This Modern Love

By: Susanne Krenz

CW: Graphic Sexual Descriptions, Light BDSM, and Non-Consensual Recording of Sex Acts

Welcome to lockdown. Bars and clubs: closed. Hanging out in groups: cancelled. Meeting new people irl: fat chance. 

“Heyy.” 

I should have ignored that first message when it landed in my DMs. Who even gets anywhere with that little effort? But then I saw your pictures. Turns out you looked like Travis Scott, and I was intrigued. Call me superficial, call me an enabler. 

Dopamine, dopamine, dopamine. 

We started messaging back and forth. It was just a bit of flirty banter at first. Until, one night, I found myself alone in the kitchen after too many tequilas. A voice message was sitting in my inbox. I clicked the play button. Oh boy, your voice really got to me. It was deep and guttural, with an accent that went straight to my ovaries. I listened to it once, twice, a third time. And then I called you. 

Someone like you could never pose a threat to me. 

We turned to video chatting and things got intense. I thought you were just so hot; I couldn’t stop myself. You complimented me all the time. I showed you my butt on camera. You sent me pictures of your dick but also of your morning commute. I sent you artfully orchestrated nudes (and tried to ignore the notifications that said you were screenshotting them). You started calling me ‘bae.’ I checked my phone constantly. You sent me porn clips and told me what you wanted to do to me. We masturbated in front of each other. Hell, I even downloaded Snapchat. 

Why’d You Only Call Me When You Were High? 

“I need to talk to you about something,” you said, your voice growing serious. For a second your ‘seasoned lover’ persona glitched like an Instagram filter, exposing the rawness underneath. I was sitting on my balcony, watching the sunset, intoxicated with liquor and with being wanted. On the other end of the line, you confessed your age like you’d been agonising over it. I tried not to laugh. “I can read, you know. Your IG bio says you’re on that under-19 football team.” You breathed a sigh of relief. “How old are you then?” I took a sip of my G&T. Blood was rushing in my ears. “I’m 32.” 

Liquid courage. 

After weeks of playful back and forth, I threw caution to the wind and hopped in an Uber across town. It was Friday night, but the city was eerily quiet. Through the rearview mirror, the driver undressed me with his eyes. He said he was a DJ and that he’d put me on the guestlist. Funny how we both pretended like that still meant something. I gave him my number—not something I’d have normally done, but the old rules didn’t apply anymore. There’s truly no aphrodisiac like a global pandemic. 

“I want to give you perfect things without asking again, you feel me.” 

You opened the door in a big baggy t-shirt, lollipop in your mouth. I wanted to turn around and run. What was I doing here, robbing the cradle? But of course, I stayed. Your skin looked and felt like fucking velvet. Your kisses were soft but lacked dimension. Before eating me out, you put candy on my pussy, doing your best to cover up my taste. I said nothing, and I kept on saying nothing. At night, I woke up and tried to wrap your arm around me, but it was rigid and unbudging. Your movements followed a silent script, one someone else had written. What use is anything if there’s no intimacy? 

“Of course I’ma fuck you differently than I would fuck a seventeen year-old.” 

In the morning, you turned me over and got on top of me, moving my legs around like a puppet’s. I was already wet, making it way too easy for you to slide into me. My body was responding to yours in ways my mind could not. There was never any kissing when we fucked, no tenderness, just you masturbating with my body, making me call you ‘daddy’, spitting in my mouth. It’s what I get for wanting to live in the shadow of what’s unsaid. Walking home, passersby were staring at the handprints on my neck. My skin bruised, my heart wide open, my brain like mush. I’d missed this, the bad romance. 

You said you’d take me to the zoo. 

My problem is wanting to dissolve in other people. Yes, I needed you to like me, wanted so desperately to live up to your quarantine fantasy. But I’ve never known where I end and somebody else begins. I wanted to soak up everything you are, what it means to be you. I’ve always thought that there was no better way of getting to know a city than rolling through the sheets of strangers. Racking up memories on every street corner. Thank you for notching yourself into the bedpost that is my Berlin. In you, I found mostly sadness. 

“Come here, I need a hug.” 

My mistake was thinking that you were just a child and that I was in control. The power balance tipped in your favour so suddenly, I barely even noticed. 

If this is my midlife crisis, I want my money back. 

The second time we saw each other in the flesh, a wall of disillusion and resentment had wedged itself between us. It was jarring. “Show me the garden.” I was drunk and feeling giddy. You curled your lip the way you do when you’re annoyed, or feeling defiant, or thinking you know better. “But why? It’s nighttime.” “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “I want to see it.” To get to your garden, we had to go out the front door and circle around the house, then enter into a corridor flanked by hedges. It was pitch black outside. I thought about kissing you by the vegetable patch but decided against it. 

Bad feminist. 

The next morning, again, you rolled on top of me. I turned my head to the side and buried my fingers in your hair. I shouldn’t have enjoyed any of it, but I did. I should have been more vocal about my desires, but I had forgotten what they were. When we were doing it from behind, I could feel you pick up your phone. When I realised that you were filming, I didn’t stop you. “So that’s what that’s like,” I thought, stepping up my moaning. Making sure you got the show you wanted. When you’d gotten your shot, you fucked me harder, throwing your full body weight into me. It felt like you hated me, and maybe you did. 

Now is the time when you should stand up for yourself and protect your body and privacy. 

Afterwards, as we were laying back on the bed, both on our phones, my friend’s text jolted me into action. I turned around to face you. “Why were you filming? What was that about?” You shrugged. “It’s normal.” That curled lip again. I demanded to see the videos—relieved that I looked hot in them, despite or maybe because of the stupid Snapchat filter—and made you delete them. Then I started gathering up my clothes and got dressed. It took me a while to find my underwear and I considered taking off without them. I just wanted to get out before you could tell me to leave. 

Play With My Pussy, But Don’t Play With My Emotions 

“I’m off.” You barely looked up from your phone. I tried again, a little louder this time. “I’m gonna get going.” Lazily, you lifted your gaze. “I wanted to take you to the garden today.” I didn’t know what to do with that, so I said nothing. We awkwardly contorted into a hug. Your “text me when you’re home” continued to ring hollow in my ears long after I’d left. I never did text you. Instead, I masturbated three times when I got home—cumming hard, whimpering like a dog that’s been kicked—before showering and falling into a long, deep slumber. 

When I woke back up, you had blocked me on Instagram.