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New York City is filled with some of the world’s most beautiful people.

Even aside from the models of Fashion Week, the city is bustling with handsome, chisled, six-foot-tall boys. And when one of them asked me out for drinks, I couldn’t say no, but rather think, “Really? Me? You don’t have to ask me twice.”

I think, partly, I really wanted him to be stupid. I wanted to tell everyone about my date with the stereotypical, stupid model who was pretty until he opened his mouth. But the model started talking about classic literature; his opinions on “Blue Nights” by my favorite essayist, Joan Didion; what new literature he thought would last through the ages. He did part-time work at a publishing company and knew what he was talking about.

I was smitten. He was pretty, he was smart and he asked ME out. I was in heaven.

He invited me back to his place after drinks, and again, he didn’t have to ask me twice. He was on the top floor and had a spiral staircase in the corner of his living room that led up to the rooftop. We stood up there a while, looking at the stars and the city, just over the bridge. “I like to come here to think,” he said, while I couldn’t think about much of anything except his deep blue eyes and naturally blonde hair that I just wanted to brush.

And yeah, I know that sounds creepy. Pretty people make us normal folk weird as hell. Don’t pretend otherwise.

We ended up in his bedroom. “Should we put a movie on?” I asked, but instead, he kissed me.

We made our way to the bed, taking our time getting naked. First, my shirt. Then, my belt. Then, my pants. And, finally, my underwear.

Once he was naked, I started jerking him off. After a few minutes, without asking me to slow down, he gasped—and came.

I wasn’t sure what to do. I sat on top of the sexiest guy I’d ever been with, and he didn’t last long enough for me to even get warmed up. I started touching myself.

“I don’t want you to feel like you need to finish,” he shrugged, reaching for a towel to clean himself up.

I was appalled. Not only was he not embarrassed at pre-ejaculating, he didn’t want to bother with having to get me off too. Offended and confused, I stood up, vowing never to go out with a model again. It wasn’t until I’d deleted his number from my phone while on the subway that I realized, in my haste to get away, I’d left my leather Gucci belt: the only belt I’d worn, nearly every day, for five years.

There are often casualties when it comes to love and sex, and while I’ll always miss that belt, I’m glad I wasn’t the one who pre-ejaculated.

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