brain. Never have I smelled pussy like this. I’ve endured plenty of putrid smells and sights in my past life in chemical factories, but this was unadulterated, fetid, body temperature rotten.
I power through. She begins to piss and the aroma is overwhelming. She’s close to climax when I stop, get up from the couch, head to the sink, and start scrubbing my fingers with barkeeper’s friend and Dawn.
“What the fuck?” she gasps. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I have herpes and I don’t want to give it to you.” I respond. “YOU WHAT!?” She buttons up and calls me a sick fuck. As she leaves I tell her she should see a doctor as I pull out the disinfectant to clean my couch and hardwood floor. My boss is due at my house to work on a project in 4.5 hours and there’s an eternity’s worth of scrubbing to do.
He arrives and remarks as to how fresh the house smells. I’m exhausted, we knock out the program we were developing and I tell him of the prior evening’s events.
It's been about 9 years and he hasn't forgiven me. I haven’t forgiven me.