When You Go Home with a Tinder Date
We matched on Tinder and met up in Soho a few days later. I liked what I saw and by the end of the date, he revealed that within the first 15 seconds he had thought the same too, which explained why we had such a smooth start.
We went to a small, quiet bar and he ordered the drinks for us. After some basic information and banter exchange, he casually asked if I wanted to play “Never Have I Ever.” It sounded fun to me even though I barely could say that phrase without twisting my tongue. I agreed and I asked “Where do we start?”.
He took a moment to think then let out a quiet laugh. He said this game might be pointless since at this age we probably had done everything. I was 22 and he was deliciously 28. We were young, yet not innocently young anymore.
Sex in a car. Check. Blowjob in a cinema. Check. I joked, “But have you ever killed anyone though?” He knew from my short stories how much I loved plot twists. He said, “To kill you would be too much hassle.”
In the end we didn’t play “Never Have I Ever”, though he still shared with me his secret, the dirty secret that responded to my question “What is the thing you’re most ashamed of?”
He said he felt like he had known me for a long time and maybe that was why he could open up to me about things he’d never told anyone else before.
I was pleased about it. I kept drinking and laughing at his jokes as though he was the most funny guy on earth and I was the happiest girl alive.
I thought I had a magical time, the kind of high that I was instantly addicted to. I was addicted to how he made me feel. I wanted more of it. So I came home with him after 3 drinks and several playful kisses.
We took an Uber back to his place past midnight. We said something to each other but I couldn’t remember. I just remembered watching the quiet, colourful London running past my eyes while entertaining what I would do once we arrived at his place.
He lived in the part of the city that was nice and central enough to make going home with a stranger not so scary. Maybe it should’ve been scary regardless but we never assumed the worst in this kind of situation, especially when we were expecting to have the best night of our lives.
I followed him to his flat then inside his en-suite bedroom. It was more messy than I thought but I didn’t care much. I only cared about him at that point. I looked deep into his eyes and felt the chemistry burning through my body.
We spent a steamy night together which started so naturally. At 1 am, I was high on alcohol and probably sugar from those terribly sweet cocktails. As a result, my old-fashioned dating rules were put aside and I let myself go.
It was fun and exciting. I loved the words he whispered into my ears and how he made me realize my most recent relationship was basically a one-night stand that lasted for six months and ended six months late.
It was all the same. The bodies felt all the same. I didn’t know whether to cry or to laugh. The ex didn’t even please me as well as he did and he’d probably read more of my writing than that guy would ever read anything in his entire literate life.
After that realization, while he was on top of me, I started thinking about my choice of men, any smart woman’s choice of men, and why I would even for a moment be naive enough to wonder whether, to him, this was something worth coming back to again.
It dawned on me that he had been through everything before. I forgot that he was the guy who thought playing “Never have I ever” would be no surprise to anyone.
He’d had a Tinder first date like us before. He’d had 5 hours of non-stop laughter that would otherwise be called “the spark” or “the connection” before. He’d met a girl like me before — same face, same hairstyle, same height of heels, same stories, same bullshit.
He’d said the same things to her and he’d fucked her brain out in the same bed before. Right at this exact spot. He wouldn’t feel special about this, or me. He wouldn’t spare a single thought the moment we got dressed and parted ways.
It was nothing but clean adult fun to him. It was nothing but a reflex when he fingered and gagged me at the same time, telling me I was the sexiest thing ever.
And it was exactly what I was to him. I was the sexy thing he turned around in front of the mirror to check out my front and back. I was the sexy thing whose pleasure was for his pleasure, which I was made aware the second he grunted, please cum for me. Me cum for him.
Don’t get me wrong — I don’t want to make myself a victim here or sound like I wanted something more from him. It would be, like the game “Never have I ever” between us, pointless.
I was simply stating the fact, the reality of sex on first date, the mentality of an experienced “been here done that” man like him, and, well, my numb, jaded soul in response to all this.
I’m not going to lie — just like him, I had been through things before too and honestly, none of the things I’d described about him and our night was particularly emotional to me, not anymore, which was actually kinda sad.
I’d had nights I felt like I was on drugs. I’d had fun I was fine never having again. I’d met men who told me I was beautiful, sexy, interesting, and shared with me their dirty secrets. I’d had my heart broken and my hope shattered. I’d had rage dug up from my core. I’d crossed faces off my life.
So, at this point, nothing would shake me too much anymore including the almost sure possibility that he and I would never see each other again in this short life.
The spark was just the spark — it came and it went.
I wasn’t the dreamy, romantic, hopeful girl I used to be anymore. I wouldn’t let myself get carried away chasing all the what-ifs. I would accept what was done was done and leave it at that.
This is me now. I’m and was purposeful, pragmatic and strategic. I would not forget I was in his bed for one and only one reason.
Right. He had been through everything before, I reminded myself, and there must have been some girl lying here being gagged before too. There must have been some girl getting fucked then kicked out like nothing had happened.
And if that was the case, I sincerely hoped there had also been some girl staring up at him and asking him in the most serious way possible, “Have you ever killed anyone before?”, and his face would lose blood like it did right then. Or was I really the first girl who had the pleasure?
Stay calm, fuckboy. The fun was over.
He didn’t need to answer because I knew he wouldn’t know the answer to that. Come on. He didn’t even remember how many girls he’d had a night with, who they were and what he had done to them.
How he had fingered the girl and tried to make her cum against her will for his own pleasure, or climbed on top of her and put his hard cock in her mouth like it was her responsibility, or even forced himself inside her body because her pussy was wet must have meant she was asking for it despite her clearly saying no?
Well, of course he didn’t remember. I wasn’t surprised. Look at him. He was born with a dick that could stick into anything. He felt entitled to sex and all along he thought he had done nothing wrong.
It was okay, must be okay because no one ever said anything, taught him anything. No one would know any of that to hold him accountable. No one would believe the girl when she bore her pain and came forward with the story.
In fact, no one did believe her.
Hey boy, why are you looking at me like that? Oh, did you finally realize why you felt like you had known me for a long time? Did you recognize some face then? Did you remember some girl then?
Yup, on one Tinder profile that he’d matched with, 3 years earlier, the long, curvy haired girl with the brightest pair of eyes ever. On the second picture, she and I were in there together, smiling at him through the phone screen at his fingertip that swiped right at about any pretty face. Remember now?
I bet he hadn’t noticed me, or maybe he had but either way, he had chosen her first. He had taken her to the same bar, ordered the same drinks, said the same boring lines, taken her back to the same place, and fucked her in the same bed.
Clean adult fun, huh? Fair. He just conveniently left out, and would never admit, the fact that she didn’t want it. She had repeatedly said no to him. But of course, why did it matter? The line was blurred and the boy just had to do what the boy did because he had his needs, right?
So, that night, very casually, he bruised her, raped her, then discarded her in the pile of yet another pump-and-dump Tinder chick, all in the name of “having fun”.
Soon after, because of that fun, of being stripped away all basic human rights, of having her voice unheard, of being blamed and shamed, she had ended her life.
Fucking heard it right. She. Killed. Herself.
That day, a family had lost a daughter and I’d lost my best friend, a part of me and my life, and tell me, what did he lose? Nothing.
He carried on with his privileged life, with fancy corporate job titles and endless exclusive parties mindlessly fucking one girl after another, then probably one day, thanks to the silver spoon tightly put in his mouth, he would end up living comfortably with a wife and three kids in a white-picket-fence house like a fucking poster child for the modern day success.
Haha, jokes. Not the wife and kid part though. Because as I asked him that question, “Have you ever killed anyone before?” and he freaked the fuck out — which was funny by the way, I didn’t bother to explain any of that to him. I just did what I had to do.
I grabbed the cute, little pocket knife I’d secretly hidden under the pillow and slit his throat.
Almost immediately, his fully erected body fell on mine while his eyes were still wide open.
Well, I guess now we could both finally agree, “Never have I ever” would be really pointless because we have pretty much checked everything off the list.
Slit throat. Checked.