Singled Out

Hey, I actually have a major confession to make. But please don’t judge me on that okay? With that promise let me tell you I have never been on a Valentine’s day date. Yes, never have I ever . No one except me would get a shot at the shots for this question. I guess it’s a curse , given that I have dated a gazillion men. However, on every V-day, I either had a major fight with my boyfriend/ was held up with some maniacal work/ was dating someone who lived in an oblivion where Valentine’s days ceased to exist. ( No kidding  but  if you have been following my blog for a while from now, you will be aware of the fact that I’m a douche-magnet, when it comes to choosing boyfriends) That being said, I’m not a quitter. I swore to myself that this year I cannot just Netflix and chill. I need to do something more exciting….

After a lot of deliberation, I finally decided to do something that  no girl on planet Earth would ever dare to do. Yes, drumroll please……ta-da-ta-da-da……For the first time in the history of Valentine’s days…I decided to take myself on a date. First things first, the most important rule of Masturdating is that you need to look hawt AF. That’s when you’ll get to be the other woman. And being the other woman while the guy drools and his girl groans can be one of the most exhilarating experiences ever. After hours and hours of mining my wardrobe ores, I finally managed to find something super sexy. I tried it on and to my dismay, I could see the biriyani I had for lunch sneering at me from my gut. So much guts…huh! Now I need to find my spandex. I looked at my wardrobe that looked nothing short of a bombing site at Alleppo. I momentarily gave up my idea of going out. But Im not a quitter. I love my job , I love my job….I told myself.

An hour passed,  and I had successfully suffocated my ‘pouting after a biriyani’ gut with layers of Spandex and waist trainers. I had also contoured my face so much so that people could actually practice rock climbing. After two hours of intense labour , I looked at the mirror to find that I looked nothing like myself. I felt so happy.

I took my mummified self to an ultra-hip club in Bangalore. I had already registered my name and my hoax date’s name on the guest list. I reached the venue and cooked up some c**k and bull story to the bouncer about how my date’s friend met with an accident and he will take at least an hour to reach. He seemed to believe in my pushed up cleavage more than my story. Somehow, he believed in something.And let me in.

The club was filled with “Pouticus selfieaddictum”, a degenerated variant of Homosapiens characterized by excessive use of filters and self obsession. Girls in all shapes and sizes were going haywire, scrambling for places with the best lighting to pout and click selfies with their significantly insignificant others. I chose a nice corner  to witness all this tamasha and also to check out potentially vulnerable guy targets. As I was observing , my guydar intercepted some  intruder activity. At the rightmost corner was a guy, hot looking and visibly bored after never ending selfie sessions with his dumb looking girlfriend. I could see that he was checking me out but wasn’t so sure. I needed closure.I got up , tucked my stomach in and started walking in his direction to facilitate him with a good view. I looked from the corner of my eye and figured that he was no longer being sly. He was full on checking me out and my heart leapt. I checked out back at him and started playing along. Then he gave me a smile,  a very sly but sexy one…all the while doing his due diligence of posing for selfies. Then suddenly his girlfriend spoke, ‘Baby get me a vodka na, with cranberry juice…’ He seemed irritated with the sudden interception and got up. He looked at me from the bar counter and gestured me to check my phone. I didn’t quite understand. Was he asking for my number? Anyway I decided to wait. He came back with the vodka and again gestured me to check my phone. What am I supposed to do? Show him my number in sign language? Suddenly I heard a loud scream. …Ewwww….his girlfriend started throwing up in the middle of the club. Disgusting. I don’t understand why some girls have to drink in spite of knowing they can’t handle alcohol. I got so disgusted that I walked away. After two hours and twenty sly-gazings, I felt accomplished and decided to go home.

I came back home and my phone started buzzing. I just realized I had switched off my data all the while. Notifications from Tinder it said. Somebody had liked me. The first picture said swipe right to see my face.  I swiped right. F***k, that hunk I first saw in the club.

Another day, another douche, I thought. And swiped right. My phone buzzed, ” Hey sexy!”


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