His bio begged me to swipe. Oh oh. Another hotep niccur. Chances are, he’s just another tone-deaf closeted misogynist with a bag full of mummy issues. I’m rich, yes, but I ain’t buying that BS.
Tinderly speaking, I’ve swiped on a plethora of hilariously exaggerated genitalia photographed from impossible angles, but today? No. I wanted more. Not more inches, although why not?! — but more.
“Brain cells matter.” My bio professed.
You see, for me, philosophical discussion is foreplay. I get turned on by the length of your medulla oblongata, relationships in which there is no sex, just intense conversation. That is why I find internet pornography a little disappointing. There’s just too much pointless small talk.
I had broken up with my boyfriend, Brian, of two months. Brian couldn’t handle my Girlfriend Intensity. I told him it wasn’t that I hated him, I just wanted things he didn’t have to offer — intellect, wit and brains. Classic Brians.
He seemed nice. Average looks. Scruffy hair. Preacher’s body. My standards are low but this is acceptable. So I swiped right.
To establish dominance, I replied his message after three days. I was single but not desperate, just hoping and available.
He’s just finished editing my thesis. Tomorrow, we celebrate. Like true sapiosexuals. With mind-blowing sex.
– Mandy, 30. Kisumu.