Ain’t No Sugar Momma

I never look at the images on a dating app. I swipe right on every one. My thumb swipes by muscle memory as I watch music videos on YouTube. I don’t take the time to filter women, as most women will not match with me anyway. It is easier to allow the women to select me and then I can narrow it from there.

I match with women every day. But I score a winner about once a week. I like to keep the woman around for several weeks. When the initial excitement wears off, I stop texting. This is called ghosting. Sometimes the woman will ghost me first, but not a big deal. I am enthusiastic in the beginning, but I get bored. Nowadays women get bored too. The curse of my generation is the short attention span.

While I am swiping right, I hear the familiar notification sound that signals a match. This woman has viewed my profile and swiped right before me. I visit her profile to see what she is about. I look at the pictures and I read her profile. 

Woman don’t write their profiles the same way men do. Half the women bitch about all the evil men of dates past. The other half don’t write profiles at all. All women understand that they are trading on their looks. What most guys don’t understand is that they are also trading on their looks. 

The standard advice is to send the first message with something witty, commenting on something from the woman’s profile. But the majority of women cannot remember what they wrote in their profile. Most women will only look at your pictures and then decide to message back or not. So there is no point in being clever. Although, that doesn’t stop me, because I am clever by nature. 

I take a peek at my new matches profile. She is a mid-thirties chubby thing. She’s not too massive with the cellulite, but robust. Her stomach was smaller than her large breasts. This keeps her in the doable zone. In her first picture, she’s wearing a blue dress that I would call a moo-moo. It highlights her blonde hair, with the overgrown dark roots, and her red eye shadow. Her other pictures go downhill from there. 

I read her profile and the first line makes me chuckle. I will not be your sugar momma. Have a job and your own money. 

I wasn’t planning on reaching out to her, but now after reading the sugar momma line, there is no way I cannot send a message. This line is pure gold. I have no interest in getting with this broad. I have standards that sit a little higher than doable. This seemed like a weird thing to put on a profile. I shot over a first message and inquire about it. 


My first message said, When I first saw your pic I was like dollar dollar bill y’all. But now I read your profile I’ll settle for your hotness.

She responded an hour later, What do you mean?

You thought I was lying. Women can’t remember what they put on their profile. They sure as hell won’t put any energy into thinking. They respond, huh? It annoys me, but I let no one notice. I take it in stride.

I reply, On your profile, it says something to the tune of I ain’t no sugar mama. When I read that I couldn’t help but lol.

Her response, Oh ok lol.

I still have not made it to the point of full sentences. Guys take note; when a woman doesn’t respond in full sentences, she is not into you yet. This is a clue that you have more work to do. If she uses complete sentences, you have crossed the fifty-yard line. This puts you in her territory looking to get into the red zone. 

I ask, What’s the backstory there?

Her response, Well I used to be with a guy for about twelve years. I did everything for him. He couldn’t hold a job. He used me as a sugar mama. It was complete bullshit. He was a lazy son-of-a-bitch. I loved him since we were kids so I stayed. I was fucking stupid. I am never letting that happen again. I want to make sure everyone knows that upfront.

After successful completion of a long pass, I hit the fifty-yard line with ease. A fist pump and a little victory dance would be called for, but this isn’t that kind of situation. I’m not looking to the red zone. I sure as hell am not looking to score. I am here for the conversation. 

I ask, Oh, gotcha. What kind of issues?

He never got over being in war. He might’ve had that thing, PTSD.

Yeah, I’ve heard that’s tough.

I told him to get help, but he never bothered. 

So how long ago did you guys break up? 

Well, we didn’t break up. He died. 

Oh wow, that is sad. How did that happen?

Suicide.

Wow. I ghost her. 

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