From Splinter authored b
“A few years ago, in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, I met up with a boy from Philly at a fancy doughnut shop in Chelsea. Prior to the date, I’d been excited. We had an internet “meet cute” story—a witty remark he’d made had gone viral, and, smitten with his smarts, I’d managed to track down his OkCupid profile—and the fact that our first date took place in the early days of New York’s recovery from Sandy’s destruction felt auspicious. My city was getting back on its feet, and so was my dating life.
And yet the moment I stepped into the doughnut shop, something felt off. The immediate, winning chemistry I’d been hoping for was utterly absent, but since he’d taken the bus all the way up to New York just to see me, I figured I owed him a date. As the afternoon wore on, it became clear that he felt I owed him something else as well. He told me a story about a former girlfriend who’d denied him a blowjob after he’d driven a long way to see her; my main takeaway was that only bitches didn’t put out for men who’d put in effort to visit them. Even though I felt zero desire for him, it ultimately seemed less taxing to get drunk and let him have his way with me later that night.
In the morning, I was mostly grateful that he left immediately, that I didn’t have to come up with an excuse for why I couldn’t get breakfast with him. As the door to my apartment closed behind him, I burst into tears, feeling empty and violated and sad. At the time, I was convinced that everything that had transpired was entirely my fault. But years later, I’m not so sure.”
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