If I were a superhero, my kryptonite would be beards. Ever since relocating to a state that prides itself on simplicity and zero fucks about superficial non-necessities; my standards have shifted just as apathetic waves sweep tourist out to sea. Time keeps passing, the beards get longer, and my list of non-negotiables gets shorter.

Picture courtesy of ME

Naughty Claus* and I matched on Tinder, but it wasn’t until I updated my Rolodex of Ammunition (my pictures) on a site that creates superficial hook-ups — that he reached out to me. “I didn’t reach out to you until you posted pictures that reassured me that you weren’t obese.”… or, something like that.

Picture courtesy of Angling Times

Superficial? Yes. But earth is made up of seventy percent water, which is contaminated with catfish — it’s better to lure your conquest in with precise bate than to use expired materials.

Naughty Claus* suggested that we grab dinner. An unexpected shift from the usual let’s get drunk until we find each other attractive enough for casual sex. I haven’t experienced this caliber of dating since dinosaurs roamed the earth. I needed to relax my nerves.

So, I ate an edible — a brownie that contained the ingredient to induce a vegetated body and soul. Every last crumb was ingested as if I was a contributing factor to one of my childhood games, Hungry, Hungry Hippos.

The conversation was great. Burritos were washed down by multiple margaritas, and loose lips now sunk my stash. (A flashed smile and uncontrollable giggles exposed my pre-date ritual.) We were both opposed to Hawaii’s stance with marijuana — the only way to fight the power was to split another brownie as we “flew” to our next destination. A suppressant (more booze) drizzled on our night of unexpected adventures.

Picture courtesy of Half Baked — Universal Pictures

Before we entered the first bar, Naughty Claus* kissed me. His beard engulfed my face as his arms suffocated the rest of my body. It was cute. It was innocent. My legs wobbled with as much uncertainty of where the rest of the night would take us. For now, though, we snickered up the stairs and continued our downward spiral into drunken munchies.

Like an underachieving student who tries to portray the image of a candidate for Harvard; I believe men over commit because a missed opportunity for sex leads to more “viruses” than a commercial laptop experiences throughout a lifetime. (There is nothing more damaging to a male’s ego than making him look stupid. Go ahead and try it. I’ll wait.)

Naughty Claus* offered me a ride to the airport for my upcoming trip to New York, so I offered him a bed to sleep in when he was too drunk to drive home.

However, my feelings were abruptly told to fasten their seat belt nights before my departure when I reached out to Naughty Claus* with my flight information. “Oh, you still remembered that?” Of, course I did, and of course this smart-ass New Yorker had no problem telling him where to shove any hopes and dreams of landing on my hypothetical landing strip.

This all held truth until my vagina swiped through possible candidates for “feeding time” (sex). I was looking for someone to put my dry spell out of its misery, and there was our message thread — lost in an abyss of texts that served no purpose to my mental psyche. Naughty Claus* was no different, but this was strictly animalistic.

It didn’t take long for our conversation to graduate from Disney movie to PornHub pornography. Every text received left me gasping for what I feared would be my last breath. He vividly described how he would lick my asshole before fostering my cupcake.

The self-respectable side of my brain expressed the necessity to deny the man who refused me a ride to the airport, but the other was oozing with female empowerment concerning casual sex — it felt confident about my trip to Orgasmville. My affirmations were confirmed when he told me, “Use me as you see for. If I ruffled your feathers just take it out on me. It’s all good; life is too short!”

Naughty Claus’* beard grazed my inner thighs, as my hands reached for anything to grab onto while my hips pushed further into his wet tongue. He lapped up all my milk, but I wanted more. I wanted him to drill me as hard as that last toy sent out on express delivery.

He positioned himself between my legs. Entering me, and claiming his territory for a moment before his nuts cracked within a few thrusts. A moment of disappointment left us both wishing he had watched There’s Something about Mary before coming over. Maybe then he would have mastered the correct temperature to achieve the perfect hard boiled eggs.

Picture courtesy of EpicPew

But then again, Mary gave birth without being penetrated by Joseph, so I guess people still believe in miracles.

*names have been changed because I’m not an asshole.