On “Babe” and “Baby”

It’s in his first messages.
“Babe, you coming?”
“Babe, you on your way?”
“Baby, can you send me a picture?”


I’ve told him what I want. He’s told me what he wants. They don’t really align, but it’ll work for tonight. He’s cute, or at least, his pictures are. He has a graduate degree. He has his own store, a little facial hair, and strong arms.
He wants me to meet him near his. For a myriad of reasons, my place is off limits.
He meets me in his car, and God, it’s a gorgeous car.

He takes me for a ride, and I see him smoking, I think it’s vape, but he is not happy when I mention it.
“Oh, you saw that?”
Uh, yes mate, I saw you smoking the thing right in front of me? I do not have vape-specific-blindness.
It is then over the course of this car ride I discover that
1. He has no college/uni degrees of any kind – which is fine, but, why lie about it?
2. I would have more mental stimulation talking to a stuffed animal.
When we pull up to the house, he tells me I need to be quiet, and leads me to the tiny room with the tiny single bed. Because.
3. He lives with his parents.
I get the millenial life. I do. But he was on the closer side of 30 and taking girls to a single bed. At this point, I also had no fucking way to get home, because we were near no transport links, & Gett had been ignoring my requests for a cab. So.
“What do you like?” He whispers in my ear.
Would it all be worth it if the guy could give me a fabulous orgasm? No, but it’d help. It’d help take the terrifying car ride where I had been positive he would crash it at least twice out of my head. It would take the situation out of my head.

There are five seconds most every guy has – five seconds where they find a magic spot, where fingers work wonders, and there’s so much potential…before they turn into hell’s jackhammer because MYDICKISWORKINGDIDNTYOUKNOW.

He doesn’t even bother taking my shirt off before he’s ripping the condom open. He’s got my legs around his waist, and his back is slick with sweat, and he keeps trying to kiss me full on, opened mouth, getting drool all over my mouth, and I’m twisting my face into his arm so he doesn’t see the look on my face.
“Yeah, baby, just like that.”
“Yeah, baby, bite me, just there.”
“Come on, baby, kiss me.”

When these nights of terrible happen, a switch flips to what I call ‘sex worker Emma,’ that just gives up entirely on gaining any semblance of pleasure out of the situation, and focuses entirely on making the guy come as quickly as possible so that I can get the fuck outta dodge.
Yes, this does include faking orgasms. Sorry not sorry guys, most of us do it.
“Come for me baby,”
He’s groaning and sighing, and I’m scratching my nails down his back, biting into his shoulder, squeezing around him.

And he’s finally done. He smiles down at me like he’s just conquered a fearsome beast. I immediately get up and grab my skirt. He grabs a baby wipe and starts to wipe off his dick.
“Where’s the bathroom?”
“What?” He looks confused.
“I need to use the bathroom.”
“Oh, uh, yeah, just gotta make sure the coast is clear.”
Oh sure. Because the parents can’t know you brought back a wanton lady in the middle of the night for this bed rocking lovemaking. My mistake.
He’s still methodically cleaning his dick.
“Mate, I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”
Is that seriously a question? Because, besides, you know, bodily functions,
“Prevents UTIs. Gotta go right after sex.”
“Oh, like, clean it all up? I didn’t know that,”
I glance once to the baby wipe surrounding his flaccid penis.
“Yeah. It’s a treasure trove of bacteria.”
“Huh,” He genuinely looks like this is new information, like I’ve just explained something interesting and he’s discovered something new, as he throws the baby wipe away.

He finally shows me where it is, and I’m grateful that my makeup is still intact, and with a quick finger fix my hair is back to normal. I show absolutely no signs of the 10 minute disaster than just occurred.

He’s back in the kitchen, and offers me a drink. I fill up my water bottle, he grabs a beer. And proceeds to drink it as he drives me back.

“Tell me something fascinating,” He demands.
“What do you define as fascinating?”
“I don’t know, you’re smarter than the girls around here, they didn’t go to uni, they only cared about sex, tell me something I don’t know,” He flashes a smile at me.

Gag me. Besides insulting girls you have probably had sex with, you didn’t go to uni either, so cut that shit out.
I talk to him about something political, and he tosses the bottle out the window.
“Hope that didn’t bother you,” He says, half apologetic.
It did. I say nothing.

He gets lost half a mile from my place, and I get out of the car.

When I get home, I scrub myself raw, trying to get all traces of him away from me.

In the morning, he texts me again.

“Did you like my dick inside you baby?”


I’m not your fucking baby.


On The “Why”


If this was a book, I’d be sitting in the cafe, looking forlorn out the window. My sister would be sitting across from me as we sip our green tea, Lana Del Rey singing “Video Games” in the background, as we discuss this latest boy that got away. And she’ll tell me,
“You know, you should write about this.”
But this is not a book, although the cup of tea is real and Lana Del Ray was just playing in this Starbucks.
This is the product of an idea my sister and I came up with about a year ago, and the result of the fifth time I’ve been stood up by as many men in a two and a half week period.
This is the product of a nomadic existence for the past three year years, and the experiments with, for lack of a better word, ‘relationships.’
This is the product of a girl who, in complete, brutal honesty, needs a really good fuck.

Hi, I’m Emma.

Obviously not my real name.
Why Emma? I don’t know. I like it. I like E names. Emma, Erin, Erica, Emily, Emeline, etc.
So, Emma.
For the sake of description when understanding these stories I’ll give you a brief overview.
I’m in my 20s. I’m not perfect, but I work out 5 times a week, so I’m trying, in more ways than one. I care too much about Netflix Marvel shows. I have too many books. Or not enough. Depends on my living situation that month.
No real names will be stated here.
I am under no pretense that these stories will not be understood if the people involved decide to read them, but I think the odds of anyone involved actually reading this are slim to none, so, meh.

This is not a, men all suck. They don’t. A good chunk of this is equal blame on both sides.
This is not a, the online dating world needs to go die. It’s not great, but it’s also embedded itself into our society now. So we kind of have to accept it and move on.
This is not a, OMG, let’s go form a lesbian harem in the woods because we give each other better orgasms (if nothing else this mentality is massively insulting to lesbians.)

This is a, so my dating life has been a clusterfuck, a motherfucking mess, a damn tragedy, and, I felt like writing about it. Because work is boring, and my NaNoWriMo Camp project is stuck. This seemed like a much better use of my time.

If you’re still with me, expect stories of absolutely, mind-blowingly terrible sex, communication that a middle schooler could handle better, and more tea drinking than an average Brit.

So, let’s go.