I mean, I still did, but my usual crop never wrinkled their noses super adorably when I hooked my index finger inside them. For the first time ever, I stopped craving my weekly slither of fresh bodies. And then, in the days and weeks afterward, everything started getting weird. There goes No Nut November.īB and I met the weekend after our Insta debut, when we spent four frictionless hours not telling each other everything about our lives.
Eleven excruciatingly erect minutes later: Tingnngg! Oh.
I briefly considered the pleasant vacuum of death. My dick recommended sending one of its selfies. I opted for both: “You’re more than welcome to sit on my tuffet, muffet boy.” Sent. While sliding into his DMs, I considered two options in my opening message: fiery sexiness or blistering cringe. The little rainbow flag in his bio was the flaming signal I was looking for. His profile (sluttymissmuffet) was a summery cluster, all sand and shirtlessness. No, obviously we did not meet in real life name one millennial who - quarantine or not - leaves the house. For once, I was saved the trouble of having to harvest Grindr or any of its equally monotonous substitutes. I found a man one sweltering November afternoon four years ago.
