He lured me in with a picture of broad shoulders and six-pack abs, the kind a genetically gifted desk-jockey might have, not a gym rat. I wrote about how our exchanges convinced me he was safe and real and I excitedly worked through my own reservations about meeting a stranger for sex.
To be honest, I struggled to not be turned completely off by his crass texts about my pussy, but what did I know? Maybe this is what happened on Craigslist.
He arrived at the darkened bar 3″ shorter and with a small paunch that surely was just a result of bad posture. I struggled to make it fit with what he’d shown me in his photos.
Back at his hotel he smoked nearly an entire joint by himself. I sipped on cold white wine. His pants came off and he stood in dark underwear looking at me expectantly and when he pulled his shirt up and over his head I stopped short.
This was definitely not the man I had messaged. No way, no how.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “That main pic you had on your ad wasn’t you, was it?”
He admitted it wasn’t, but that all the rest had been.
“Why did you do that??” I asked incredulous.
“Well, it worked, didn’t it? And all the rest of the pics were real.”
I didn’t believe him on that count, either, but I had a decision to make: Get laid? Or leave? But leaving felt impossible. I was already waist deep in the river, so to speak. I wanted to get laid.
I told him it was shitty to lie, but did so as I pulled my own shirt off. Maybe he wasn’t lying about his cock.
But you can guess the outcome of that gamble. He lied about that, too.
Our bodies tangled and touched as I went through the motions. He begged me to not use a condom, but I refused. He whined when he couldn’t stay hard and blamed me for being too intimidating. He instructed me to lay still. “Limp?” I said looking up at him.
“Yeah, don’t move.”
I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry.
I laid there like a starfish while he pumped against the soft flesh of my inner thighs. He came and seemed proud of himself.
He came again, I came some, and when it was over I used Postmates to bring us some food. I paid.
I enjoyed the burger more than the sex.
The following day he texted. I ignored him.
I thought I was immune to a ruse such as this. I pride myself on noticing the little things. Things like hotel floors and toiletries. I look for tattoos, consistencies in physical traits, and dominant hands taking into account the use of mirrors.
One thing I didn’t do was check TinEye, but it never occurred to me that someone would go such lengths on the mere chance that he might get laid. I’m a woman of truth and honesty, integrity, even. Apparently I’m also ridiculously, stupendously naive.
But his game of odds worked because I put out. I was too far into the night and deep into the waters, too determined to fuck to leave. I cut off my nose to spite my face on this one.
This won’t happen to me again, but it makes me wonder what it is I actually know about men and dating and the fucking bloody internet. Not only was the evening a waste of my time, but my ego is bruised. I thought I was smarter than all this nonsense.
Click the lips below to see more sexy images: