Page 9 of Tinder B@ng

Five

It’s Wednesday night, and I’m stuck on yet another crappy date. At least he showed up. We met at a trendy down-the-stairs bar in SoHo called The Ship. Unfortunately, my date, MagicMike_36_, didn’t reserve a table so we’re stuck at the bar. Mike is a used-car salesman — which I thought was a dying breed in a city like New York — and you know what else? He likes scratching his balls in public. I’ve been trying to engage him in conversation for the last hour, but all he can talk about is used cars, and the only thing he can do is, literally, scratch his balls. And the saddest part? I decided to forgo my security detail tonight. Holland was fully booked with clients, and Oakley had a dress to finish. Also, I can’t be sure she’s not currently having sex in her studio. She and Sebastian have something with the damn futon.

Mike snorts, and the sound is so jarring, I spill my drink. What he’s laughing at, I don’t even know. I’ve completely checked out of the conversation. There are only so many times I can hear about how this guy ‘convinced’ a person to buy a particular car because it’s a ‘killer deal.’ Chances are, he was ripping them the fuck off. Kind of like our date — I’m definitely not getting what I paid for.

“Do you want another beer?” Mike asks, right before he burps in my face. I should really just call it a night and go home. It’s not as if things are going to miraculously get better. Not even if this guy gets a lobotomy.

“Actually,” I hop off the barstool, “I’m not feeling so great, so I’m going to head home.” His expression falls, but between looking sad, and kind of relieved, he still manages to scratch his balls. I blow out a breath, already so freakin’ tired of this whole horse and pony show that is online dating. Maybe I should have asked Kalon_45_ out instead. Based on our conversation earlier, at least I would have had some kind of stimulation. But this guy? ‘Kay bye.

“Can I see you again?” Oh, dear, he looks far too hopeful, so I whip out the one thing I’m truly known for: honesty.

“Look, Mike, there’s nothing magic about you, or this date. The fact that you keep touching yourself in public tells me you either have an STD you should probably have checked out, or you have an unhealthy fixation with your,” I look down, and back up, “testicles. You obviously have a job you love, and good for you, but if I have to hear about one more killer deal, I might just kill you.” His mouth drops open, and the guy next to him, who’s obviously eavesdropping, snorts, and then coughs because his drink might have just gone up his nose.

“But I thought we were having a good time,” Mike says. I start for the door, and feel him behind me. He wraps his arm around my waist and breathes in my ear, “Let’s take this back to my place, I’ll show you a better time there.”

His breath. Gag. And who does he think he is grabbing me like this? Without a second thought, I pull a Sandra Bullock ala Miss Congeniality and S.I.N.G. Elbow to the solar plexus. A right stomp on his instep. A punch to his nose. And a fist to his groin. The most amount of damage with the least amount of effort. Mike grunts, and a few patrons gasp and step aside.

I bend at the knee and murmur, “You should never touch a woman against her will.” He glares, and spits out, “bitch.” I shrug. “A bitch who just kicked your itchy-balled ass.” I say it loud enough for any other woman around me to hear so they don’t end up falling prey to this fucking loser either. When I straighten up, I keep my head held high and walk out. The sidewalk traffic swallows me up, and for a few minutes I walk in no particular direction, with no particular direction in mind. It’s official. I hate online dating. And I’m destined to forever be alone with bouts of bad sex in-between. Just then, my phone goes off. But instead of it being Kalon_45_, like I’d hoped, it’s Oakley.

I groan out aloud. I don’t really want to tell her about this epic failure of a date, or the ball-scratching grabber MagicMike_36_ turned out to be. But she is my best friend, and so far, we haven’t kept anything from each other. I mean, if she can talk to me about Sebastian sticking his dick in her back door, then my bad dates are not entirely off limits. Even if I am defunct as far as dating goes, at least Oakley will still love me. I come to a stop and shoot her a text.

It’s a tempting offer, even if I’m going to feel like a third wheel for the rest of the night. But it also beats going home alone. Again. My hesitation is discernible when another text from Oakley pops up on my screen.

I roll my eyes. I’ve walked in on her and Bash in the studio, and in their apartment so many times, I’ve been tempted to bleach my eyes just to forget what I saw. Nobody, and I mean nobody, wants to see their best friend naked on the living room floor with her legs in the air, and her boyfriend going to pound town. Just trust me on this one. It’s not advised. I saw more of Oakley and Sebastian than I ever wanted to. To their credit, they’ve been a little more careful since then, and I’ve made a point of not using the key I have to Oakley’s apartment. If I knock, they have enough time to get dressed before letting me in. Unfortunately, there’s not much to be done about the post-sex smell that wafts about the room like strong perfume. Not even where we work is safe anymore, and that I’m far more vocal about. By all means, have crazy monkey sex, but not in the studio where we make our living. Have some kind of decorum, people. Seriously. I pull up my Uber app, and text Oakley while I’m waiting.

My Uber arrives a few minutes later and takes me from Soho to the Garment District where Oakley’s studio is located. I almost fall asleep on the drive. It’s not only been a long day, but this online dating spiel is an energy suck. The car jolts to a stop, and I climb out, walking to the signature mustard-colored door. I hear laughter once I’m inside, and slowly creep up the stairs, just in case. I know Oakley said no sexcapades, but Oakley isn’t always the problem. My sigh of relief is audible enough to get Oakley’s attention who is, in fact, standing in front of a wedding gown, pins in her mouth, while Sebastian sits on the floor, watching her.

“Thank God,” I mutter. “You’re dressed.”

Oakley spins around and takes the pins out her mouth before saying, “We’re not that bad.”

“You’re right, you’re worse!”

“Someone’s salty,” Sebastian remarks, giving me a crooked smile. For all his faults, like the fact that he likes to bang my bestie in some really weird fucking positions, he’s a decent guy, and we actually get along.

“Not now Uber boy,” I retort. “I was just grabbed in a bar, and had to SING my way out of it.”

Oakley gasps, but Sebastian looks confused. Understandably so. Men don’t really have to be familiar with the acronym that has saved many a woman from wandering hands. They just knock each other around a little and are done with it. We have to be smart, since we don’t have brute strength on our side. “We haven’t had to pull that move out in years,” Oakley says, her eyes still wide. “Are you okay?”

I dump my purse on the nearest table and slip off my heels. “I’m fine, but I can definitely chalk this off as another failed date. I’m starting to forget what a good date looks and feels like.”

Oakley packs away her measuring tape, and pins, and dishes up some Chinese food for me. I join them on the floor and start eating. I really am famished. Mike was only interested in buying booze, probably with the hope of a drunk hook-up at the end of it. “And this guy,” I point my food-laden chopsticks at Oakley, “kept scratching his balls.” Sebastian spits his food out, and Oakley hits his back but doesn’t take her eyes off me.

“What do you mean?” she asks.

I finish chewing, and then explain, “He literally couldn’t stop scratching his balls. If he was wearing a skirt, he’d have fucking dandruff on his shoes.”

Oakley looks at Sebastian as if he has the answer just because he’s a man. “You’re looking at me like this is a phenomenon I’m familiar with,” he tells her.

“Well?” she hedges. “Any idea why he’d be doing that?”

Sebastian shakes his head, but his smile tells me he’s going to indulge Oakley’s line of thought. Then he looks at me. “Sometimes, when a guy manscapes, he can shave a little too close to the skin on his balls, and it itches like a motherfucker. He probably has a heat rash.”

“I’m too scared to ask how you know that,” I say, looking at Oakley’s face. She’s trying really hard not to laugh.

“Oh, God,” I moan. “You’ve totally tried it.”

Sebastian shrugs, and his cheeks are red. “Every guy does, but I’ve learned my lesson. I ask Oak to do it for me now.”