Have you ever finished a date in the middle of it?

“You’re not a very good kisser,” she squeaked.

I withdrew my face and barely enjoyed the handjob she delivered.The word “job” seems to mean effort, but there was none of it.

It was just her and me and a park full of kids.I’m honestly surprised that I’ve been on the date for so long.

I had recently separated from my first serious girlfriend.She fucked one of the regulars in the pub where she worked behind my back. So you could say that we had different interests.

As a result, I was back in the jungle, which is the dating scene.I try my best not to be abused by a puma (the animal, that is, I would have been happily abused by a puma, the woman). And that was when I got my first Tinder match.

She was from Bangladesh and studied in Sydney.I can’t remember her name because I didn’t stay on the date long enough to remember it after all these years. But I’m pretty sure she had one.

We had arranged for the early afternoon.But I’m honest, I didn’t know what I was doing.

When a recently single man who had just ended a four-year relationship with the same gentle landing of a refrigerator falling from the loading area of a truck, I made amends in passing.

So we met at Sydney University in Sydney.On the way to my graduation, I studied there for three years. Although I use the term “study” so loosely, it may slip off this page and land under your shoe.

Nevertheless, it was still a place of comfort and encounter on the fresh, green grass of a university oval, as if I were in some kind of romantic comedy.And not, as it turned out, a comedy of mistakes.

My date was good enough.But we were just different. She seemed very tense and frustrated. Like one of those who can’t set the TV volume to an odd number (you know who you are).

And that’s why everything in the world was worth complaining to her.The sun was too hot. The traffic lights have taken too long. The menu had too many options.

We were sitting in a cafe in one of Sydney’s leafy inner-west suburbs and she couldn’t stop finding things to complain about.At first, her drink had too much ice. Then the seats were too small. After all, her burger had too many tomatoes.

“You don’t like tomatoes?” I asked with a frustrated grimace.

“No, I do,” she replied.”Just not that much.”

Now let’s tell you that children in Africa are killing for too much tomato.They would build tomato castles, hold tomato battles and go to bed with their favorite tomatoes.

But not my date.There was just too much tomato. As we left, we sat down in a nearby park and enjoyed the sun.

Still, everyone loves a bit of romance.When the moment came for a kiss, I picked him up with the same enthusiasm as a child in Africa who got a box of tomatoes.

And it was more than just a bit of romance.She let a hand slide into my jeans and gave me a little treat in the afternoon sun. In the distance, children played with a Frisbee (it had nothing to do with the pleasure, I’m just trying to stage the scene) and the single life didn’t feel so bad.

Until she squeaked: “You’re not a very good kisser.”

That was the last drop to overflow the barrel.

“I have to go,” I muttered.”I have plans with my father”

When I got up to go, and casually changed my erection so as not to scare (or tempt) mothers on the way out of the park, I left my appointment halfway and sat alone in the sun.

I would like to think that she would have stayed to enjoy the afternoon.

But I have no doubt she would have found the grass too green.

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