I don’t do big date nights. I don’t wear stripper heels either. Not do I wear false lashes. Or bat my eyes like an idiot.
I look across the table at Kyle and he’s looking at me like he can’t believe his luck. Well, obviously. I look like a million bucks. I’ve worn my white shirt on purpose. With the super sexy pencil skirt. All hipbones and cleavage and ass. Just the way he likes. I know this because he’s told me. In our very first email. That my profile picture on this obscure dating site drew him to me. Oh well, like always.
Kyle is what, my twentieth? Fortieth? God, I don’t know.
I know I sound like a hooker, but I’m not. I’ve got a much greater purpose. I’m a bullcrap-stripper. I strip men of the façade that they put up. And then when my job is done, I deal with them. My way.
Kyle is giving me the ‘I’m so lucky I have you, so I’ll just take it slow’ looks. I didn’t know men even did that. Specially when they’ve got latex in their pockets. I thought men just walked up to you, said hello, turned on the charm enough to get in your pants. But Kyle? He’s pretending. Always pretending.
This is our fourth date.
He’s already tried to fuck me, and I’ve gotten away with a ‘Baby, another time maybe.’ Tonight? I won’t be so lucky. Like always, we go halvsies on the bill. He doesn’t even help me get my coat on. And then we leave and soon, we’re walking along the pier.
I have to break up with him. He is whiney. Possessive. Irrational. Nothing like the Kyle that I first met. And he claims I am the bad one. This is only, I stress, our fourth date. Too soon to be in a functional relationship. I tell him gently, that this isn’t working out. Does he take it calmly? No.
A switch flips in his head. So tangible. I can practically see it.
The name calling begins. Whore. Insatiable. All you care about is stuff. Fickle. Lying. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Unreasonable. Materialistic. Bingo. I’ve got him. His true self showing through. The mask that he’s worn all along, this pretending to be the good guy, is gone. Poof.
He shoves me.
He doesn’t see what’s coming. I pretend to kiss him but, suck his soul out instead, very Dementorsy. And leave him stranded there, just like he deserves to be. People don’t change. And I’m the mirror. I also bring out the worst in them, the blackness, that’s lying dormant in their hearts. Until me. I don’t turn them into monsters. There is no tide. If they treat their women bad, it’s not because they’ve changed, it’s because they’ve always been that way. If they call me names, it’s because that’s what they see, reflected in me.
I slip off my heels and start walking away, already on my phone, looking for the next asshole.
This is a work of fiction. Do not freak out.