My Inner Teenager Needed This
A love letter to making out and letting loose.
Mother, if you’re reading this. Stop.
To every other reader, I admittedly have been listening to ACOTR while I work which may have influenced the sprinkle of PG-13 smut below.
A few weeks ago, I went on my first date in over a year. I’ve been reluctant to date, not because I don’t desire partnership, but because I live in the countryside, and my idealized version of a man is a rare find. Single, emotionally available, within ten years of my age, someone who can garden, cook, has experienced a full life, with a dash of Walton Goggins. It’s not exactly a profile that pops up often, at least not on dating apps or during my trips to the the humble hardware store.
Yet, one morning at 6:30 a.m., my phone pinged. My first thought was that it was a friend checking in post meditation, but to my surprise, it was Raya. I had been accepted, years after originally applying. A few days passed before I matched with anyone; a creative director living in Paris wasn’t exactly the realistic dating experience I am calling in at 30. There weren’t many locals, if any. But then, I matched with someone. A 31-year-old—admittedly young for my experience, but not for my age—who, as I later found out, was my best friend’s prom date.
The catch? He lives in LA and was only in the city for two days.