okcupid – Evan Jacobs

Still living with my ex-girlfriend, fresh from the break-up, I first stalkedOkCupid searching for girls based on how quickly I could get sex.

Soon, I had a target. Her picture was non-standard. She was in weird Halloweenesque goblin makeup. Now, I don’t know why someone on OkCupid would do this unless either 1) they were mentally unstable, 2) they had no self-esteem and thus sought safety behind a persona, or 3) they’re a hipster. Whatever her reason, her other pictures were make-up free. When we talked, I learned she was deeply misanthropic. Combining this with her comfort with first-date sex, I was sold.

So, I met her at a bar. She was cute enough, though slightly resembled ET. She spoke in an overly mannish sardonic fashion barely moving her jaw, much in the way an overweight Goth highschool lesbian might speak. Either way, it’s better than the creaky talk/glottal fry of the current female zeitgeist. More troublesome was the foam of saliva perpetually persisting at the corners of her mouth. I forged on. Seduction was my end-game, for after all, she had vagina and she was someone other than my ex-girlfriend.

We spoke and had drinks. My shoddy and self-serving memory retrieves this exchange:

“Are you ‘on’ all the time?”

Embarrassment. Mortification. Being “on” is a common accusation to a comic, which I still was at time. It confirms every comic’s fear: people find you annoying, not funny.

“I’m just trying to be interesting.”

Now this might have been my fault. At the time I was experimenting with illicit drugs which may have changed my behavior into the suspicious. Who knows? I do not yet have the confidence in my career to me any more frank than this, but I’m sure you can figure out what was going on. No, it wasn’t peyote.

• OkCupid Chronicles: No, a Dominatrix Won’t Have Sex With You

I was able to steamroll ahead and finagled her into going back to her place to partake in some illicit drugs, and she agreed. I was golden, right?

Well, apparently, apartment time does not equate sex time. At her apartment, I looked up music on YouTube while she lay in her bed. She offered me nothing and seemed downright annoyed by me. I guess Iwas “on.” At some point I called it a night.

“Well, I guess I should probably leave.”

“Yeah, you should.”

Even now this response pisses me off. She could have rejected my self-invite. Maybe she just wanted to use me for illicit substances. I didn’t know whether to feel like a piece of meat or a rapist. I got home that night and crawled into bed with my ex-girlfriend who was sound asleep. The couch wasn’t comfortable enough and it wasn’t like she could force me out of the bed.

The next first was the first time I would have sex since my relationship with my ex.

A month after that first date, I had moved into a new apartment, and found a girl on OkCupid who was a fellow comedian. She kind of had this Alanis Morrisette / Jillian Michaels / Jew look to her which, based on the pictures on OkCupid, made her seem kind of cute. She was thick like a porterhouse, but not flabby, short and stout like a roller-derby athlete.

I met her at a bar near my apartment and we hit it off immediately. She was a little “thicker” than her photos. But I was still imagining Shawn Johnson beneath her clothes. Besides, she probably had a great personality. I felt more attractive than her, so I didn’t have to worry about being “on” or coming on too strong. I even told her about my first date with the spit-mouth girl.

We drank until I took her back to my place to–you guessed it–engage in illegal substance abuse. (I have never done drugs, okay prospective employers?) When I made a move, she damn near tackled me. She removed her shirt.

My friend Ray can be the most offensive insulting person in the universe. He admonished me for characterizing her body with such crass misogyny. Thus, this caveat: my evaluation doesn’t come from hate, it comes from sheer surprise, and the urge to be “on.” That said, this is what I told Ray.

“There was… extra skin. Like she used to be morbidly obese but suddenly lost all the weight. Like a Biggest Loser winner. She resembled a Shar-pei or a folded up parachute.”

I hate having to express disdain for someone else’s body. I myself am a little overweight and very body conscious. According to Wii Fit my BMI is 27.55. I’m not saying this girl has no worth. She was a terrific person who deserves love as much as anyone else. Still, she had a shitload of extra skin which I found to be shocking, and frankly, repulsive.

So, I fucked her.

I laid her on the bed and laid myself on top of her and proceeded to get laid as she trembled beneath me, her legs up around my back looking as if she had fallen into a vat of dough. When I ejaculated (spoiler alert), I looked down on her, panting, dripping sweat onto her, and said the first thing that popped into my dumb head.

“You’re the first girl I’ve had sex with since my girlfriend.”

Right. “Girlfriend.” Not “ex-girlfriend.” Not “that was fun.” Not “that sucked.” Not “where did you get all that beautiful skin?” Just the lamest, most pathetic admission of inadequacy I could muster.

I felt like I had cheated on my ex-girlfriend. I had broken our ex-trust–again. I was somewhere between scum and nothing.

I re-robed and asked the girl to come to the stoop with me to have a cigarette. (Besides the illicit substances that I may or may not have been doing with plausible deniability, I had also re-taken up smoking). She smoked too. We talked about my feelings. How I missed my ex, how I was a mess, a shell of a man, a monster, a pseudo-rapist, etc. Of course she was tremendously sympathetic. She assured me she was just casually dating as well and had also just left a long term relationship.

After a few minutes — and by the way, this is why I am a hideous monster — I was able to convince her to leave, not sleep over — kind of a Wham-bam-I-am-an-empty-shell-of-a-hu-man. Maybe I’m not a monster, maybe I’m just a man doing his best to be happy. I made a vow to raise my personal standards, have a higher opinion of myself, not just throw myself at any willing participant. So, never contacted this girl again, except about a month later, on a random night. But I had a valid reason: I was horny.

“Want to hang out?”

“Sure, guy I had a one-night-stand with a month ago. Let’s do that same thing again! You’re a real winner and definitely not a monster.”

In truth, she didn’t return my text. Good for her.

Evan Jacobs is a 31-year-old schlub who used to do stand-up comedy, excel academically and slay the ladies. These days, between the time he spends trying to publish his novel and teaching at a for-profit Manhattan college, he complains incessantly about nearly everything.

Reprinted from Hypervocal

jeremy brooks

Preamble: The following is one of many accounts of dating from June 2010, when I broke up with my girlfriend of four years, to March 2011, when I met my new girlfriend. For most of this time I had no soul, abused various substances, and only sought sex. OKCupid conversations will be included with the stories, when available.

Though it hadn’t occurred to me during the relationship, at some point I realized I was sexually repressed. Sure, I had had many partners already — mostly because I had channeled high school frustrations into a never-ending search for validation — but I hadn’t really done that much sexually. I knew about stuff — I had the internet — but knowing isn’t doing.

The girl wasn’t exactly beautiful, but she posted very suggestive pictures, and responded to my message. She was a dominatrix. I had never tried being dominated. I guess it couldn’t hurt.

I called her one Saturday night around 11 and asked to meet. When she agreed, I figured the deal was done. It was a booty call, right?

NEXT STORY: How I Learned to Stop Being a Hater and Love OKCupid

We were to meet at 2:00 a.m. on Ditmars in Astoria. She walked from her apartment, I from mine; we would meet halfway. There were very few people out except for bar hoppers and a homeless woman rooting through garbage.

“Evan?” The homeless woman said to me.

Oh.

“Jody?” I said. I took a closer look at her. She was overweight, more so than her pictures led me to believe (standard OKCupid etiquette), Indian (I could have sworn she was a Latina by the pictures), wearing taut jeans and a T-shirt with “PORN” written across her breasts. She displayed a sundress.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“Is it from the garbage?”

“It’s free!”

“It’s garbage.”

In Jody’s defense, this particular garbage bag was filled only with old clothes. However, this was not the most auspicious start.

Strange formalities ensued. She hadn’t realized I was her OKCupid date. She thought I was there to sell her drugs. Apparently, the drug dealer was named Evan as well. She sent some texts and made some calls, deliberating until I eventually convinced her to hang out with em. After all, there we were.

“Sorry, I’m on Ambien,” she apologized.

Jerry Maguire flashed through my head. You had me at “I’m on Ambien.”

I took her back to my apartment. We drank. She turned out to be quite, clever, fun, and grew more attractive to me as the minutes passed. At some point, she broached the unspoken.

“So, you’re the kid who wanted to try domination.”

I stammered like Hugh Grant before confirming it. I had just suggested it to get her attention. I wasn’t against it, but it wasn’t like being dominated was a life’s dream of mine. She took it in stride, the got down to business.

“I know it’s your first time. Most of my clients like it when —”

“Clients? You’re like a professional dominatrix?” This had not been explicit online. Many women say they are dominatrices. Doesn’t mean they have fucking clients. What kind of date did she think this was?

“You said you wanted to try it.”

“Not for money! I wasn’t trying to hire you. I just wanted to hang out. Like a date. Like OKCupid.”

She was silent for a second, obviously caught off guard. It was as if I had told her I was high on Ambien.

“Well, I have a boyfriend,” she said. I wanted to slap my forehead. “You’re pretty cute, though, so I’ll do it for free.”

“Okay,” I said, wondering how her boyfriend would end up killing me.

She said she would keep it light. Start off by calling me names. Pig. Dog. Stuff like that. I was already smiling, finding the whole situation ridiculous. Degrading names couldn’t hold a candle to my own (lack of) self-worth.

She told me to take of my shirt. She pinched my nipples for a little bit, and slapped me. I can now say with certainty I do not derive sexual pleasure from having my nipples pinched.

“Maybe I’ll step on your chest,” she said.

“Okay,” I said, keeping my perpetual smirk.

As she started, I tried to prepare myself for death. She wasn’t too overweight, hovering around one hundred and sixty pounds. Still, every time she took a step on my chest all I could think about was how easy it would be for my ribs to give way, break, and puncture my heart, killing me instantly. Instead of killing me, however, she interrogated me.

“What do you want?” she barked at me.

Interesting. People don’t usually ask me that question, as people very rarely care about what I want. So I didn’t know what to tell her, except that I didn’t know.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you want?” I could tell she was looking for an answer, but I wasn’t sure what it was, so I told her the truth.

“To fuck you?”

It wasn’t what she was looking for and it took the wind from her sails. She sighed heavily and stepped off of me.

Thinking back to it, I’m pretty sure the right answer would have been “More, Mistress. I want more.” Or, conversely, an okay answer would have been “Stop, Mistress. I want you to stop.” Either way, it was something she could have worked with. She stepped off me.

“I could hit you with your belt.”

“Uh,” I said while still laying shirtless on my back, “why don’t we call it quits and just hang out for a little bit.”

We actually had some good conversation after that. Most guys who liked domination were men who in regular life always had power over women. This is probably why I didn’t like domination. I don’t think there’s a woman alive who doesn’t have power over me. Be cute and I’ll murder for you.

Jody and I agreed to hang out again. And hey, if I ever wanted drugs, I could buy them from her.

Of course, I never saw her again.

The biggest lesson I took from this is one that I will carry to my grave: A dominatrix doesn’t have sex with you.

SEE MORE:
• Even Stand-up Comics Hate Stand-up Comics

Reprinted from Hypervocal

Tag: okcupid

OkCupid Chronicles: Embarrassing Tales of Misogyny & Low Self-Esteem

The OKCupid Chronicles: No, a Dominatrix Won’t Have Sex With You