“In my head, I play a supercut of us”
– Lorde –
Ah, the honeymoon phase of a relationship: that shit is like drugs.
People start behaving irrationally in the name of love. We grin randomly like a puppy and freak out when the text replies come late. I understand why people get bewitched in the lavender haze— happiness so strong people are willing to chase and protect at whatever costs. The overwhelming joy often blinds you from the most glaring red flags. You begin ignoring whistle blows to desperately cling to the fuzzy feeling. Only when the haze begins to clear can you see the remnants of your chaos, and often, you’re too late.
Now, I get it—some couples sail smoothly past the honeymoon phase and emerge stronger. What I’m saying is that it’s wise to recognize when you’re in the fog and be able to take a step back to assess your situation clearly.
Unfortunately, I learned this lesson the hard way.
One lonely evening, I saw this 6’2″ man with defined abs on the app, and I was infatuated. Sure, our conversation immediately turned sexual (nude pictures were exchanged in no time), but our interaction magically transcended the Grindr hookup territory. And his text messages were elaborate and expressive. You know I live for that.
I quickly learned that he lived in Saratoga, a charming suburban town just a 45-minute drive away, and he was eager to show me around town. We were texting back and forth that evening like two kids who were finding joy in texting for the first time, and I ended up sleeping past midnight. At that point, this man had already enchanted me, and I remembered going to bed with the biggest grin.
But I was still feeling a bit reserved. I kept some cards close to my chest, afraid of diving in too deep and hurting myself in the process. Because let’s face it: when so many people had wronged you in the past, you know that shit hurts like motherfuckers, and you would do anything to avoid feeling like that again.
I woke up the following day feeling like last night was a glitch in my otherwise tragic quest for love. After all, it was merely a conversation between two aroused gentlemen who were fluent in commas and emojis. I was probably nothing more than a 2AM to him, a classic case of nighttime erotic romance turning into daytime ghosting. I tried my best to shake it off. I decided to continue my day and geared up for a beach day with my friend.
“Be a cool girl”, they say. “Be a little mysterious; don’t be too desperate.” People tend to run away when seem too eager.
Then my phone pinged—a text message from the 6’2″ Adonis.
“Good morning, handsome! How’s your sleep? Hope you have a great beach day today! 😊”
I went into full-on assassin mode. My eyes were laser-focused on my target, and I would do whatever it took to make this boy mine. I cranked up my online charm to eleven, spending the entire day crafting text messages that were practically works of art. Every word choice was deliberate, expressing interest without sounding desperate. Angles for the beach selfies were immaculate, perfectly calculated to showcase my facial features at their finest. Shirtless pics? Sent strategically to tantalize without revealing too much. I wanted him to desire me, to become obsessed with every little thing about me— just as much as I was obsessed with him.
My hard work came to fruition. After endless text messages and countless butt pics, my 6’2″ beau finally asked the million-dollar question,
“Wanna come over tomorrow?”
Fresh off the beach, I immediately ran into my bathroom, launching into what could only be described as the Mount Everest of manscaping missions. Eye cream and serum were applied generously to my sunburnt face to minimize any appearance of imperfection. I ditched the idea of having a burrito bowl for dinner that evening— my butthole needed to be in pristine condition for the possibility of deep penetration. My outfit for the following day was meticulously chosen; I wanted to wear something skin-tight to showcase my body yet easy to strip off in case things got steamy. After all was said and done, I pulled myself together, took a deep breath, and drafted my response to his text.
“Sorry, just got back home from the beach. Sure! I’ll meet you once I’m done with my job interview!”
I delivered a respectable performance for someone with minimum interview experience. What I lacked in work experience, I made up with Oscar-worthy acting prowess. Ice-breaker conversations went like a breeze, honed over years of training to become a fake-ass bitch in LA. I answered all questions eloquently using words straight out of a LinkedIn announcement. I was an unstoppable force of nature, a surprise to even myself because all I could think about during the interview was getting dicked down by my tall hottie.
Forty minutes after my interview, I parked my white sedan on a quiet Saratoga street. I hadn’t bothered changing into comfier clothes. With my ass douched pre-interview and sleeves rolled up post-interview, I stepped out of my car and walked across the street.
And there he was, standing at the front door – my hot date.
He looked like he came straight out of a Carly Rae Jepsen music video—sunlit, in a wrinkled white tee and loose jeans, embodying every girl and gay guy’s fantasy of the dreamy, next-door American neighbor. When he saw me crossing the street, his smile turned into a kid-like grin. We hugged, and I melted into his sturdy but warm embrace. His body instantly felt like home.
I still vividly remember the following hour after our first interaction. My 6’2″ adonis held my hand and guided me toward his room, and he immediately began to ravish my presence in his bed. His desire for me was animalistic yet delicate, all wrapped in gentle touches and passionate kisses. Our naked bodies were imbued with magnetic forces that pulled them towards each other. The sex didn’t feel like our first time— his toned, muscular body came straight out of my wildest fantasies. And I instantly knew I didn’t want it to be the last time I felt his touches.
After we finished giving each other bodily pleasure, we went to a pizza place nearby and had the most fantastic bbq chicken pizza (who knows, maybe I was starving after an intense cardio session?). There was something extraordinarily ordinary about the pizza date that put me at ease. We chatted over our shared fascination with anime, debated over which fast food chain had the best fries, and discussed how my prior job interview went. The whole time, it felt like two friends catching up over a Sunday mimosa brunch.
Just as we were about to return to his house, I received a phone call. The interviewer said I had got the job.
It felt too good to be true. The job was located in Santa Clara, much closer to where my 6’2″ Adonis lived. All the signs from the universe urged me to fully embrace this guy, as if everything I had ever wanted was handed to me on a silver platter. I couldn’t help but fantasize. The domesticated life, where I could have someone to come home to after a long day at work, greeted by tight hugs and small kisses that felt larger than life. For once, he made me feel like my life was going in the right direction. I was lost, and he found me.
To be continued…
SquirtTale 