Indifference

Am I supposed to be into this man? I’m supposed to be into this man. As he plies me with conversation and alcohol, and here I am, indifferent about this man. I could fuck him. I could not fuck him. I could suck his dick. I could not suck his dick. I guess what I’m mostly curious about is: can I put up with him for another 4-6 hours? Oh, the answer is no? Ugh. Why don’t I drink so much anymore. I could probably have drank my way through this when I was 25. I could have fucked him when I was 25. Regardless of what his dick is like. But I know what his dick is like. I felt it through his pants. It’s not three drinks worth of fucking. His dick is…seven drinks worth of fucking. For what? So I can wake up feeling alienated in my own room? Or I can just suffer us both through a few minutes of rejection and wake up tomorrow feeling fine about everything. Ah, yes, dating. Nobody’s favorite sport, unless you’re me, five years ago, feeling glib about the world. Which isn’t to say that I’m jaded today, but, eh, I could fuck this dude tonight and feel nothing, or I could not fuck this dude and still feel nothing, so…what’s the point? Hello, sexual nihilism.

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