Hysom Zarroug

These Are My Tinder Confessions Pt. 1

Hysom Zarroug
These Are My Tinder Confessions Pt. 1
 
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Tinder Confessionals Pt. 1

I hesitated, momentarily, my finger lingering over the image on Tinder. She was easy on the eyes, for the most part, but listed herself as “Thiccc” with three C’s. For a fleeting moment I considered swiping left and eliminating forever the potential that she may or may not be capable of concocting. “Fuck it,” I muttered to myself as I swiped right with a grand flourish. To my surprise, we matched immediately and the games began. I fired off the standard “How is your Wednesday treating you?” and prepared to hear nothing back. Almost immediately, however, she responded with “Great! Thanks for asking. How is your?” In this moment I had a decision to make. The eagerness combined with swiftness of the reply let me know she was a goer, but was she someone I wanted to go with? As is more often the case than not, I succumbed to the lust in my heart and replied again. After no more than 6 message exchanges, we had planned to meet later that evening. The rest of the day was a blur at work as I waffled between flaking or rescheduling. But, true to my core, I stood firm ready to face the music. Around 7:30pm that evening, I was cleaning my smoking apparatus when I got a message notification. “Hey, I’m almost there. We still on?” The moment of truth. I took a massive rip from The Green Goblin and responded “Yes ma’am we are.”

Moments later she responded “Ok great! See you in about 15min.” As the potent sativa’s effects kicked in, my mind began to wonder about the events that were going to unfold. As soon as I had loaded another hit of medicine, there was a knock at the door. I swung the door open to reveal a woman who was about 5’2” and was built not dissimilarly to Mike Wazowski. Her slender legs met her abdomen in what can only be described as a slight fupa. While she was certainly not slender, she was far from obese. I steadied myself against the door and remembered who I am. I had navigated dicey waters before, this would be no different. I invited her inside and offered the medicine, which she politely declined. She sat on the couch and made surface-level small talk while I continued to get elevated. While I was trying to think about how to transition to the couch without being too forward, she spoke up and took the decision away from me. “Why are you sitting so far away from me?” I laughed half-heartedly and pointed to the bong, then stated “I was just trying to keep the smoke away from you, but I’ll be right over.” I rose and strode over to the couch in front of the TV. Some random documentary was on Netflix and I could tell from her body language that she was as invested in the documentary as I was in the outcome of the Notre Dame Cathedral’s fire. I sat next to her and she pressed herself against my side, another earnest expression of intent. I watched the documentary but was processing nothing on the screen. As the THC ravaged the synapses in my brain, I struggled to transition into the extra-curricular activities. However, true to her nature, the woman handled the transition for me yet again. I glanced over at her and was met with focused eye contact. She smirked, fleetingly, then leaned in to kiss me. The acceleration from this point was truly astonishing.  Before I could decide what to do with my hands, she was sliding them under her shirt onto her pierced nipples. A true goer, indeed. As things heated up, she removed her own pants and made a move for mine. “Well got damn,” I thought to myself as she reached into my waistline. “I’m on the pill,” she whispered in my ear, as if to suggest I should hit raw. Seconds later, I was in her guts as she folded herself into a position that allowed me to take a knee at the base of the couch. Let me take a moment to state that her walls were nothing short of magnificent. Likely due to the result of non-use, her shit felt like it was going to lock me inside and throw away the key. Pill or no pill, I know better than to just run around firing off inside of women. It was like she read my mind though because before I could even think to ask, she said “Bust on my face.” Son WHAT! A true performance artist, I made sure to paint her face, as requested. As the moments associated with climax subsided, I stepped back and said something to the effect of “I need to use the bathroom,” and walked to the bathroom. After a satisfactory inspection of the equipment, I exited the bathroom to see the woman wiping her face off with her own underwear. A true soldier if I had ever seen one. She glanced over and smirked before stating “Damn that was fun!” I put my pants back on and loaded another hit of medicine in the apparatus. She went to the bathroom, washed up, then exited and walked over to the table “I should probably go. I don’t wanna cramp your style. But if you ever want to try that again I am, like, soooo down.” And with that she exited the door and said she would text me when she made it home.

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I sat in silence for a while, smoke gently circulating as it contacted the ceiling fan. It was in this moment that I came to the realization that middle-of-the-pack women are ideal targets on Tinder and Bumble. Not only do they lack the stereotypical sense of entitlement associated with “bad b*tches,” but they have the most to prove. They understand that time is of the essence and it must be maximized, not wasted. Furthermore, there is not awkward goodbye or “what are we” discussion post-gut smashing. Just a pure exchange of carnal desires and sins of the flesh. Moreover, they understand how to treat a King and how to navigate royal domains. As the sativa pulled me back into its clutches, I smiled to myself and thought “what a time to be alive, the low hanging fruit does not disappoint and I will certainly be back to this tree for picking.”