I’m so sick of OK Cupid

I’ve only just got back on OK Cupid. I’ve had some pretty grim experiences.

There was the man who called himself an “entrepreneur” who claimed to have invented perpetual motion and needed a place to crash for, like, a few months while he lay low hiding from ‘The Feds’ (I’m in the UK – we don’t have ‘Feds’). There was the man who was handsome and kind and funny, who turned out to be trying to get over his ex-boyfriend by dating women for the first time in his life – and not enjoying it. There was, and I hate to remember this, but sometimes it replays in my head on particularly bad and miserable nights, the man who was revolted by the sensation, smell and sight of his own cum, who, while taking the condom off after we’d finished, suddenly retched and spewed all over my nice clean sheets.

And so on.

I’d taken a break for a few months. I’d been obsessed with finding the ‘perfect man’, even though I knew that no one could possibly be ‘perfect’ and I’d just have to try and find pieces of perfection within flawed people. But the effort was draining, and I was starting to feel depressed about how many men I was going through in my quest. I felt hollow, exhausted. I think I was starting to hate myself. So I took a little break.

This weekend, in a bout of loneliness and horniness, I decided to get back on the app.

I wound up drunkenly texting with someone on Friday night, and we arranged to have dinner the very next evening.

We arranged to meet at one of these ridiculous upmarket hipster ramen joints, and when I saw him sat at the table as I walked in, my heart sang. It was his eyes. He had these big, beautiful blue eyes that were expressive, sparkling. They were framed by long, long black lashes that gave him a seductive air.

We chatted. We flirted. We were ironic with one another, and honest the next moment. He listened to me, asked me questions about myself (you’d be amazed how infrequently men ask questions on dates), touched his toes to my ankles under the table. We shared a dessert, and those big blue eyes sparkled as I spooned tiramisu between his lips. I knew I had to take him home with me. We kissed outside the restaurant – one of those wet, long, slow, delicious kisses that promise a wet, long, slow, delicious time with his body later.

We got an Uber back to my place. I had, excuse me for being so graphic, this tight, bright electric thrill flickering from my collarbone to deep in my clit. I thought: this might be it. This might be the one. This guy might have enough pieces of perfection in him to make a whole.

When we got in, I pushed him playfully on to the sofa and we shared another hungry, wet kiss until I pulled back to go into the kitchen. I promised him wine, and he gave me a sexy smile, those gorgeous blue eyes twinkling.

I went in to the kitchen, and got everything ready on the sideboard: the chilled bottle of Sancerre, two wine glasses, some still-in-date olives on a dish, my rubber gloves, a scalpel, a circular saw, bleach, metal clamps, a chloroform rag, and so on. You know. The usual.

Everything felt like it was going swimmingly, until I heard, behind me, “Goodnight, cunt.”

I didn’t turn around. I just looked up and saw his reflection in the window glass. Two gloved hands, stretching, between them, a garrotte. A mean expression, a man ready to do violence. And, worst of all – those blue eyes darkened to to something vicious.

I grabbed the scalpel and jabbed backwards, overarm, just as he whipped the garrotte over my head.

It sank deep into his right eye.

He screamed and dropped the garrotte. Blood shot out and spattered my face. It was so ungentlemanly – I never would have expected it from the sexy, sensuous, witty man I’d had dinner with.

My night was ruined. There was no thrilling foreplay, no lengthy lead-up to the final act. I just had to dispatch him quickly (blender to the skull after I’d used a paring knife to hamstring him). And those blue eyes I had such hopes for, ruined.

I mean, I guess I could take one I didn’t stab and add it to the collection. Everyone has a bit of perfection in them. But God, it’s taking me so long to collect enough pieces to make the perfect man.

(source) story by (/u/darling_bird1)

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