(This got SO long. If you aren’t in it for the long haul you could jump in about halfway down at the randomly present tense paragraph that starts “So a desperate bolt of tequila-induced motivation strikes me”)

A lot of men seem very spiteful about women being attracted to height. There’s definitely girls who are into “tall guys” just like there’s men into women with giant tits and all that. I do feel for my short kings though. The struggle is real, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t contribute to it. I know it’s a terrible cliche that doesn’t make anyone feel better, but it really is a case of “it’s not you, it’s me”.

You have to understand my perspective. I’m a taller girl. I’m not giant but I’m over 5’6”. So I do tend to go for guys taller than me, because fucking men shorter than me makes me feel like a mountain. And I don’t know how much you know about women, but most of us don’t love feeling BIG while we get railed. It’s the same reason women like “dad bods”. No, your beer gut hanging over your belt doesn’t melt my panties, but it does dramatically increase the margins of how much cake I can eat on a weekly basis while still feeling tiny when you squeeze me.

I don’t think short guys are ugly, I don’t think you’re less of a man, I don’t look down on you (I mean, obviously I literally do, but NOT figuratively)(sorry). Same with bald guys. I will say the old school “Frasier bald” with hair on the sides is not great, but I’ve always thought men with shaved heads looked cool. I’m actually one of these dumb hoes that didn’t realize men shaved their heads because they were losing their hair. I just thought it was a haircut. Like a buzz cut but buzzeder.

And in case it’s not clear, “picky” does not describe my sexual appetite. I’ve fucked many men smaller than me, in height and even weight too. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say that, as a rule of thumb, I’d prefer you be bigger than me.

Anyway, at this point YOU, dear reader of stupid slutty stories, might be wondering “…What the fuck is this? I’m here to experience arousal though vicarious promiscuity from a distinctly female voice. I want his hard cock sliding into your wet pussy in a taboo, risky, or otherwise unusual situation. Not a Newyorker thinkpiece rebuttal to some shit someone else said.”

Well this has actually been me summarizing my side of a semi-heated discussion (and by that I mean he was heated while I hoped a stray bullet would fly through the window and kill me) in which this slightly-shorter-than-me bald guy I was on a first date with desperately tried to convince me his lifetime of sexual failure was my(?) fault. Or he needed me to understand it was other women’s fault? I’m not really sure.

And yes, slutty story reader, I understand your disappointment in expecting sex and getting a Twitter rant because, poetically, I’d met up with the man completely under the pretense we were going to fuck. I was fully expecting to be back home 90 minutes later with a tummy full of cummy and another phone number diligently texting me every three months for the next half decade with or without a response from me. But instead I was sitting at this dead af bar for like 2 and a half hours on a Wednesday as this dude rehearsed his podcast monologue on me.

You see, I’d fucked up big. I’d made the mistake of interpreting our repartee as a clear signal of intention. To me it was so obvious that this was a hookup that I hadn’t even dressed slutty. I was literally in jeans and a T shirt. I had no thighs to tease him. No skirt to position just so to offer a stealing glance at my golden ticket. No cleavage to lean over and BLAST him with like a venosaur hyperbeam (I’m trying to use more similes, is it working? Did that make you hard?) I had nothing, it was a disaster. I’d even told him I was “free all night :)” because I thought this was a done deal. I salaciously licked the salt off my glass as I stared deep into his eyes as a desperate hailmary, but alas ‘twas in vain. So. Yeah. Here we were. Happens to the best of us.

I guess I could have just got up and left, but part of me felt like he would interpret that as him “winning”, and honestly another part of me is also just very slutty for margaritas. So instead of dick, I sucked down my 700th drink of the night and nodded understandingly with big doe eyes as the man I’d shaved my pussy for not four hours prior passionately explained to me that women won’t fuck him because they’re too shallow.

He wasn’t some incel neckbeard type either. Yes, he was a little shorter than me and had a shaved head, but he was quite handsome. He had bushy expressive eyebrows and well-groomed scruff, the shadowy hint of a mustache on his lip. He had big strong arms and dressed well, and evidently had a good job at a place where he did stuff and they paid him money. I tell you these details because part of me was wondering if this was his thing. Like, he gets off on getting women all frothy in the text game but then he shows up for the date, recites a whole JRE episode from memory, sneaks out the bathroom window, and runs home and jerks off onto his paleo cookbook or something. Truly wouldn’t be the weirdest shit I’ve heard.

ANYWAY, at some point I went to the bathroom and I’d had enough drinks that I was having a real moment with my reflection in the mirror as I washed my hands. I felt slightly angry and annoyed both at the guy (and yes, he has a name but I feel like I’m too deep in this story now to suddenly be like “annoyed at the guy I’ve been writing about for 12 paragraphs, whose name was Jeremy,”) but I was even more annoyed at myself for letting this situation happen. I should have either walked out two hours ago or been more forward about my intentions, but instead my passive indecision had cost me my entire night.

So a desperate bolt of tequila-induced motivation strikes me. I will regain my agency, I decide. Right there at the sink I pull down my pants and underwear just enough to snap a pic of my freshly smooth pussy, and I send it to ngl several people who might be interested. Which is not a wise move, but this is not the wise sluts club. And also ngl, these were taller guys. Just a mood I was in for some reason.

I strode back to the bar with a renewed confidence. Jeremy seemed to sense something had changed and looked at me quizzically, which for some reason struck me as cute. I was intending to leave and go fuck a tall guy but I was kind of drunky and sporadic so instead I blurted out what I just did. “When I was in the bathroom I just sent a picture of my pussy to a bunch of tall guys”

He cycled through about nineteen emotions in a second and a half trying to interpret the subtext of what I just said. Even his posture went on roulette, he couldn’t decide whether he was slouching or sitting up straight, like he was having a little back spasm. A more sober me would probably have been worried he was going to smack me or something but I was so marg’d up I didn’t give one fuck and just stared at him unflinching.

After a long few seconds of rigorous processing, he settled on “can I see it?” Which in the moment stuck me as a bit pathetic, though honestly looking back was a totally fair response to the curveball I’d just thrown at him. I’m smooth as fuck so without missing a beat I said “the picture or my pussy?” And that broke him again for a couple more seconds. I knew it was game over for him because he glanced around when I said “pussy” to see if anyone was listening. Like a coward. But he said “both” which I admit was a good answer.

I opened my phone and showed him the picture. He was still a bit thrown, dazed, as if he’d been punched in the face. I’d clearly asserted myself as the alpha, as I assume he’d say (I have no idea if he’d say that, I’ve completely stereotyped this man lol). He stared at the pic and before he mustered a reaction we both saw a response from one of the guys appear on the top of my screen. “Come over” to which, as he watched, I replied “omw”. Then I looked up at him all cutesy and asked if he could give me a ride over there.

He seemed so— confused isn’t the right word, but like he was watching the finale of a show he’d never seen. I’m going to call it “a puzzled yet deep concern”. Which again, retrospectively, is totally fair. This man doesn’t know me. This man doesn’t even know I’ve been wishing for death for the past 3 hours because I’ve been agreeing to all the brain-numbing dribble he’s been pouring on me. Suddenly I’m showing him pictures of my vagina, telling him I’m sexting other men, he has no idea what’s happening. Is he dropping me off at home? Am I planning to murder him? Am I Ashton Kutcher from the mid 2000s show Punk’d?? (Yeah bitch that was a punk’d reference. Sorry if you thought I was a supple young college freshman. Go to my profile, I was posting here FIVE years ago)

But what’s wild is that he agreed. He called the bartender over, paid for his, like, 4 beers and my, like, 10,000 margaritas and then we walked out to his car. He asked where we were going and then he just fucking started driving there. I asked for the music and put on some emo bullshit and scream sang while he silently drove me in Uber mode. We got there and I told him to wait here, I got out, I called Evan, Evan buzzed me up, I went up there and fucked Evan (if you’re keeping score at home, it was quick business. Evan fucked me with a condom at his own insistence. I offered to blow him and he DIDN’T want to take the condom off, which maybe speaks to what Evan thinks of me, so I didn’t and we just kept fucking, and after like 5 or 10 minutes he came and then I said I was going to leave and he said okay, and I left and that was that. And as I walked down the stairs I noted that there was a reason I don’t text Evan).

I got back down sure Jeremy would be gone but lo and behold he’s still sitting there in his car like a good chauffeur. I get in and straight up ask why he’s still there. He told me it’s because I said I’d show him my pussy and I haven’t yet. At this point I realized he thinks I have some master plan, because I’d totally forgotten I’d said that and was completely operating on drunken impulse.

So I checked my phone and most of the guys I texted responded and the only logical option at that point was to have Jeremy drive me around the city while I one by one fucked all these guys I’d sent my nudie to (and yes, I did write just 10,000 words of inner monologue and then gloss over all the sex in a couple sentences).

After the fourth or fifth guy I was losing steam, and I told Jeremy I wanted pizza, so we went to a late night pizza place and he bought us slices. He’d been pretty quiet since we left the bar, which I guess makes sense because he probably hadn’t expected to get cucked all over the city when he left his house that day. At this point it was pretty late for a Wednesday, 1 or 2am, and I was getting sleepy and my vengeance was giving way to pity. As we were sitting there eating pizza I asked if he still wanted to see my pussy. He did the look-around again when I said “pussy”, which I still thought was silly that he had no problem rambling loudly for hours in public about who women want to have sex with, but the word “pussy” made him nervous. He asked if I’d really fucked all those guys he’d driven me to. I told him I had, but in a bout of late night honesty I also confessed none of it was great sex and I’d really only done it to spite him. And I did slide in the detail that I’d originally gone out with him excepting a booty call.

He stared deeply into his pizza looking for answers, and the pizza must have told him pussy was pussy because he said he still did. I told him he could do more than look because he’d earned it. And with the most shameful defeated acceptance of a sexual offer I’ve ever had from a man, he sighed “okay” and then added “thank you” because I guess I’d really done a number on this guy.

We went back to his and, well, I fucked his brains out. It wasn’t bad either. As I was getting naked for him, in his humbled state he said all kinds of sad disclaimers like his dick wasn’t that big, he wasn’t that good at sex, he wasn’t going to last that long etc. but honestly it was fine. After he came he started crying, which happens more than you’d think, but it did make me feel like a bad person and not in a fun way. Normally that’s my cue to leave but I was worried I’d done long term damage to this guy so I cuddled him and stroked his hair and various other mommyisms and I told him he was a good guy doing his best and if he called off work tomorrow I’d stay the night and we could have as much sex as he wanted in the morning.

He did in fact call off the next day, which was a bit awkward because I woke up a little hazy on the details of the previous night, but after a brief discussion I honored my promise and we fucked all morning and into the afternoon. I’m pretty sure he was hate fucking me, and I was definitely pity fucking him. I did have him make me breakfast at some point, because I may be a slut but if I sleep naked in your bed overnight you’re damned sure making me breakfast.

Eventually he was all tuckered out and so I called an Uber and left. He’d gotten it all and then some but even after all that I still felt like I’d taken the pep out of his step and he couldn’t look me in the eye. Which I guess was what I wanted, but I’d wanted it to be fun not sad. In the car home I felt a deep connection to the end of Burn After Reading but I guess that’s just how life goes, huh? I haven’t heard from him since and I definitely haven’t reached out. THE END.