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They say a woman’s intuition is never wrong, but I believe a horny man’s is far superior. I’d barely thought of T for the past month, feeling vaguely pleased with his lack of interaction. I’d relaxed at the thought of his absence, relieved by his slow fading from my life.
T seemed to possess clairvoyant abilities though. Seconds after crossing my mind for the first time in months, my phone dinged with a notification.
T: has sent you a picture.
We originally met on Hinge and chatted for a few months. I’d been hesitant to set up the date. Still scarred from a tumultuous first lockdown, where I’d endured 12 weeks alone and a failed relationship, normality still seemed impossibly fragile. But as temperatures soared that summer, so did my sense of optimism.
But then, I caught a serious case of the “ick” during our first date. T was far too keen, too much of a Jack the Lad and far too involved in the Premier League. If there is one thing I will never do, it’s become a weekend football widow. My children will be raised in a rugby household.
Sporting rivalries aside, I decided to have a peek at the offending photo, which I knew would be a dick pic. Not an easy thing when you are working amidst the pastel-coloured walls of a very Instagram-able Notting Hill bakery on a lazy Sunday morning. I’m sure the activewear-clad influencers wouldn’t appreciate a side of penis with their patisseries.
But as I gazed down at the shrivelled chipolata before me, I couldn’t help but think: am I not worth at least a semi?
Considering the effort we women put into our nudes, I was furious. If we’re going to risk having our pictures leaked, we’re going to make sure we look damn good in them. Draping ourselves seductively on the bed, carefully moving lacy lingerie to suit our curves, or at least making sure we put on a matching set.
This boy couldn’t even manage to give himself a quick fondle. It was positively insulting, considering the volume of men I see constantly readjusting themselves on the high street. My expectations hadn’t been high – penises aren’t exactly pretty. And no one would ever live up to the veiny thickness of my ex, R, but I’d at least had hoped for something firm.
Sadly, it wasn’t the first photo of T’s cocktail sausage I’d received since declining him over six months previously, but rather just his latest attempt to reignite the conversation. This time though, I’d had enough.
I could have just blocked him. The constant, unsolicited pics warranted that. Instead, I decided to wait four days and then texted: “Hey, sorry I’m just getting back to you now. Completely forgot about your message.” Followed by a 😬.
Nothing hurts a man’s ego more than being forgettable. Needless to say, it did the trick – I never heard from T again.
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