I got on this dating app called Raya when I was around 25. Unlike Tinder, Bumble, or Hinge, you can’t just download Raya and start swiping. You’re referred, you apply, you’re vetted, and then you wait to see if they let you in.
It has this reputation for being where celebrities, musicians, models, and other creative-industry people date, although there are plenty of regular, if conspicuously good looking, people on there too. The whole thing is intentionally private and selective, which naturally makes everybody want to get on it more. I got invited through someone I worked with in the music industry, and when I got accepted, I was pretty happy about it.
I wasn’t on long when I matched with this gorgeous girl who was a few years older than me, maybe 28. She had shoulder-length dyed-blonde hair, yoga-slender. She worked as a waitress during the day, did something vaguely creative at night. But I feel like, when you’re a hot girl, Raya’s not scrutinizing your bona fides quite as closely.
We met at a bar in Williamsburg, somewhere off the Grand stop. I’d been on plenty of first dates by then, and usually there’s a pretty standard progression. You have a drink. You talk. You flirt. Maybe, if everything lines up, you make out at the end. The second date might end with your hands in each other’s pants, and then, maybe, you sleep together on the third date.
This girl was not interested in the standard progression.
Within the first hour, she was making out with me at the table. Now, before we even met up, I’d actually warned her that I thought I might have a little cold.
She did not give a fuck.
Maybe an hour into the date – the second half of which was pure making out – she was like, “Let’s get out of here.”
I was like, okay, fuck it. Let’s go. This wasn’t long after COVID, so I was sort of excited to throw caution to the wind.
She got us an Uber to her place in Queens. Even while waiting for the car, she was aggressively making out with me on the sidewalk. Then this giant Uber XL pulled up, which I thought was odd, seeing as it was just for the two of us.
She pushed me into the back seat of this Escalade, or maybe it was a Yukon.
Things escalated very quickly from there. She unbuttoned my pants and sucked my cock as if her life depended on it. At this point, I was obsessed with my life. I’m 25 years old. I met this hot girl on Raya less than 90 minutes ago; she’s taken complete control of the date and is about to suck my soul out of my body.
I remember thinking, This can’t be real.
We got to her apartment and went upstairs. Clothes started coming off almost immediately.
That’s when she revealed an absolutely insane bush. This thing had not been tamed in at least a year. Her armpits were shaved, so clearly some landscaping decisions had been taken. This bush was intentional. I remember looking at it and thinking, Oh God.
This thing was a forest, and I’ll admit, I was too frightened to stick my face anywhere near it. Not that I was prompted to. Within seconds she’d got on top of me and slid my raw dick into this furious-looking beast between her legs and started fucking me like I owed her money.
Then, completely out of nowhere, she spat in my face.
We had not discussed this. It was not my thing.
But before I could really process it, I saw her draw her hand back before she slapped me hard across the face. I was too shocked to react when she slapped the other side of my face with her left hand. I flipped her over and started to fuck her from behind, mostly to make it impossible for her to continue to abuse me.
“Grab the paddle!” she screamed before I could get into a rhythm. “On the nightstand.”
I picked up this heavy wooden implement that looked more like something you’d serve charcuterie on and hit her ass with it.
“Harder!” she screamed.
I complied.
“FUCKING HARDER!” she screamed at a worrying volume.
I redoubled my efforts. Apparently I still wasn’t understanding the ask, because she turned around and slapped me. Really. Fucking. Hard. I looked at her in shock. She clocked that I was losing my erection and thought the key to getting the sex back on track would be to reach around my body and insert what felt like three, unlubed fingers into my asshole.
30 minutes earlier, hurtling along the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, I had been thinking I’d hit the jackpot. Now I felt as though I was under attack. I tried to communicate that this wasn’t really my thing, but then she’d cover my mouth. Somehow I got out of harm’s way long enough to fuck her as hard as I could, mostly to bring the evening to a prompt conclusion.
As soon as I came, my only thought was, I need to go.
I started getting dressed. She did not like that.
“Where are you going?”
“Um, I have work tomorrow.”
“You can’t just fuck me and leave.”
Then she grabbed my arm.
I told her I really did have to leave. She got up and stood between me and the door. She wasn’t physically overpowering me, but for a second I remember wondering if I was actually going to have to move her out of the way to get out of her apartment.
Thankfully, it didn’t quite come to that. I moved around her, got to the door, and left.
The next day, bizarrely, she texted me about seeing each other again.
So I did something I don’t think I’d ever done before or since: I sent a breakup text to someone I’d been on exactly one date with.
I told her I’d had fun – which was true until the torrent of abuse began – and that it was nice meeting her, but I just didn’t think we were compatible.
“You couldn’t have told me that before I blew you in the back of the Uber?” came her tetchy reply.
No. I couldn’t have. Mostly because, at that point, she hadn’t revealed she was going to spit in my face, slap me around, and try to shove half her hand up my ass.
In the Uber, I thought I’d met a dream girl who just didn’t believe in wasting time. I didn’t realize there was a difference between someone who’s sexually forward and someone who’s working something out that I was not clued in about up front.
I learned that distinction in a really uncomfortable way.
