So last night rolled around, and I
was fresh out of fucks to give about anything that didn't involve a happy hour and a guaranteed score. My phone buzzed. Instabang. A new match. Her profile pic was pure gold—all teeth and a bikini that was probably illegal in three states. Her bio? "Looking for a good time and someone who can handle it."*Handle it?* I almost laughed. I invented handling it.
I shot her a message that was equal parts charm and confidence: "Your place or mine? I've got a bottle of tequila that's been waiting for a worthy occasion." The reply was almost instant. "Mine. 20 minutes. The tequila better be as good as your talk."
Game on.
I rolled up to her apartment building, parking my car like I owned the place. I sauntered to her door, knocked with the rhythm of a man who knew exactly what was about to go down. The door swung open, and there she was, even better than her pictures. She was leaning against the doorframe, looking me up and down with an approving smirk.
"You're late," she said, though I was perfectly on time.
"Fashionably," I corrected her, stepping inside and handing over the tequila. "A gentleman never arrives early to a party like this. Builds anticipation."
She laughed, a genuine, throaty sound. "Cocky, aren't you?"
"Only when it's deserved," I said, my eyes already undressing her. I poured two shots, slid one over to her, and clinked our glasses. "To making bad decisions."
"To making bad decisions," she echoed, downing it like a champ.
The small talk was a formality, a dance we both knew the steps to. We were circling each other, the air thick with unspoken promises. I could see it in her eyes—the same hungry look I'd seen a hundred times before. She was trying to play it cool, but she was a cornered animal, and I was the wolf.
"So," she said, setting her glass down with a deliberate click. "You think you can keep up?"
I leaned in close, my voice a low rumble. "Sweetheart, the only question is whether you can."
I let her make the first move. It was more fun that way. She closed the distance between us, her hands grabbing the front of my shirt. I just grinned, letting her take the lead for a moment before I took over, my hands finding her waist and pulling her flush against me. The kiss was exactly what I expected: desperate, a little sloppy, and a clear surrender.
I woke up the next morning to the sound of her shower. Sunlight was streaming through the blinds. I found a pen and scribbled a note on her notepad: "Told you so. Left the tequila. You'll need it." I let myself out, already mentally drafting the victory text to my buddies. Another Friday, another conquest. It wasn't arrogance if it was true.