the life and musings of a kinky slut

Thirty-Seven Minutes

I knew within thirty seconds of meeting Zee that I was not going to fuck him. 

Zee is a lovely person. He has a great smile. He’s talkative. He has a generally happy disposition. But there was just something. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it at first, but I knew pretty much immediately this was going to be thirty minutes at a Starbucks and that was it. 

I wanted to not be a bitch to him. I think I succeeded, at minimum, at being polite. But in thirty-seven minutes, we never clicked.

He plays video games. He’s gone back to school to switch careers, but not nearly at the level that I’m at. I was smarter than him, more cultured, more verbose even though I kept trying to steer the conversation back to him to find some point of common ground. lt was to no avail.

And then there was a point in the middle of our thirty-seven minute date when I realized it. I am a snob. I was judging him for not being at my academic level. I was judging him for not being as successful as I am. I was judging him over the entirety of his being and found him wanting in every category.

I don’t believe in pity fucks. My pussy is a prize. You have to earn it, be worthy of it. As much as Zee is a good person, and as sweet as he was, I was never going to fuck him. 

Our 37 minutes were a pleasant conversation, but in the end it was a waste of time.

I am a dime; he is not.

At least I can say I gave him a shot. 

In our 37 minutes of chatting, I kept trying to find a way in. But that way in just never came, pun intended.

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