the misadventures of trash men

Trash Men.jpeg

They aren’t that trash, but here are two short stories of the men I’ve come in contact with in recent months who have taught me lessons about myself and my self worth. Not to be confused for the Black Taylor Swift. Black Carrie Bradshaw? Possibly so.

The Co-Worker Who Wanted Me To Be His Muse

I can vaguely remember the night because we were both very drunk and very much so into one another. We had gone on a lunch “date” prior to this night and all he talked about was himself. That should’ve been a red flag to stay away, but instead, we ended up making out in the middle of a restaurant that was mostly filled with our fellow co-workers.

We met each other on the sales floor and I thought he was cute. I’m not sure who spoke to who first but I do remember him asking if I was from California to which I adamantly refuted. California? I was the farthest from a Californian-girl but apparently he thought so. I had never heard that before so it intrigued me enough to keep talking to him and playfully adding “I can’t believe you think I’m from California” into every conversation. 

Our chemistry was evident but he seemed to flirt with every girl on the floor, so I wasn’t sure. He asked me to lunch and though it was a grand gesture, it fell flat. It felt like an interview I didn’t prepare for. It was stale, almost. If you’ve dated a creative before, they tend to talk about (or pitch) their ideas to whoever will bother listening but this wasn’t the time nor place. 

One evening after our shift, a few colleagues and I went out for drinks at our local happy hour spot. I wanted to get to know him outside of work so I invited him, unsure on if he’d actually come. 

A few moments later he came waltzing in and my heart fluttered. I felt like I could actually be open with him now that we weren’t being intently watched and on the clock. I’m not sure if I liked him—because I didn’t really know him—but the intrigue of what could be left me with butterflies. The conversation of the night drifted between sex, college and work, but after our colleagues left it steered towards me and him sharing our candid thoughts about each other and later, his tongue down my throat. 

“Kiss me” I said. 

He got up and walked around the table to where I was sitting and placed a kiss on my lips. I was waiting for this. 

We were both very drunk and very much so feeling one another. We had a sexual chemistry that needed to be broken. But much like our first lunch outing, this evening fell flat too. 

After a couple more drunken make-outs, and a hand-held walk to the train, he was sitting on my bed in Bushwick. 

I was certainly out of my right mind so I was unaware on the time frame between him being in my apartment and him leaving but I’m sure it was a short stay. Nothing happened and admittedly we were both too influenced for anything to.

The night was fun, or at least I thought so. But when I went into work the next day every single strand of chemistry we had was electrocuted and zipped out of thin air. 

“He said you forced yourself onto him” my coworker told me. 

“He said what?!” I exclaimed.

I was shocked and genuinely hurt. How could he blatantly lie about something that was so far from the truth? I was drunk—we both were drunk—but never have I ever advanced in a situation where I didn’t feel like my actions would be reciprocated. He was trying to make me seem small (and like a lame bitch, might I add) and I wasn’t having it, especially considering the sexual assault turmoil that plagued every news outlet. One day he was telling me how much he was into me and the next he was kicking my name around like mud. 

The Creative Type Who Ain’t My Type

The idea of fucking a DJ sounds enticing until you realize you’re just one of their many fans who gave it up because you liked the idea of fucking a DJ. Except, I had no idea who he was (and still don’t), so I’m excluding myself from the “fan” category. 

I reluctantly re-downloaded Hinge since deleting it after a week’s worth of failed match attempts. Upon opening the app, I noticed I had a few new matches, so in an effort to get rid of that pesky notification, I clicked and started to scroll through my options. 


“No way...”

“...definitely not.”

“Hell no.”

“Oh…damn, he’s fine.”

I was notified that he liked one of my photos and in an attempt to keep his attention I messaged him the tongue emoji. The conversation was short and sweet and eventually migrated from Hinge to Instagram where I got to peruse more of his photos to “get to know him better.” He was definitely my type with locs that covered half of his face, a full beard and tattoos. Lots of tattoos. He wore rings on all of his knuckles and dressed in mostly black. He looked sensual and seasoned, and, he had an interesting career and a slight following so I was instantly intrigued. 

Shallow much? I mean honestly, Rania.

I gazed over his photos and found myself mesmerized by his eyes. They are still a feature on him that I adore. 

Naturally, our conversation turned kinky and the pace began to quicken after a few days of messaging back and forth. I wanted to see him badly so I initiated taking the conversation offline. It seemed that our messages revolved mostly around sex and our visions on what we’d do to one another. I had never been so sexually open or kinky with any other guy in my life but he allowed me—or better yet—invited me to be. I had an inkling that he was pretty experienced so this chatter was second nature to him, probably kin to his usual foreplay.

The only problem was, he was a flaker. So much so that I genuinely thought he may be cat-fishing me. I could name three different instances on which he completely ghosted on our plans; one time in particular when we were supposed to meet up for drinks and he never texted me back. He later sent a video message apologizing and proclaiming that he’d take me out to dinner instead. Well, the dinner never happened and the only time he ever followed through with our plans was after I sent him a voice recording of me orgasming.

Kinky 101 classes coming soon. Kidding! Although... 

I know what you’re thinking “Why did you give him another chance if he flaked on you three times before?” And honestly, I don’t have an answer for you. There was something so fascinating about him that I desperately needed to see for myself. I wanted to know how the sex was. I wanted to know how he was in person: his quirks, the sound of his voice, his movements and mannerisms. I wanted to be able to feel him IRL. I was curious. And so I satisfied those desires and afterwards felt largely disconnected. He wasn’t how I pictured. Sure, he was still gorgeous in person, but the connection wasn’t there. 

We had great chemistry online, but offline, well, the connection didn’t connect.