Sunday night and I’m in an Uber in all the lingerie I own and a black silk dress slit to the knee. I’m being dropped in Kensington, west London, for a date, if you can call it one given it’s 10pm. He “had to” watch the football earlier in the evening, so I sat in my flat downing white wine in order to get enough energy to stay awake the evening after another date. I’ve only agreed to tonight’s rendezvous because I’m sick of his sexts – the dick pics landing on my phone are stretched, to say the least, and I can see the dirty bathroom sink of his freelance office thing in the background. “You know every time you get a dirty text…

Source: The Times January 17, 2020 17:12 UTC