I had invited him over only for sex, so when I woke the next morning to the sight of him putting on his pants, I said, “Do you need me to walk you out?”
“No, I’m just going to use the bathroom,” he said. “I’d like to stay, if that’s O.K.”
And it was. So he stayed for the rest of the day, never more than a few inches from me. We left the room only to use the bathroom or to shuffle to the kitchen for snacks. Meanwhile, my roommates laughed, gossiping about my “sexcapade with the cute guy from Tinder.”
“I think you’re the girl of my dreams,” he said. “I can’t believe we met on Tinder.”
I had never been the girl of anyone’s dreams — not even my own. I always imagined the quintessential girl of men’s dreams to be taller than me, thinner, more poised and blond. But my lover insisted, and we lounged on top of each other until late in the afternoon.
Later, I said, “Do you usually have sex with girls the night you meet them?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Why, do I come off as a slut?”
Source: The New York Times