There is something terrible that happens with breakups. No, I am not talking about shoveling 32 pints of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food and Half-Baked Ice Cream into your sperm free mouth and the following 7 pounds of guilt-induced fat. I am talking about sexual hiatus.
When you have a boyfriend, your private parts fit together like PB&J. Sex is easier than figuring out your doordash order. There’s something magical about a relationship’s guaranteed sex-clause that makes non-available girls happier. It’s called serotonin, released in copious amounts after coitus. Something single girls can not get enough of.
So there’s Tinder, and Hinge, and The League, and Bumble, and Pokemon Go. But no random penis will make you “oh” like the pink specimen that has been gyrating around your who-ha all year long. So you might coyly attend some bang-fests, maybe be extra forward at a bar, text some old hook-up buddies. But the end result is the same, you are never satisfied. Like Angelica Schular from Hamilton, “a woman who can never be satisfied.” So you might as well move to where drought is the norm. Which brings me to California.
I’ve tried all these dating apps, trust me I have. Considering I was a total whore in college with a number well above my age, you’d think I wouldn’t have reservations about fucking questionably homeless/hipster men with man-buns. But here’s the thing. Relationships change you. Emotional intimacy was never my thing, so it’s not that there’s something I’m running from. The fact is, I’m lazy. I don’t want to try. I don’t want to play games, I don’t want to be wined and dined. I want to be fucked. Good ol’ fucked. But I guess there comes a time when you’ve got to swallow your pride and do what all the other girls are doing: taking risque snapchats and posting questionable instagram stories.
But all I’ve got to say to the sluts out there who have secured a man: fuck him til you can’t, because the drought that follows will last longer than you think.