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Three months deep into my break-up, I have experienced almost all of them.
First there’s shell shock, followed by denial, and then some combination of paralysis, anger, and loneliness.
It was everything from, “Babe, how about that threesome? ” to the complete non sequitur “I was on TV this week.” Finally, he asked if the reason I wasn’t responding was because I was too dumb to understand simple English.
The thing about older men is, they rarely look good. When women gain a few pounds, they just become more pillowy and fun to cuddle.
But men gain weight in all the wrong places; they look like pregnant trolls.
This is also the phase when you begin the dreaded coital dance known as dating.
For me, this phase began with writing “living well is the best revenge” on a Post-it, sticking it to the wall beside my bed, then staring at it for twenty minutes before deciding to take a nap.
I’m pretty sure I’ve never felt more gay than while watching him fasten the leather strap around his un-manicured balls.
When I recounted this story to my best friend over a PTSD brunch the next morning, she—ever the competitor—immediately informed me of the time she slept with an older guy who, after he came, had to put on a full-face oxygen mask “to keep him alive.” She never lets me win.
But an hour later, walking into the specified bar in the West Village, I immediately understood why people take the time to screen each other via text.
Tinder guy turned out to be two of my worst fears combined: a short actor.
Although he posed it less as a question and more as an offer, adding that he’d had a few threesomes in the past that were “OK or whatever,” but he’d be willing to have another if it’s what wanted.