~This is a petty-ass hate vent. You have been warned.~

Time is a precious thing for me. I have so little of it due to the nature of my job. So when someone wastes my time, I get offended.

Cash was a waste of my time.

I met Cash via Tinder. We had chatted back and forth via the app and eventually via text messages. It took us a while to find a time to meet up because my schedule is nuts and, as it turns out, his is not simple either. 

But finally, after weeks of trying to figure this out, we settled on a Tuesday evening drink. I was able to go home after work, shower, change, and meet him at a local bar near my apartment around 7pm.

Cash was cute. Not hot, but cute. He gave off a nerdy vibe, which in my book is a plus. He is working on a PhD. With my medical career, we had shared intellectual backgrounds to fall on for conversation.

From the beginning, Cash let it be known he did not want a relationship. That was fine for me as yes, love is a sweet temptation, but at the end of the day people have needs. And mine, as of late, have not been fulfilled. 

I invited him back to my place. We talked about what we were looking for, each agreeing to a FWB situationship roughly once every two weeks.

My issue though is for that arrangement to work both parties have to be good in bed. And Cash is NOT good in bed.

First, and most importantly, was the condom issue. 

Cash broke up with a longterm girlfriend in December. He was used to sex without a condom. I, however, was very insistent I was not going to fuck him without one. He struggled to get hard with a condom on. He was able to, with much coaxing on my part, but inevitably went limp, after a few minutes of stroking, multiple times.

Second, Cash has a small dick. Some people say good stroke game can overcome size deficiency. Welp, not in Cash’s case. When erect, he was maximum 5 inches, enough to give me the smallest amount of pleasure, but I knew I was not going to orgasm from his thrusts alone.

Third, this motherfucker cannot kiss well. He had this habit of biting on and sucking my bottom lip into his mouth so hard the entire time we were fucking. It made me want to not kiss him.  Afterwards, when he had left and I went to use the restroom, I saw this asshole had actually caused a bruise on my lip. 

For the two or three days while the bruise existed, I could not figure out why it made me so angry. And then it dawned on me: bruises, for me, are mementos of enjoyable moments in my life, little presents given to me via hot sex, red and purple reminders of fucking I wanted to remember and relive. 

Sex with Cash was not enjoyable. It was a chore I unexpectedly endured. Having a visual representation of bad sex literally staring me in the face every time I looked at a mirror was a good way to prevent that particular experience ever happening again. In fact, I know I’ve grown to hate the sex more and more while looking at the bruise and also remembering said bruise. Presents can cut both ways.

Forth, he kept saying “I’m sorry” over and over again. This man could not stay hard. And each time he went soft, he kept saying “I’m sorry, can you…?” He even apologized after cuming (achieved via his hand with little help from me), and when we were done and getting dressed. 

Look, I know what I want when I’m fucking. Sniveling, whinny, impotency (both physically and emotionally) are not fucking sexy to me. I want strength, control, dominance, none of which describes Cash.

Fifth, and final grievance, this man couldn’t even finger me well. Has no one ever been honest with him? Has no one given him tips or basic instructions in the way to please a partner with his hands? I mean probably because I had to physically push his fingers into my vagina. And even after I made it abundantly clear I wanted him to finger fuck me, he was still off the mark. This man had perfectly functional hands, yet he still could not perform.

Such a fucking waste of my time.

I am too nice. And It was my apartment. And I wanted his ass to leave. So I said I had fun and he said he had fun and he would call me.

I don’t want this man to call me. I don’t want to see this man ever again. 

On the list of fucks in my life (You know I have a physical list; nerds love data.), he ranks so far down when it comes to enjoyment and fondness; if I could I would forget him. He was not the worst, but fuck he came close.

Having now taken over 800 words to express how much I did not like this particular sexual experience, I must now give a moment to acknowledge and roast myself. Because I am going back on Tinder. And I am going to find another date. And I will try again. Because your girl has needs. And my current roster is not fulfilling those needs. And I deserve excellent consistent sweaty back-breaking praise God sex in my life.

Okay, back to it I go. Wish me luck.

*kiss kiss*

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