Haile Selassie?
Someone, anyone, please let me sleep!
Nothing.
A cold shower could help. So do a quick one.
Still nothing.
Okay. Fine.
If I’m not sleeping, I might as well try to fix theotherproblem. Frustratingly, I reach for my rose from the bedside table and slide it under the covers. Maybe it will help.
It doesn’t.
Because the fucking thing’s dead.
“Oh my days!” I groan into the pillow. “Traitor.”
It’s really no surprise the thing is dead ‘cause I’ve been using it nonstop since Jabari made me a squirter. I’ve been chasing that high all week.
I sigh, fling the rose back onto the bedside table, and grab my phone instead. Sleep clearly isn’t happening. And neither, apparently, is anything else. So, if my body wants attention, it can get it the normal way.
From strangers with low emotional stakes and even lower expectations.
Dating app it is.
The screen lights up my dark room, harsh and bright against the curtains that haven’t been opened in days. My thumb starts moving on autopilot—swipe, pause, swipe again—faces blurring into one another.
Gym selfies. Fishing pictures. Men leaning on cars that clearly aren’t theirs.
This is bleak but I scroll. Swipe. Scroll some more.
So many men. So little effort.
First match pops up almost instantly:
Him: What’s your body count?
I don’t even pause.
Me: wats ur yearly salary?
Unmatched.
Bless.
Next.
This one has a gym selfie as his first picture and a quote about “grind culture” in his bio. Already exhausting.
Him: full body pic?
I snort.
Me: show me ur hairline first.
Unmatched.
