An Open Letter to My Latest Date, Part II

At least your apartment was clean; I’ll give you that. I’m not a fan of going back to guys’ apartments. I’d much rather bring a guy back to my place and be in my own environment (read: control freak) than risk the unknown (and likely visible pubes in the bathroom) in his.

I’d dressed up for our date and asked if you had a T-shirt I could sleep in. The first one you handed me, a shiny athletic shirt that was probably 100% polyester and would make me sweat all night, was so tiny it wouldn’t even fit over my boobs.

“Don’t you have anything bigger?” I asked, both mortified and annoyed.

You pulled out another shiny shirt, also doll-sized. I knew it wasn’t going to fit and didn’t want the indignity of even trying this one on.

“Are you serious? You don’t have a big T-shirt or anything?”

Here a new lesson was learned: Ladies, never go home with a man so skinny he won’t own one shirt that will fit you.

“Wait,” you said, “I know!” As though a proverbial light bulb had gone off.

You reached into a bag of laundry and pulled out a big, gray hoodie.

“Is that laundry clean?”

You assured me it was and said that the sweatshirt belonged to your friend.

I pulled on the hoodie, which was soft and fleecy inside, and you took off your shirt.

I feel horrible saying this — even now — but my first thought was that topless, you looked like Mr. Burns from “The Simpsons.” How could someone that skinny have that paunch?

You’d mentioned something at dinner about getting a beer belly, and I was like, “What are you talking about?” You probably weighed 130 pounds, tops. But it was true — your beer belly was just well concealed beneath your “GREAT MINDS DRINK TOGETHER” T-shirt and unappealing brown and cream hipster jacket.

We lay down on your bed, me in the hoodie and you in your boxers, and it was clear we weren’t just going to go to sleep.

I still didn’t want to have sex with you — and not because of your Mr. Burns-esque physique, but because it was our first date.

You crawled under the sheets and between my legs. It was great, except that you sounded like you couldn’t breathe. I’ve never had a man sound like he was suffocating in my vagina before, and it’s certainly distracting.

You stopped before I came, but I couldn’t blame you what with the way you were gasping for air.

“You need to learn to breathe at the same time,” I said.

You wanted me to give you head. I didn’t want to, but it was harder to say no after you’d gone down on me. I am not a fan of tit-for-tat sexuality, yet somehow I felt coerced into reciprocating.

This was when I first actually saw your penis, and it was tiny. Not microscopic tiny, but let’s just say if it were a cocktail wiener served to me in a bun at a party, I’d still be hungry after.

But I obliged, at least for a few minutes. Sucking a tiny penis is not an activity that I would ever actually enjoy, but I didn’t want to be selfish.

When I stopped, you wanted to have sex. I didn’t see any point and hadn’t wanted to in the first place, yet somehow I still let you nag me into it.

The sex itself was over almost as fast as it had begun.

When you came and started to pull out, all I could think was, “Really?

What had I expected?

“The condom came off,” you said.

What? Jesus.

If only I’d know this was a recurring theme on your dates. You didn’t even offer to take me to get Plan B.

Despite practically everything going wrong that could, I fell asleep easily, to my surprise. It was 4:30 in the morning after all.

You were a cuddly sleeper, which I like. Every time I changed position during the night, you changed position to keep holding me.

If only you were as good at sex as you were at cuddling.

The light leaking in through your blinds woke me up three hours later.

While I was still in bed, half asleep, you got up and left.

When you returned, you had half and half from Trader Joe’s as promised, and you even brought me coffee in bed. Then you got back into bed next to me and put your arm around me while I drank my coffee, with half and half and sugar just the way I like it.

So you actually were a nice guy after all.

Who cares about your tiny dick?

Ok, ok, I’ll be the first to admit I do care. But I was willing to give you another try. It was late the night before, you were tired, and you said it had been a while.

You had to leave soon because your friends were coming to pick you up to take you for a day in Los Olivos to celebrate your recent birthday.

Considering we’d already had short sex in which the condom slipped off, I really had nothing left to lose by giving you another try.

I lay on my side but it seemed like you were having trouble getting it in. Not only was your dick small, but it had a bend in it. You were tiny and bendy.

I turned onto my back, the same way we’d had sex just a few hours before.

You still seemed to be having a problem.

“Why won’t it go in no matter what position I get in?” I asked.

“It is in,” you said.

In all my years and all my sexual experiences, that is the very fist time that has ever actually happened to me.

What could I possibly say after that?

Your dick wasn’t just tiny and bendy, it was invisible, too. I literally couldn’t tell it was there.

Again, you came in under three minutes.

But what did it really matter? Even if you had gone on forever, I wouldn’t have felt anything.

Yet somehow, against all logic, I still liked you. The coffee and the cuddling had gone a long way. When was the last time a guy brought me coffee in bed? I couldn’t even remember. I was always the one waiting on the guy, bringing him coffee in the morning and wine at night.

I still wanted you to come make me chicken curry masala on Wednesday, tiny penis be damned.

You’d come through on the half and half, so you could be trusted. Right?

And there was the $100 you’d given me as collateral, to insure your appearance on Wednesday.

In being swept up on a sea of sweet, creamy caffeine, I neglected to mention that while I was having my coffee and you were cuddling me, you asked if I could give you $40 from the $100 you’d given me at the pool hall.

“I don’t have any cash,” you said, “and don’t want to go out to Los Olivos with my friends without any cash on me.”

“No,” I said reflexively. “I’m keeping it til I see you on Wednesday, like you promised.”

I was laughing and so were you.

But just like to get me to have sex the night before, you kept nagging me.

“Just give me back $40,” you said. “You can keep $60.”

You were being serious.

And what kind of asshole would I be to refuse to give you back any of your own money, when you’d gone out and bought me half and half when the store opened at 8 am and made me coffee and brought it to me in bed, and were going to cook me dinner in a few days?

“Ok,” I sighed. “You can have $40. In fact, you can have all your money back. You’re a nice guy.”

“I told you I do what I say,” you said.

I reached into my wallet and handed you back the $100 you’d been so anxious to hand off to me just hours before.

“But I’m keeping the sweatshirt until I see you Wednesday,” I said.

As I walked out, I realized I’d left my prescription sunglasses at home the night before, since I didn’t think there was any chance I wouldn’t be coming home. So I had to drive all the way from Manhattan Beach to Santa Monica without my sunglasses, and on three hours sleep.

I texted you when I got home like you asked me to. You responded immediately:

I had an awesome time last night.

I wrote back saying I had a great time too and telling you what a sweet guy you are.

You responded with a happy face emoji.

That was the last time I ever heard from you.

I was a fool to believe anything you said, to go back with you to your apartment, to let you nag me into sex, to be too easily charmed by too little effort, to have such a low bar for male behavior that basic keeping your word seemed charmingly chivalrous, and most of all, to believe what you said to me when all you wanted was to get into my pants.

Clearly, I should have kept the $100.

At least I got the hoodie. It fits perfectly.