Fornikate

So I had given up dating…

A wild choice, considering my intention in writing here is to create some semblance of a dating blog. But it was needed. Dating was—and still is—a large part of my identity. I mean, who is going to keep my coupled-up normie friends entertained if not me? However, I felt it was becoming my only identity, and one that, as of late, hadn’t been particularly successful.

I loved the idea of channeling my inner Samantha: big city businesswoman by day, maneater by night. An uptown girl, flirty and enjoying all of the men New York had to offer. But it was starting to feel a little less glamorous.

I had a long-term and committed relationship with Hinge, but after three bad dates in a row and one ghosting, I decided it was time we said our goodbyes. I deleted my account and resigned myself to a period of celibacy.

Without men, the amount I had accomplished in one month was criminal. Though I am an adamant hater of people who tell you to “just focus on yourself” or the patronizing “it’ll come when you’re not looking,” I couldn’t help but wonder if they weren’t so wrong after all. In focusing on myself, I checked off nearly half of my to-do list—one I had been sitting on for months.

Despite the amazing hobbies I’d picked up again, the gym progress I’d made, and the friendships I was fostering, a girl still needed to be reminded that, at the end of the day, she’s still got it. After what felt like one hundred years of solitude—a month and a half—I was getting antsy.

I didn’t want to re-download the apps. So, I thought I’d do things the old-fashioned way.

After work, I took my time in the shower—shaved, exfoliated, washed my hair. I got dressed, slipped into a cute outfit and some heels, and made my way to one of my favorite neighborhood bars.

I ordered a drink and an appetizer, then sat at the bar, legs crossed, pretending to care about the Yankees game on the screen.

Just as I was convincing myself I understood what a home run was, I felt a pair of eyes on me. A man slid onto the stool nearby and, without hesitation, leaned in to say:

“Those earrings look amazing on you.”

I smirked inwardly and thought, Oh, it’s on.

He was an actor. Dominican like me. And totally hot. We chatted all night, him telling me his crazy stories working on Broadway, me complaining about the shenanigans of corporate America. It felt fresh and exhilarating to meet a genuine connection naturally. Just two people sharing a drink—or maybe four—and getting to know each other.

For once, I wasn’t worried about whether he’d be as cute in person as he was online, or if his conversation would be as dry as his texts.

One round melted into the next, and we swapped stories like old friends, laughing too loudly at each other’s jokes. Then the laughter softened into quieter confessions—how he dreamed of opening his own restaurant, and how I hoped to someday dance my way across the world.

We left the bar, shoulders leaning against each other, the tequila shots finally catching up to us. I turned and gave him a hug goodbye. As I leaned back to leave, my hand sliding away from his arm, he reached for me—fingertips just grazing mine, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

“Dios mío, no te voy a soltar,” he said, pulling me back into him.

We kissed. It was slow and sexy, like he was savoring just how good I tasted. He was a great kisser—and maybe better at other things too but that’s a story for another time.

I left that night with the promise of a date and a new perspective.

I can’t speak much to taking a break; that’s not my journey right now. What I can say is this: when dating is kicking your ass, maybe it’s time to change the tactic.