My Pussy Wears a Rolex Oyster Perpetual
An almost dating story.
I need to get out more. I guess I’ll start dating again. I say the word and the men appear. I snap my fingers and there they are, saying words. Well, writing words actually, because nothing happens in the real, physical world anymore. Here’s one now, trying to impress me with try-hard, saltine-bland wise cracks and basic bitch questions:
Top five movies, s’il vous plaît?
Ugh. Did he take a wrong turn on his way to Duo Lingo? Did he mistake my literal private phone number for Hinge? Or worse, Ok Cupid? This is what I want to ask the man who acquired my literal private phone number from Bex, a mutual friend. A great privilege that he is squandering.
Bex tells me you’re beautiful, funny, smart and not fake. This is his opener, which I’m not mad at. Starting off strong.
That’s a kind and generous description, I respond. All fairly promising until he follows up with What did she say about me? I can sense him panting and drooling, waiting for me to scratch behind his ears.
You really wanna know? I think, because Bex is right about one thing for sure–I’m not fake.
But then I can’t possibly say the truth: She said that you’re fifty, British, and unemployed, but fun.
As quickly as I made the snap decision to get back out there, I change my mind. “I take it back!” I yell up to my ceiling because obviously that’s where God is listening from.
“No thanks, I’m all good,” my vagina whispers as she crawls back up into herself. From deep within I can feel her checking her watch and grimacing, waiting for her inevitable atrophy. I am so shocked to discover that my pussy wears a timepiece, I completely forget to respond.
He continues to blabber on. I consider texting back one last time just to tell him I died, but instead I go to sleep. When I wake up, I see he messaged again at 11 pm. At midnight. At 4 am. At 6 am: Testing, testing. Is this thing on?
My inner cunt (she’s wearing a Rolex Oyster Perpetual) longs to say something really cutting like: The only date you need is with a therapist. Instead, my higher self–the kind, empathetic, Glenda the Good Witch part of me responds: Hey, I haven’t been on my phone, but now that I’m seeing these messages… um… I hope you are okay and I wish you well.
So much for dating.
I didn’t go out last week but my internet did…
After much fussing with the box and texting with robots, I finally just call AT&T. The man who answers has an English accent that sounds suspiciously like my Chat GPT, who I only recently began engaging in conversation, but then stopped because his tone was too smug.
“Are you real?” I ask the man on the phone.
“Last time I checked!” He answers with a laugh, but still I’m skeptical. A robot would totally say that.
We go through the whole rigamarole of unplugging and re-plugging and pressing all the buttons. He keeps explaining to me why he has to take me through every step, and I tell him he needn’t waste his breath, I understand perfectly, and we can just do what needs doing. Nothing is working though. He’s going to have to dispatch a tech.
“First I have to read you this disclaimer, okay?” He says.
“Go for it.”
“I wish I didn’t have to read it, but you know, if you end up getting billed for this visit, this thing I’m about to read will explain why, so I have to read it.”
“All good. Carry on!”
“I really wish I didn’t have to read it but you know, it is my job.”
“Sir. I understand. Please read it.”
Finally he reads the thing. Then he asks for my address, which I provide. He’s ecstatic as he announces he can get someone out right away, today!
“This is great!” I’m ecstatic too.
“Do you have any pets? A dog, or cat?” He asks.
“Nope,”I respond.
“Well, I just have to ask, because the tech needs to know if there is a dog–”
“Sir, I don’t have a dog.”
“Well, sometimes if there’s a dog, and even if people say their dog is really friendly, it’s not so much that the tech is afraid of the dog–”
“I promise you, I don’t have a dog.”
“Well, sometimes if the tech is laying down wires, we need to know if there’s a dog because then the wires need to be hidden. Because dogs sometimes chew wires and they’re made of fiberglass and then the dog might get fiberglass in its stomach which could cut up the stomach lining and make the dog really sick. Then you’d have to go to the vet, and we can’t be responsible for a veterinary bill, so I have to make sure that if you have a dog, we’re aware and you’re aware of the possibilities.”
I bite my tongue and stare at the clock on my phone, because I know there’s nothing I can say that will make him stop explaining to me what could maybe happen with my hypothetical, non-existent dog. My pussy checks her watch too. We are both frustrated. What’s up with all the English dudes boring us to death lately? There was a time I dated British men almost exclusively.
“Oh, well, would you look at that…”
It seems he’s finally moving on from the dog thing. “I guess that appointment for today is no longer available. So it looks like the next available is in three days.”
Love the idea of your vagina wearing a watch. A Rolex no less! xx
Cats can’t tell time!^^