These Are My Tinder Confessions Pt. 3
*DING* My phone lit up with a new notification from Tinder. As I unlocked my phone and opened the app, my eyes hungrily combed over the words on the page. “Yea, tonite at 7 sounds good.” I replied with a thumbs up emoji and went about my business. As the time neared, I messaged her again for her address, as I was going to be picking her up. She responded with the necessary details and I prepared myself for a 20minute voyage across town. Lil Boosie and Webbie waged war on my eardrums as I smoothly exhaled the smoke from my Swisher Sweet. I wasn’t sure how she would respond to smoke in the car, but her address let me know it probably wouldn’t bother her. As I rounded the final turn and Google Maps notified me “You destination is on the right,” I extinguished the blunt and let the AC blast. It was dusk, but the heat in the desert doesn’t subside with the setting of the sun. I texted her “I’m here,” and sat patiently. A curtain moved from a window and quickly replaced itself, I assumed she saw me. I watched the front door open and her silhouette was momentarily framed by the light inside the house as she shut the door and locked it. I all but held my breath as she walked to the car, light brown hair fluttering in the breeze. She swung the door wide and greeted me with an earnest “Heyyyy,” as she got in the front passenger seat. She had a subtle ghetto aura about herself that I enjoyed immensely as we conversed about where she was from and what she did. As we delved deeper into conversation, I allowed my guard to relax and found myself cruising the streets instead of heading straight home. Slightly lost, but not wanting to appear so, I quickly took a right on a street that looked familiar. As she continued telling me about her favorite strains, I saw the boys in blue appear behind me. Now, I have a flawless driving record (probably part of the reason I have stayed alive as long as I have) so I was not concerned with the lights that materialized out of the black night. As I slowed down and pulled to the side of the road, however, my date’s body language and demeanor told a different tale. “What do these hating ass MFs want now?” She stated angrily as the officer exited his vehicle and approached my window. “License, registration, and proof of insurance, please,” stated a young, fresh-faced officer. I handed over the documents and he asked for my date’s ID. She said she left it in her other purse (Red Flag) so he took down her information and headed back to his patrol car. As I joked to pass the time, I couldn’t help but notice my date was anything but relaxed. I was having visions of bong rips and carnal relations, but she seemed stressed. Little did I know, my questions would be answered as the officer returned to my window. “We’re having a little trouble locating your identity, ma’am. Can you spell it for me?” Now I knew there was trouble afoot. As the officer walked back to his squad car, another officer was arriving on scene. I was confident I had done nothing wrong, but I was no longer as confident about my date. The second officer was female, which could only mean they intended to search my date, as she was female. The officers approached my vehicle again, but this time they approached the passenger side of the vehicle. As they opened the door, I heard the officer state “So, it’s showing that you have a warrant through the _________ Sheriff’s Department. We are going to have to take you in.” To her credit, she handled being arrested much more smoothly than I would have. She left her purse and wallet in my car, taking only her phone. The officers told me I was free to go and didn’t write me a ticket for the “flickering headlight” that had caused the initial traffic stop. It was not until I had rounded several corners that I realized I had an entire Swisher Sweet blunt in the car, as well as some loose herbs. Shoutout God.
I went home, partook in more medicine, and eventually fell asleep. I woke the next morning feeling unfulfilled, but lucky nonetheless. At approximately 6:15am, I received a message from my Jailhouse Date. “Hey,” read the message. I waited a few minutes and fired back “Hey, you all good?” She quickly responded “Yea, sorry about all that. The warrant wasn’t even valid. I got released at 4am.” Unsure how to respond, as I have never been arrested, I fired back “Well that’s good. I didn’t know what to do, I still have your purse.” She responded quickly “No worries, it was embarrassing. Would you still be down to chill later?” Ahhhhh she is still about it, I thought to myself before responding “Yeah for sure. Same time?” We agreed on the same time, except this go around I would send an Uber to avoid the whole traffic stop scenario. The day passed as a blur for the most part and before I knew it, it was 6:40pm. I texted her “Uber is on the way, cool?” She replied immediately “Yea I’m ready.” As I waited, I readied the bong and associated apparatus, thanking my lucky stars again that 12 didn’t catch me slipping. Before long, there was a knock at the door. I arose, strode boldly to the door, and swung it wide. My date stood in front of me, all 5’8” of her. She was tall, built, and had long brown hair. She gave me a quick hug as she brushed past me to get inside. “Mmmmm it smells bomb in here,” she exclaimed as she stared at the swirling clouds of medicine above our heads. “Go ahead and hit it,” I muttered as I stared as her butt. Them cheeks looked like two midgets fighting their way out of a burlap sack. She bent over the desk and took a long, powerful rip before sitting on the couch and glancing at the movie on the screen. As I followed her to the couch, bong in hand, I wondered about how to get past the details of our last encounter and get to the good stuff. Before I could even begin to formulate a hypothesis, she spoke up “So do you like to smoke and fuck?” *coughs on smoke* “Uhhh yes, yes I do. Do you?” I could barely get the words out as I struggled to match her pace. “Yea, I do,” she said almost nonchalantly, like it was no big deal. I would be lying if I told you I remembered any of what was said between that moment and our move to the bedroom. She rose, grabbing my hand gently but firmly, and headed to the bedroom. I left the bong precariously perched on the couch and followed behind her. When I bent the corner, she was crawling on all 4’s across my bed and looking back at me, invitingly. I barely had time to get my shirt over my head before she was attacking the drawstring on my shorts like a rabid beast. I am not one to hype sexual prowess, I believe everyone b rings their own skill set to the party, so to speak. But this woman, she threw neck like she owed money. She was giving brain like she was being audited by the IRS and had to find ways to hide money. She was topping me off like I was the last person between her and a 25-life prison sentence. Sweet Mother of God. Her mouth and throat were so good it almost ruined the rest of the extracurricular activities. As I felt myself getting lost in the moment, I reverted to baseline and just had to say something. “You ain’t trying to have kids or something are you?” As soon as I said it, I wanted to slap myself on the neck. Here I am, waist-deep in some guts and my dumbass is going to mention kids as a way to ask about Birth control? Smh But she didn’t skip a beat. Between moans she stated “No, no kids. I’m on the pill.” The final “L” in pill barely rolled off her tongue before I was putting that prescription to the test. I couldn’t have pulled out of a three-car garage in a Mini Cooper that night. Oh well. As the post-nut clarity began to set in, I rose and headed back to the bong in hopes of steadying myself. I halfway expected her to be upset or even annoyed, but she wasn’t. She smiled warmly as she exited the room, a shirt pulled loosely around her in a feeble attempt to conceal her body that I had just ravaged. After she used the restroom, she joined me on the couch and hit the bong without hesitation. Now, here is where I was unsure as how to maneuver. We had clearly accomplished what we set out to, now what was next? I thought deeply as I inhaled another dose of medicine. “So idk your like situation or whatever, but we should do this more often,” the words rolled off her lips like an invite to a church potluck. “I’m about it if you are,” my corny ass replied. After another few rounds of medicine, I Ubered her home and lay in bed to re-live my sins before I succumbed to sleep. The next day, I received another message reading “Hey, what are you up to tonight?” Aha! A true goer, indeed. This arrangement continued unimpeded for several weeks, each time the sexual exploits became more intense, as did her appetite for the medicine. It all came to a head one day when she came over, smoked, got dug out, and then decided to stay the night. I figured “No biggie, she’s been here numerous times.” Early the next morning, I woke up to use the bathroom/get ready. I noticed my desk drawer (where the medicine was kept) was open. I didn’t think much of it, I forget to close it sometimes when I’m under the influence. I got dressed, woke her up, got her an Uber, then headed into work. The day wore on, but I couldn’t shake the idea of my drawer being open. So much so, in fact, that I left on my lunchbreak to investigate. After a thorough analysis, I concluded that part of a Swisher Sweet had “vanished” and I could not account for it. Now this is a trivial matter in terms of amount and expense, but the principle remains nevertheless. I txted the Jailbird to ask and her response “Idk what swisher you mean,” told me all that I needed to know. No matter the quality of neck and guts, it is never ever worth sacrificing your dignity for. I do not care if it was a gram or a pound, I have never and will never pay for pussy. The moral of the story is as follows: If she gets arrested on your first date, the pussy is most certainly fire. However, that same fire will also burn you so run for the hills swon. Live to swipe right another day.