Wicked Wednesday

Designed by addiction researchers, populated by women whose clits throb at lunch — Tinder may be my dream app.

The question isn’t whether the orgasms are real, but whether the sounds are performed — and whether that distinction even matters.

A woman at a conference, chewing gum, selling to dentists’ offices, in linen pants that hug her slightly big but unquestionably delicious ass.

A brief meeting, a direct question, and an unsurprising disappointment.

I didn’t give the Rockette what she expected — I smiled, I asked questions, I insisted on consent — and then I left her bruised, sore, and a little scared of me.

Three rejections in one day, and I went to a coffee shop instead of a massage parlor.

A twelve-year-old boy, a closet, a cousin with breasts, and the indelible shame of getting caught — plus some thoughts on what we owe the teenage boys who do creepy things.

She refused to name herself. I refused to let her off the hook. I named her Tamora, and she can take it up with me while my cock’s in her mouth.

I line you all up against a hotel wall and let my imagination do what it does best.

The fantasy was me and eight or ten women. The reality was two, in black dresses, at opposite ends of a bar. My fallback position was, it turned out, pretty fucking spectacular.