He called me when I was drunk: I thought it was a good idea at the time. He sounded young, German and giggly, his nervous laugh punctuating a lot of the conversation. 

God knows what I said, but the next day I seem to have suggested we meet. 

And here I am now; heels, knickers, stockings, perfume. heading to a place I feel comfortable in: with the promise of sex and an overnight stay on the cards. 

My heart is in my mouth at this stage: which one is he? I gaze around then look at my phone. ah, that’s him maybe? no, too old. 

He arrives and I look down at a man a good foot shorter than me. And I am by no means tall. He is eye level with my breasts. It is laughable, but I don’t laugh. He stares at my lips and suggests we go to a bar nearby. 

He buys us drinks, we sit and chat. Sitting on a stool, height doesn’t matter. He isn’t a bad conversationalist; we talk about work, keeping fit and make jokes about the barmans bad shirts. It is like a date.

The conversation quickly moves to sex: he’s a connoisseur of the threesome and teams up with a buddy to find women. He has called him tonight just in case I’m game. He shows me a picture – a Robert Pattinson lookalike stares back at me. And then he shows me a picture of his cock. It’s big. It hangs down, even in black and white it’s impressive. 

“Yeah he has a big cock” the guy brags. “Do you like it?” I ask, excited for his response. 

“I don’t do anything with it except wank, I like to watch” he giggles again. 

“a girl likes to be abused by two guys, it is every woman’s fantasy!”

I disagree with his use of the word “abuse”- the second man who has found this acceptable parlance recently. 

But a drop seeps through my knickers: my mind is running wild with this scenario already. I sip my wine. 

He asks what crazy things I have done; I replay a greatest hits, edited of course. He is most intrigued about pegging; he doesn’t even understand gay sex. At this point I should probably have thanked him for the drink and left. But I listened to his homophobic rant for a little while longer. 

He is arrogant, yet intriguing. Small in stature yet big in ego. We finish our drinks and leave and outside the bar we stop and I say “oh I don’t know which way we are going” as my feet stumble on the wet pavement. His flat is allegedly round the corner. 

“Oh I’m sorry, this isn’t really working for me- you’re not my type”. 

“oh okay then” I spit and luckily the revolving door is right there to revolve back through.

I walk back to the station. The heels are rubbing now and the suspender belt slipping down as it’s too big. in years gone by I would have cried, but not now. It is most definitely his loss 

————

Later he messages me to apologise – he wasn’t feeling it and hopes I have a good night.

“That was cruel to tease me with your friends cock in the bar if you weren’t interested”. I reply. 

———-

I get home and rip off the underwear. I could masturbate, but I don’t want to. I call my mate and we laugh about small men and online dating. 

I delete the app.