A very young, very tall, dating app discovery turns into surprisingly amazing sex for an “older” woman. The knowing smile from the woman bartender crystalizes my choice. Alexandre is just 21—not 24 as he claims online—and despite his seven feet of height and model cheekbones, his face betrays his age.
Two women explore the boundaries of an open relationship. My phone pings. A WhatsApp message from Kimara: Seriously undone by you.
A stop off at her local wine shop turns into a parking lot hook-up. I’m on my way home from a long weekend in the city. The sun is setting as I cross the bridge, and that always inspires romance in me. I’ve had the day to recover from two nights of dancing and watching other people fuck. I’m feeling sexy in my hot-weather party pajamas, a short, thin, army green skirt, strappy black tank top, and black lace-up boots. I’ve shoved all my party clothes into my magic purse, and now I have to dig through it all to find my phone because the radio just cut out and there’s traffic.
A woman meets a man in a bar and initiates a spontaneous hook up. I’ll never understand beer, how it’s made, the sourness, the richness, what the amber color means, or why the specificity of the pour is so important. And I’m okay with that. If I listened to what he’s saying instead of intensely fixating on how his shirt fits snuggly across his forceful shoulders, I might be able to appreciate the hops education he’s giving me. But navigating the complex culture of brewing will have to wait for another day when his thick right hand isn’t brushing against the outside of my left thigh that just so happens to be uncovered from my flouncy, black summer dress.
A woman enters into a Dom-Sub relationship. And what should I wear? D: You will leave your clothes by the door. You may choose undergarments to wear if you wish.
She deems him out of her league but decides to make him a conquest; years of on-and-off hate sex ensues. I move to Boston (Boss town) shortly after my 21st birthday. I need to finish college and am attending what is referred to as “a historically blue collar, commuter school” by a cranky old man visiting a coffee shop where I work during my year off of school. When I mention I’m studying English Literature he scowls with judgement, “It’s not really a school meant for people studying liberal arts.”
A woman imagines running into her ex. The fantasy continues back at his place when she dommes him. It’s a dark East Williamsburg bar. The music is too loud and everyone is drunk. We both should be home, it’s 2 AM, but we’re not. Our eyes lock for the first time in months. There’s a flash of anger in his. Then sadness, then that warmth, that cozy charm. It’s almost a twinkle. It’s disarming. He looks different.