Much to my surprise, I’ve seen Mr W.Y.S (what you sayin’) a few times over the last couple of weeks. It’s not serious, we don’t date. He brings over some drinks, we chat, have sex, chat some more and then he leaves. It’s nice. I’ve never thought of myself as being that keen on causal sex but there’s something about answering the door at 1am in just my boxers and an unbuttoned oversized shirt, him silhouetted in the doorway, tall and strong and striding in to kiss me. He slides his hand under my shirt and down into my boxers, cupping arse cheeks as he kisses his way down my neck. I take off his t-shirt and run my hands down his strong, hairy torso, squeezing his hardening bulge until he pushes me onto the bed and climbs on top, pinning me beneath him. The rest of the clothes come off and we switch positions, now he’s underneath while I lift his thighs and kiss my way from the head of his cock to his hole and back up again, sucking every inch of him till he’s moaning above me. He’s passionate, holding my legs in the air as he fucks me because “they feel better up there”. He likes to kiss me when he finishes and snuggles in afterwards, telling me about his day and asking who I’m dating this week. I laugh and say ‘no one special’, truth is the only reason I invited him round was because a date cancelled on me that evening. I ask him the same question, and it turns out he’s seeing the same Daily Mail editor my old uni friend P was pining over last year. It’s strange, me and him look nothing alike but both W.Y.S and P fancy me as well as him. He never stays, he doesn’t want to and I don’t want him to. I walk him to the door, he kisses me and then disappears into the night. I climb back into bed, always expecting some wave of emptiness or disappointment that never comes. I sleep, I wake up, sunlight streaming in, looking in the mirror I see the same man as the night before. Who you sleep with doesn’t define you, you do.
Secret Diary of a Dating App 