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scrolling and swiping until my fingers numb

i might feel desperate tonight

but ill desired in the morning

March - Bart - Part 5

The idea was good. The execution not so much. I did really try. 3 evenings I have spend just swiping and typing. I have met more people in those 3 days than the past 6 years. But they are all just so incredibly boring. I haven’t seen Bart for a 1,5 week now. But not because I have been ghosting him, no of course not. The weekend he had parties, and tennis, and family, and friends. Monday and Tuesday he had to move into the castle, and he was doing everything himself, with some help from his brothers. Wednesday until Saturday he was in Hamburg, Germany, partying with his colleagues an old client. The rest of the weekend he has his kid. Next week he is Maastricht until Friday. What did I do, you ask? I got really really drunk this one night. We live our lives a little different. I actually did have a really good night out last week Saturday. Usually we go out for a beer on a terrace on Saturday afternoon. But, as one of the guys had to change shifts at work, we were only able to meet up at 9.00 PM instead. My best friend, Lily, came by at 3.00 PM, and we gossiped and drank G&T until it was time to go. We get there early and spend our last half hour together letting out all the bitchy comments and mean girl vibes, because we want to get invited to a wedding of this couple joining. We sit on these deep couches with our feet up on the seats too. The guys join, and the couple, and I have never seen Lily been so nice before. Usually she is really scary. But a couple hours in, when we get to my dating stories, I see their faces when I told them about the guy that put his penis in my face when we were making out last week. An so, they head out, and as we cannot feel our finger tips anymore we make our way to the next bar, for a last drink, but inside. The place is full, like it used to be, and we decide to head out to the dancefloor for a minute. And then the tequila shots came. And then the good music started. And then we were right back to 21. This one guy is looking over the whole time. And when I walk to the other side to quickly grab my bag, he jumps up and comes running over. ‘Hey!'I say hello back. He tells me he knows me. I tell him I don’t know him. But he goes on, until I realise. I dated his friend, Tom, for about 3 weeks. Me friends and I called him Boring Tom. Because he was really, really boring. The man standing in front of me is one of his friends. Eric. Eric told everybody, after Tom and I were not dating anymore, that he and I had sex too. Which is very strange, as tonight is the first night I see him in person. 'You look sexy.’ 'Are you single?’ I hate men. When I drop our stuff to our new dancing spot, a pack of playing cards, as well as a game of uno, falls on the ground. A night full of magic tricks later, we are outside, and it’s 4.00 AM. I haven’t been out in a long time, but I have to say, it is good for the ego. Lily is either arguing or having fun with some people we knew from our younger years in this very bar. With her you never know. I manage to drag her along at 4.15 AM. We stop at snackCity for some fries with mayo. A man enters just after us. He looks so familiar. He looks over, and also looks for a second too long. 'I know you, right?’ 'I feel like I know you too, but I have no idea how.’ We talk about, I don’t really remember, but I do know it was an easy going, fun conversation. When we have our fries and leave the shop, 10 second into our walk, I look behind and the guys pops out of the shop as well. 'I am not following you, sorry, my house is just there, I promise!’ We walk together for 20 more seconds and then he crosses the brige over the little canal while we continue into the harbour. Sometimes, very sometimes, you meet such pleasent men. Anyway. Last night when I was calling with Bart, he asked me if I want to come out to Maastricht on Wednesday for date nr 3, so he can show me around the city. He is staying in a very nice hotel, so I can sleep over if I want. 'I work on Thursdays.’ Yes, he says, but you work from home. So, you can work from the hotel.

tinder im expecting 5 good morning texts.

This was the first drawing I made with a drawing tablet.

Ok I’m convinced there isn’t a single solitary real human being on Tinder. Literally every single match I get i try to bring up an interest from their profile that THEY typed up as an ice breaker and EVERY SINGLE SOLITARY TIME I get silently unmatched.

Can anyone explain this? What the actual fuck is going on?! Every single time!!!

Made a meme for my Tinder profile. You may use it too, if you so desire.

#Tinder 🍀

#Pivots 🫧

#RealWorld 🪩

#Dating 🌸

#NewEvents 👀

#AI 🍘

#Features🍃

Tinder Pivots to “Real-World” Dating with New Events and AI Features

https://amoghavarshaonline.blogspot.com/2026/03/tinder-pivots-to-real-world-dating-with.html

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Tinder Pivots to “Real-World” Dating with New Events and AI Features

so funny when tinder & bumble are showing me notifs like “you’re one half of a match! swipe now and find your soulmate” or whatever meanwhile i’m in my docs putting my blorbo in inhumane situations i wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy and adding more horror and trauma. i think i’m good actually

D is an accordionist who plays the circus and burlesque shows on Coney Island. He buys a bag of coke from a man at a dive bar in Brooklyn near his squat. I’ve never done coke—drugs never seem to act on me the way they do on everyone else; instead of getting silly, relaxing, or blissing out, my brain just spirals. One of my exes told me coke was her favorite drug, but she had to stop—it was too good, she got too much done. Her whole apartment was spotless, and she could stay up all night writing. And this whole NYC Tinder thing is all about new experiences, new places, new people. Doing coke with a mustachioed hipster accordion player in a squat certainly applies.

In the basement squat it’s sweltering. Two box fans constantly run in D’s room, a box of a space crowded with instruments, amps, and a bed that takes up half the floorspace. Usually he leaves the door open for circulation, but what we’re about to do would attract an audience. To get to the bathroom I walk down a dark hallway, passing other squatters’ open doors, glimpsing their parallel midnights. Sweat, I remember the sweat and the heat, how it made everything surreal and swirling. Being closed up in that crowded box-room was like being trapped in a TV, a little Videodrome, a little Body Heat. I don’t know if the coke worked, or if it was even really coke.

We hooked up three or four times that summer, and they run together like my mascara and eyeliner running from the sweat when we fucked. He was excited to find out I’m half Jewish. Riding him, he begged me, ‘Say you love my big Jew cock, say you love my giant circumcised cock, call me your Jewish daddy, say you love it, say you love me.’ I love it when a man tells me to call him Daddy; it frees my submissive, kinky brain. I want to be a good girl and please him; I want to be a naughty girl and be punished, choked, spanked, slapped, spit on. I was always on top, sometimes facing him, riding him languidly, letting my tits fall over his face, and sometimes reverse cowgirl. His fingers sinking into the flesh of my ass, guiding my curves onto his cock so he could watch me slowly rocking forward and back, his cock popping in and sliding out of my tight asshole. He’d pull it out all the way, both of us loving the intensity of the feeling, the delicious instant of pain when he pushed back inside me. D could stay hard for hours, then get right back up after coming, and there was a lushness to the long, slow fucking. We’d talk during and in-between, about his music, his acting, the illegal parties he’d played. I wanted him to talk, I wanted to hear about these parts of the city I’d never know otherwise.

D loved giving me anal, but he had a hang-up about me doing anything with his ass. He offered to try, but refused to get on his hands and knees—too “gay.” So I sunk down on the bed, head between his legs. My mouth wrapped around his cock, getting him comfortable, then moving down, my tongue on his balls, scent of salt and musk covering my face. My chin on the sheets now so my tongue can finally reach his ass. Gently circling, moistening, darting inside, my hand still working his cock. D moans, and I can tell he’s beyond caring about anal being “gay.” I bring my mouth back to his cock and finger his ass, palm up, finding his spot. He comes so hard, so quickly, so thankful. Why do I love that act so much? It’s so verboten, so outside the bounds of most straight men, that it feels extra dirty, and at the same time makes me feel submissive and used, like a toy. What’s more submissive than someone sitting on your face? My face under a man, tongue licking him, I am consumed. And at the same time I feel powerful when I’m using my fingers or a toy on a man’s ass and watching him wriggle and moan under me, watching his face screw up like a Mapplethorpe photo as he comes.

Getting home from the squat was always a bitch. Sitting on the building’s stoop at 5am in last night’s clothes and streaky makeup, vaguely embarrassed that every driver knew exactly what I’d been doing. Falling into bed at 6, hoping I’d still be a little sore when I woke up, and that any bruises would still be there for my husband to see when he came home that evening.