The botox blow job problem

You can call it a red herring and you would be absolutely right. But guys, what do you expect from me? I had a horrific weekend in New York, I had to rewrite the experience. I didn’t want you to be the last woman I had sex with*.

(She* is past tense. She* is never mentioned here again.)

I did what you have to do in such cases: I went on Tinder and was “very active”. Or should we say: extraordinarily generous. Unlike the days before New York, I almost always swiped right. Almost every woman between 24 and 46 was hugged, I did the first messages well and always wrote back neatly. Evil tongues would say I seem desperate, I’d rather call it “devoted.”

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On Wednesday I met a woman who had a smile that pierced my bones. Loud, high, loud. I would still have slept with her, but she wouldn’t. She had her period, she said. Whether that was true or not, who knows. We kissed and said goodbye with the classic “We hear each other”.

I didn’t reach out because in case you haven’t noticed by now, I wasn’t looking for another FWB situation, I wanted fast food.

On Friday I met a woman who had just broken up and told me at length about her ex. Before you ask: Yes, I would have slept with her too. But she didn’t want to either. She would never have sex on the first date. She did that to her ex and as we now know, it didn’t work out. A bit of frustration on my part: so much ex, but no sex. (No? Okay, I thought that was good.)

On the weekends I had family obligations, which means I was away. Went well. Cousin hysteria is still huge, but at least the little one can laugh now. I’m okay with it.

On Wednesday I met a woman from LA. 38 years old, marketing, dog fanatic. She was only in town for a week. I was sure of victory! If someone is only there for a short time and is still ready to meet, she will only want sex.

In the photos, she looked like someone from Hollywood. Not like anyone specific, more like a mix of every woman I’ve seen in the movies. I was convinced she looks different in real life and had her photos photoshopped. But wrong. She looked just like that. Small nose, big lips, slanted eyes, hair up to her ass, perfect figure. She wasn’t really “my type”. But that didn’t matter at all. She was attractive, laughed at my jokes and only drank bottled water. She is “LA sober”, meaning she doesn’t drink alcohol, but uses drugs regularly.

We went to her hotel. One of the expensive ones. Beautiful rooms, lots of white, lots of wood, soft bed. She wanted to know why I swiped right. “What do you like about me?” she asked. I tapped her nose. Wrong answer. That was done. “Rhinoplasty at 21.” – «I like long hair!» I said, and she took my hand so I could feel little plastic things on the back of her head. It’s extensions. We kissed, I said her lips were beautiful. “Filler,” was her reply. Admittedly, I was a little annoyed, but also amused, and somehow I thought it was brave that she was so open about everything.

What she also wants to tell me is that she put Botox on her lips for the first time two weeks ago. What’s the point, I asked. “So you don’t see the flesh over your teeth when you smile. And because of the lip lines,” she said. That’s why she can’t drink from a tube right now. And blowing is a bit difficult at the moment. That bothers her a bit. Otherwise she is very good at it. But in three months it would be dismantled again. I must have looked at her in amazement, at least she started laughing out loud. A good laugh, deep and beautiful.

The sex was good too – even without a blowjob. I left the hotel at midnight, gave the receptionist a quick nod as if I was a regular at the store, and went home satisfied. It was definitely the American story I needed to forget about New York. And I also learned.

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