Swipe Left

Originally publised in Sinister Wisdom

She moves in to kiss me. It isn’t that I don’t want to kiss her back, it’s that I can solely focus on the stench of her breath. It isn’t necessarily a bad stench, as we had gone to a nicer restaurant, one she picked out and I paid for, and we both steered away from garlicky flavors. She ordered a Caprese salad, dressing on the side, with extra croutons. I ordered the lobster. 

I don’t even like seafood that much. I had read in some beauty magazine in my therapist's office that lobster is one of the sexiest foods you can order. Not because it’s seductive to crack open the broiled red shell and scoop out the meat of a creature that blinked back at me only an hour beforehand—but because it shows wealth. I’m not actually rich, I graduated from art school a few months ago and work front desk at a dog shelter for eleven bucks an hour. It’s the allure though; slapping down thirty dollars for a mediocre lobster tail makes me seem mysterious, seductively affluent. The beauty magazine lied though. I can still see the way my date sneered at me when I pointed at which one I wanted in the tank—the way her blue eyes narrowed in disgust as the corner of her lip curled. She’s clearly a vegetarian, or maybe a vegan, or maybe has a deathly allergy to shellfish.

I chose the most miserable looking lobster—one claw larger than the other, a slight limp as he crawled over the others in the tank, a blue rubber band around the bulk of his tail rather than purple. I’d like to say it was because I wanted to put him out of his misery, but the truth is that I know that the deformed ones were always cheaper. I may want to appear wealthy, but I don’t want to go bankrupt for a woman who I’ll probably never see again after tonight. 

Her breath has the slight barley odor from the beer she sipped, which was infused with grapefruit because without the fruity undertones it tastes like “moldy bread soaked in aspartame.” There’s something else lingering too, it’s unpleasant and all-consuming. There’s a hint of wintergreen from the four Altoids she shoved in her mouth after desert, but not enough to disguise the staleness. I wonder if my breath has the same scent, perhaps more sour from the two glasses of malbec I drank, a stain on my right breast proof of my fumbling hands. Or maybe it’s a bit more creamy from the excess of butter I poured over the pink flesh to undermine the fishy taste. 

Her fingers crawl under my skirt, tracing circles on my thigh, a teasing motion. The pads of her fingers are cold, her nails too long. I have dermatographia, which causes even the smallest of abrasions to turn into large puffs of pinkened skin—her too-long nails littering my thighs in deformities. I thought it was common decency to cut your nails before going on a date with another woman. Even if sex wasn’t on the table, there is a decorum when going over the “what ifs” and priming oneself when analyzing all possibilities. Not to mention that she’s the one who wanted to end the night with heavy petting in the back seat of her car, in which case she should also be the one to have the etiquette to make her fingers presentable and usable. 

Her lips find the corner of my mouth, hers parted as her tongue swipes at the divot of skin. It should be sexy—her sense of control should lead me to part my legs wider and push my hands into her short golden locks—but it isn’t. I would like to believe the idea of her tongue against my skin is revolting because I saw how white it was when she stuck it out to place a tomato upon it and slurped it into her mouth. Hygiene is on my “must-have” list. After all, if she doesn’t have the human decency to brush her tongue, who knows what else she forgets to wash and pamper. Even though the chalky tongue was a deal-breaker, I know it’s not the reason the saliva residue sliding down my chin is causing my nostrils to flare and fists to clench. I can’t quite name what it is that repulses me about her.

I would like to say that she is a nice woman. She seems put together and holds herself well, which is rather admirable. Apparently, she’s a law student at some private school right outside of town, she’s an only child born to rich parents who expect her to follow in their footsteps. She has an internship at a non-profit but refuses to disclose which one for “privacy reasons,” which means it's her daddy’s law firm. She’s wearing a button-down with just enough view of her cleavage, sexual but not overly seductive. It’s the kind of shirt that would make any other woman want to lick the condensation off of her decently sized breasts. She paired it with slacks and stilettos, a silver pendant necklace with matching earrings. I’d never tell her, but it aged her at least seven years. I found her on some dating app two days ago and swiped right because her profile was promising. It explained that she likes dogs over cats, is an avid hiker, has an obsession with true-crime documentaries, and lives off of peanut butter protein bars and iced coffee. Would it be a dealbreaker if I told her I have an airborne allergy to peanuts? Or should I suck it up like she did with shellfish? 

All her photos were flattering—her on the beach in a bikini, at a club in a nice fitting dress, at her undergrad college graduation, and one of her with a cute dog—which turned out to be her friends and not her own, which I believe is called false advertising. She’s taller than me and at the age of twenty-four is two years older than me, both of which are appreciated traits. She’s a Gemini, which could be a deal-breaker if I knew how astrology worked and the compatibility between them and Libras. She seemed like a good girl to chat up, maybe hook up with, potentially form an awkward friendship with, but now that we’re here I’m counting down the minutes until I can rush home.

She finally closes the distance between our lips. It's not a slow lingering touch but instead, she latches and sucks. It’s too aggressive for a first kiss. Her hand creeps further up my skirt and I cringe when her fingers trace over the line of my Spanx. I wasn’t expecting a makeout session in the back of her car—if I had then I would have skipped out on the Spanx, or maybe have worn jeans if I had known I’d be this unamused by her. She was flirty in the restaurant, her heeled foot rubbing against my ankle under the table, which probably left a rash. She reached across the table to take my hand, kissed my knuckles as she whispered some generic compliment I can’t remember. I was too busy focusing on what fork I was supposed to use for my main course. With wealth would come basic etiquette knowledge, in which I would know the role of all four forks. 

When we left to go back to her car, she opened the back passenger seat first. It felt like I was a child that she was done playing with, buckling me in the backseat so she could avoid me on the drive back to drop me off at my apartment. When she crawled in after me and shut the door, I realized that she was after a makeout session in the parking lot. I had upgraded from a child to a horny teenager in a matter of seconds. I would be fine with having sex. I’m in desperate need for a woman to strip me bare and rock me into a blinding orgasm—or at least a lackluster coming. However, it would have been better at one of our apartments where one of us could leave directly after. Where we are now leaves us at risk of getting labeled as sex offenders or worse; having to awkwardly drive back to my apartment post-cunnilingus. 

She pulls her lips away and grabs my hips, lowering me onto the floor, which is cluttered with empty water bottles and receipts. It’s too tight, my hips are squished between the center console and the middle seat. I’m flattered that she expected me to fit with no problems, but angry with the way she pushes down against my shoulders when I get stuck inches off of the floor. Whatever I land on oozes onto my ass, a warm and sticky residue imbedding itself into my dress. If I had to guess, I’d assume it’s an over-ripe banana or a pre-opened pudding cup.

Rather than joining me, she turns in the seat and sits on her knees. She fumbles with a button on the headrest, groaning each time it refuses to do what she expects. Her feet dangle over the edge in front of me, the shoe on her right foot slipping off to reveal manicured toes on blistered feet. I count two Hello-Kitty bandaids before the seat leans forward and she falls back, hitting her head against the back of the passenger seat. Her elbow connects with my shoulder, an accidental jab of bone against bone. I’m sure she whispers some sort of expletives, maybe even an apology, but I’m too focused on my throbbing shoulder and the way that she lowered the seats to make a flat surface in the back of her car—the windows untinted. There are two jackets, an empty pizza box, half a case of water, a backpack, and a pair of tennis shoes in the trunk, all of which she scoots to the left before turning and yanking me onto the lowered seats. 

She pins me on my back, her legs straddling one of my thighs. Some sort of latch digs into my spine, I can already feel the skin knotting and turning a dark shade of purple. My body has become an incidental pin cushion, covered in marks from a woman who’s just trying to get a quickie.

I wore my sexiest red dress for the occasion, the one that my roommate told me made my body look “bangin.” I even wore matching wedges and painted my lips a deep crimson. All of which I currently regret as her lips suction onto mine again. All of my accessories seem cheap under the fluorescent car lights, or maybe it’s just me that feels cheap. Her hand gropes my stained breast and I realize for the first time that my eyes are wide open, just staring—analyzing my surroundings. She has a pink dreamcatcher hanging on her rearview mirror, the feathers frayed and turning brown from dust. Her graduation tassels are next to it, one from a private high school and one from university she probably never spent a penny on. Perhaps if I can push through another couple of dates and make her parents swoon over my intelligence and maturity, I can get them to pay off my student debt. Her sunroof is broken, or maybe she likes to keep it constantly cracked open, even if it means the weather, heat, and nature seeping into her car. She also has those fake glow in the dark stars on her roof as if she’s trying to make stargazing possible while still being covered enough to fondle the person with her, making it obvious that this isn’t a one-time ordeal for her.

I still haven’t touched her in return, my lips are stiff and my tongue is unmoving. My hand's sole purpose is to tug my skirt down when she tries to push it up my legs. I’m not a fan of being undressed or exposed, I’d rather do it myself because I don’t like my power being taken away from me. She probably feels like she’s about to fuck a mannequin. Hopefully, a sexy mannequin that's seen at Victoria’s Secret. I allow her to keep going. It does feel nice to be wanted, even if it’s from a complete stranger from a dating site. 

I only downloaded the dating app because I was lonely. It had been two years since I had been on an actual date and over a year since I was last laid. It started as a game, just to see how many queer women were in my town—which was surprisingly a lot. I’m too picky when swiping. I have a type—tall, older than me, good job, straight teeth, blonde, and well-traveled. I received a few matches but none of them messaged me—current company excluded. However, the messages weren’t what truly mattered, it was the fact that people simply found me attractive and swiped back on me. I wasn’t planning on meeting anyone. The desperation got a hold of me though, so when she messaged me inviting me to dinner when she got off work, I agreed. I suppose I expected her to pay since she invited me to the restaurant and picked the location, but she played the good old “oh I forgot my wallet, I’m so sorry” line. I fell for it, wanting to show off my wealth and fondness for extravagant foods, or better yet, lie about my wealth and fondness for extravagant foods—which I now see is pathetic considering that her wallet’s on the front dashboard of her car.

She sits up and begins to unbutton her blouse, her fluorescent red bra coming into view, slightly too small for her, but in a deliberate way to make her chest look larger. She throws her top onto the steering wheel and it falls beside her gas petals. She unbuttons her pants. I’m overthinking the way she’d have to tug off my Spanx and run her fingers over the indents that it left in my skin. How she’ll have to peel my strapless sticky bra off of my breasts, ignoring the adhesive residue that remains. She may try to run her fingers through my hair, her knuckles getting stuck in the clumps of hairspray from my haphazard curls. Or how she’ll run that chalk colored tongue against the scratches she caused, or even how those too-long nails will rip me apart. None of it’s appealing, none of it makes me want to melt into the car seats and allow her to ravage me. She begins to shimmy her pants down and they catch on her knees, causing her to howl in impatience. I bet it’s been a while since she’s actually gotten laid either—despite her obvious attempts and use of glow-in-the-dark stars. Both of us are horny and desperate, but I can’t seem to go through with it and ignore the red flags and slight flaws that should mean nothing. 

I sit up, her eyes lighting up as she thinks I’m about to pull my skin-tight dress over my head. I give her a quick pat of the shoulder, ruffle her hair—though I don’t know why—and thank her for a fun night. Perhaps it was all a bit crude of me to make such a hasty exit, her, half-naked and hopefully somewhat wet, receiving a quick touch of the hand, much like a t-ball coach when their kid misses the swing. She asks me to call her and I give her a final glance over. We both know she’ll never hear from me again, just like we both know she won’t attempt to reach out to me as soon as I close the car door. I shrug, grab my purse and exit the vehicle, making sure to shield her body in the process so no bystanders get a full look at her semi-toned body.

She drives away a few minutes later as I climb into my Uber back home. I delete the dating app, remove her contact from my phone, and text my roommate to get a glass of wine ready for me. I don’t realize until I’m back in my room, stripping myself free from the shackles of my clothing, that she stole my wallet. She made me her own personal escort, minus the happy ending. I should have swiped left.