John Smith:
Based on a chronological order:
- 1) Nao Seychelles: it was summer 2014. I was in my early twenties. She was a good 100-or-so pound smaller, albeit still 253-pound heavy young woman at this time. At that time I absolutely had no idea about who she was, nor about her professional career neither.
Some late evening, I was killing some leisure time on my mobile phone, swiping left and right on a panoply of cover pictures served to me by a rather popular local online dating service app, when suddenly came her turn. I fell instantly drawn by her attractive visage, doe-eyed stare, provocative sex appeal, very bougee sense of fashion and rotund figure, so you guess I'd swept right on her picture.
Back then, I wasn't particularly as finely well-groomed that I was during my early years of web-diving into these type of service platforms as I was in later years (where the algorithm was cock-blocking me right after cumulating around 13 to 20 matches the first two, three days-- instead of my past poor sense of self-presentation) and my two past first dates I'd engaged since I downloaded the app were all but horrible jokes. So when a interactive frame popped on my phone screen, illustrating that we matched one another, I admit that I was somewhat caught by surprize, given that I had very very few matches in that period fo my life.
A few instants later, just around midnight, my phone was buzzing once again: she sent me a DM right away after the confirmation alert about our match. "Hi" , she wrote. I hailed back and gave the casual pleasantries (very risqué, I was already musing at the time: as years taught me well, from all women who approaches me on these dating apps, only one out of ten minds about engaging in pleasantries... the six others might instead either ghost or block me right away, whilst the reminder would immediatly had a tantrum-temper) . Then, without turning around the corner, she asked me about my number. I was initially taken aback by her straightfowardness, but didn't wanted to appear as the weak link of this odd power play she abruptly set between us, so I obliged.
"Hello?" I attempted to confidently set up. The two of us were speaking in French.
- Hi, she enthused, a cue of naughty tone into her baritone voice. A typical suburban Quebecois accent transpired from her speech. "Interested to meet each other at bar?"
- Hm, why not? I playfully nodded. When do you think being free this week? I added, now effortlessly leading the tennis play. How about tomorrow nig--??
- -- why not tonight? she cutted me off. Do... do you even have a car? she queried, a semi-accusative air of skepticism weighing down into her every word.
- ... no?
- ...... BYE."
And she bluntly hung up on me prior from immediatly blocking me from the app within a blink. The call lasted hardly a minute.
Sooner after having accidentally attracted two other similar gold diggers who mistook me for Kanye West too, I deleted that goddamn app;
- 2) Christina Aguilera: she was following the first Instagram account I ever had from her personal account, some six to seven years ago and clicking on "like" at most every single of the few selfies and videos I was publishing-- even when she was busy touring around the globe.
Then... I deleted my first account.
Damn, I was still so oblivious about these type of signs at this epoch. I just assumed her distant interest toward my private life and whereabouts were purely platonic. After all, she was (and still are) an internationally distinguished pop music genre superstar of about ten years older than me, living in another country and married. I wasn't the partly self-aware, rambling, unwitting couple-breaking heartthrob type I'd sooner became within that following year yet.
Damn. XTina, mates... I could have tempted my luck on the XTina! The world's most famed semi-closeted feedee. How thick and naive I was;
[...]
This was an awesome piece of fiction. Well done.
