TL;DR- Tinderina becomes “my type” by rationalizing it as an attempt to prove me wrong.
“...You’re Not My Type”
“An open Facebook page is simply a psychiatric dry erase board that screams, “Look at me. I am insecure. I need your reaction to what I am doing, but you’re not cool enough to be my friend. Therefore, I will just pray you see this because the approval of God is not all I need.” ― Shannon L. Alder
It started with meeting this cute chick from Tinder named Tinderina at a bar.
Tinder chick’re hot, but Tinderina was high-tier. She wore this button-up thing with her tits spilling out. Says she just ‘threw it on’ and didn’t realize. Yeah. Oookay. Tinderina’d drove 45 minutes to come to the bar. Came in with her tits pouring all over the place like a couple of stuck faucets.
Sex was on the table. All over that damn table. Cake.
Well, from the jump all she dishes out is shit test after shit test. Poke after poke. Prod after prod. She just talks and talks and talks… starts to grind on my gears a bit. Better shit to do, you know? I start getting bored, not really getting anywhere.
She stops and asks what’s wrong. Why I’m so quiet. "I’m bored. You're boring me."
She says something like “well, I’m soooorry I’m boring you!” She clams up. Fucking finally.
It didn’t last long. “How daaare you! No one’s eeever told me that I was boring!”
"Well then no one’s been straight with you. Like lettuce'd been stuck in your teeth all day. Maybe you have dishonest friends."
She fucking flips. Blah blah you’re suuuch an asshole. Blah blah you’re sooo mean. Blah blah no guy’s ever treated me this way. A fucking princess, this one.
I check my phone during her lil' temper tantrum. A text from Candy. An invitation to spend the night. Sure thing v. this Tinderina's hissy fit? Easiest decision of my life.
Rock beats scisso–I mean–actions beat words. Head for the door. She stops me.
“And wheeere do you think yooou’re going?”
“Whose Caaandy?!” “So you’re leeeaving me?!” You know, with that extra sing-song-y inflection-y shit pissed off girls paste at the end of every sentence. I'd had enough. I tell her:
“You’re not my type.”
That shut her up.
She gives me this “did you just cum in my mouth?!” face. Mouth open ‘n shit.
How many hot dogs do you think she could she fit in there? Maybe twelve.
Anyway she’s pissed again.
“Ex’cuuuse me?! I’m eeeveryone’s type! I mean just loook at me!” Stuck up lil' brat.
"Welp, you’re not mine."
“Are you gaaay or something?!” Grasping at straws much?
"Candy’s just better."
"No shit over you."
Tell her Candy doesn’t dish out bullshit (Candy totally dishes out bullshit).
She asks if I do this to girls often. I say if they’re not my type yeah.
“…well what is your type?”
I tell her ‘promiscuous girls’. Whatever the fuck that means. I keep it vague on purpose. Let her hamster figure it out.
She goes on and on about how she doesn’t talk about sex with people she just met. It's not lady-like. The fuck ever. I say that’s not my type either. I head for the door again. Stops me again.
“Okay okay just stop leeeaving!” I ask why should I.
It was stupid easy from there. She says let’s go somewhere secluded and “listen to some music”. Fuck does that even mean? She wants to be my “type” all of a sudden. And what do promiscuous girls do? Why they listen to music in secluded places of course. So we leave in my car.
I park in some old parking lot off the freeway. She asks me to play Frank Ocean. I play The Weeknd. Tell her fuck Frank Ocean. “Oh. My. God. You’re suuch a fucking asshole. You know that?” I tell her she’s not the first to say that.
Then we fuck. Which was nice.
Then it was time to go. Got work in the AM. Tell her I have to return some tapes. She didn’t get it. Too young I guess.
LL- The only advantage men hold in relationships or encounters with women is the ability to walk away. While men may not experience the damage done to the female psyche and self-esteem from unexplained and effortless abandonment, do take note that the damage is indeed being caused. An assassin needn’t taste the poison to know it’s potency, nor does the gunman to suffer his own bullet to know it’s power.