This year was full of douchebags and unavailable men, so I desperately needed a palate cleanser. I preferred nice boys, but settled for casual sex via that famed matchmaker, Tinder.
Peter’s profile showed a tall, fit surfer and we made a date. But instead of Kelly Slater, Guy Fieri walked in and bought me a drink. Chubby in all the wrong places, clad in cargo shorts, only his spiky hair looked like this alleged “Peter” individual. It was too late to abort mission, so I drank until he resembled his pictures, and then we went back to his apartment for mediocre sex.
Afterwards, Peter leaned over and whispered, “You should know . . . only girls I’m seeing can sleep over. So you have to leave now.”
I didn’t sleep with an overweight Guy Fieri lookalike with the sexual ability of an ADD addled sloth just to get kicked out, drunk, at 3am.
Hell no. “Sweetheart,” I said, “that’s not gonna happen. I’m sleeping now. You want me out, call the cops.” Then I rolled over, and promptly passed out.
In the morning, I left with as much dignity as I could muster. But overnight, I received proof that there is justice in the world. While sleeping, I got my period and bled just enough to be noticeable all over his expensive sheets. It’s true, Karma is a bitch, and I love her.