I used to believe in fairytales.
As a child, I truly thought there was someone out there for everyone. But I’ve been playing this game a long time, and to be honest, it’s made me pretty jaded. With every year that comes and goes, my faith dwindles. Now, as I approach 30, still painfully single, all those fairytales have been replaced with a solitary, sad fact: All the good men are gay, taken, or don’t have a sturdy enough dick.
I just want a nice, single guy who’s single, attracted to women, and whose dong does a great impression of the Washington Monument. Is that really so much to ask?
I love men, I really do. I just want them to be available and into me. I also like a sturdy dick. Always have. No knight of mine is going to have a penis that sways in the wind or bends when prodded. No. My knight’s Johnson will be stiff as an oak tree and able to take a beating. Call me Cinderella, but I just can’t let go of the hope that my perfect, rock-solid prince of a dick is out there somewhere, standing regally on the pelvis of an available straight man.
I’m so tired of falling for a guy only to realize that he’s into men, or has a girlfriend, or his dick can’t take a hard bout of sex.
I thought I’d found The One when I met Pedro. He checked off two of my needs (single and straight) and was charming, funny, and sweet. After our second date, I went back to his place. That’s when I learned through trial and error that he had a weak, brittle dick. Bye, Pedro. It just wasn’t meant to be. Sorry your dick fell off. Didn’t expect that to happen.
Then there was Lucas. He was a friend of a friend whom I’d been crushing on for ages when he finally asked me out. One drink turned into many, and before I knew it we were getting hot and heavy in a nearby park. I was head over heels, until I discovered that his penis couldn’t support me. Toodle-oo, Lucas. I’m looking for the full package. And yours shattered into a thousand pieces under my hefty, confident vagina.
But despite all the bad dates, the mixed signals, and the crumpled peens, part of me still wants to believe. Maybe, just maybe, the perfect man—the heterosexual rugged-dicked bachelor of my dreams—is right around the corner. My sturdy-as-hell vagina certainly hopes so.