Masterminds

I swiped right on a headless torso and accidentally embarked on an Odyssey of my own desire.

I am bored. The whole Christmas I´ve been spending alone, glued binging meaningless television, nursing a heartbreak from that previous man with an irky tendency to get in touch only when he needed to cum. The Smudged beard.

Somewhere between amusement and bewilderment, I observe myself overthink the end of a situation that had barely begun. How could leaving so early still knot me up like this? I sigh at my own inability to parent myself and, with a sort of grim resolve, download all the dating apps again.

On a random Tuesday, a faceless, hyper-trained torso slids into my feed. A headless six-pack. He is probably an ugly troll, I say out loud, and match him for fun. The third picture a blunt, unapologetic hard-on. Why am I turned on by this? I laugh to myself as I type: you just boosted my luteal phase with your third pic. The Smudged beard silently still hovers in the back of my mind like an uninvited guest too late to the party.

He flirts back. And not badly. This is not how an ugly man writes, I note. There is too much ease in it. Too much playful, cocky confidence. We spend the day exchanging light, playful messages while he cautiously attempts to lock down plans to meet. But I am exhausted. The Smudged beard still lingers too close to my chest, the sex, the drama, the holding hands on a Sunday. I dodge hyper-trained torsos invitations, keeping things flirtatious and easily sexual, deliberately non-substantial. An exit built into every sentence.

The day he flies back to his home country, we exchange Instagrams. Curious, I click his profile the second his “@” lands in the chat.

I stop short.

This is not a troll. This is a genuinely beautiful man. Freckles scattered unevenly across his face. Angelic curls. An over-trained body that borders on excessive. A smile that pulls heat low between my thighs. The eyes just the right shade of warm, maroon brown with a sense of style that casually communicates “I know I am gorgeous” .

You’re hot, I write. Sad we didn’t meet in the end. Xx.

The conversation tips easily into something wilder. Videos follow. He describes, with careful attention, what his tongue would do to make me cum. I notice, quietly, how much he seems to love pussy.

Because here is the deal:

I’ve dated two kinds of men. There are those who tolerate pussy as an entrance to their own fulfilled desire, and I am glad bear witness. And then there are those who worship it. Who want to taste it, spend time there, get lost in it, slip the panties to the side -kind of enthusiastically honour it. Personally having a man like this half-gets me off.

The Smudged beard had never been a worshipper. This man, meanwhile, mentioned—almost casually—how he’d make me come clitorally. The specificity! He knows nuance. He knows how to talk to women.

Smudged Beard Man starts watching my Instagram stories every day. I notice, but feel nothing. I’m already gone. He fumbled me. He is free to go join the boring ranks of exes that still track my every move in the online world. Go forth, be free, annoy someone else with your drunk dials.

Maroon -eyed hottie begins sending me videos of everyday happenings. My dog says hi, I write to him and he responds that he happens to love animals. I jokingly say oh so you´re not only sexy, you´re also a good person huh? And he says did you think I was a bad person? And I say well yes you are, you are definitely bad. So, so bad. Hahahah thanks, he says, and off we set, both still too shy to facetime, but disappearing videos galore, getting off on each other, the distance between our countries and this shared, temporary no-man’s-land of unfulfilled but bubbling desire circulating between us, filling up every millimeter of the universe, bouncing back and forth, never quite dissolving, never fully landing.

(An accurate depiction of the trainer-torso in question.)