I don’t have many dates. Most of them are good. Great, even. I tend to go on dates only with women I know I’m going to get along with.
Once in a while, I deviate from this practice, and go in a date with a woman I hope I’ll get along with.
This is never a good idea.
My ability to predict the outcome of a date is on the order of 100%. For better or worse, I’m almost never surprised.
Which begs the question of why I ever go on a bad date.
I don’t really know the answer to this question. I suppose part of it is my irrepressible optimism, my hope that, somehow, I’ll turn out to be wrong, that a woman with whom I’m interacting will be different, will be better, than she’s previously revealed herself to be to me.
And I suppose part of it is my insatiable appetite for feeling desired, for collecting the willingness of an attractive woman to suck my cock, to allow herself to be used by me for my, for our pleasure.
If I were a better man, I’d skip these dates. I wouldn’t waste the time of women I know, in my heart of hearts, I won’t click with.
The worst part is, even on those bad dates, I’m rarely the one to call the jig up. No, I tend to march on, blithely, in hopes of, at a minimum, collecting that elusive desire. This isn’t sociopathic. I’m not looking to mislead, deceive, or wound anyone. I’m genuinely prepared, in these instances, to close the deal, to collect pleasure, to deliver it. Yet somehow, I rely on my date to articulate the obvious, that it’d be better for each of us if we were simply to shake hands, or kiss on the cheek, and wish each other well.
Invariably, she does. On these bad dates, I tend to call the question in a way that’s overdetermined to produce the result of rejection. I ask for something ill-calibrated to my companion, to our interaction. I ask for her panties, or for a show of submission that’s simply one (or two, or three) steps too far.
Why do I do this? Am I seeking rejection? Triumph? Both? Do I honestly imagine things will go different than I know they will?
I have no idea.