I’m in a hoe phase.

I’m in a hoe phase. Send.

I’m in the second Uber-of-Shame in a 7 day period.

LOL YAAAAS BETH! My friend responds.

I’m not sure if this is something to be celebrated, but it’s fine.

Woooo, go me! Go sexual liberation! I decide to celebrate too.

I swallow the throw up that conjures in my throat and step out of the Uber dressed in the same outfit as the night before.

Black Vans. Light jeans. Off the shoulder black tee.

I smell like tequila and cognac. I don’t even like cognac?????

Thank you, sir. 

Have a good day, hon, he replies.

LOL, he deff knows.


I wrote about casual sex in a previous post. About how I’m not sure if I’m totally ~cool~ with being seen as strictly a fuck buddy. I’ve never used men for just sex, so maybe that’s why I feel weird about it? Idk.

Ok, I stand corrected — I’ve never used men for sex…up until a month ago — the start of my “hoe phase.” Sry.

Dating is truly exhausting and maybe it’s a reaction to that. Skipping the whole “let’s go on a date” shit right to, well, yeah.

Don’t have a hoe phase to replace the intimacy you’re truly searching for, a wise friend tells me.

He’s right. I shouldn’t do that. Damnit, Beth.

Ah, modern love advice at it’s finest.


Intimacy. It’s a complex word.

There’s a few men I think about frequently — ones that provided me with the physical and emotional intimacy I crave. But alas, it hasn’t and probably will never go anywhere.

I start to think it’s me. A self-destructive habit that I often find myself trapped in. A rabbit hole that I dig and can’t seem to climb myself out of. I’m too fat. Too emotional. Too ugly. Too something. That’s why they never put the effort in. That’s why I’m not “girlfriend material.”

To be fair, neither do I. I, too, don’t really put the effort in. Why? I want to be ~cool~ and ~chill~ and ~*not clingy*~. Emotions can remain undefined unless I’m 100 p sure the other person feels the same way…which is, well, always a mystery.

Anxiety. Yeah, it sucks.

The day after my last Uber-of-Shame, I decide to go on a date. Yeah, like an actual date. To be honest, I wasn’t totally attracted to this man and I had a predisposition that this date would be pretty shitty and a giant waste of my time.

Beth, you gotta think positive! Nah, I have a sixth sense for this stuff.


I’m hungover. I show up to WeWork looking like a hot mess. It’s humid as fuck out. My frizz is tied in a tight bun with fly-aways GALORE. I throw on some mascara because, well, I decide 5% effort is better than zero. I put on a black shirt and attempt to lint roll the dog hair off it paired with jeans a pair of sandals. ~killing it~

I pack my bag for the day and drop Kevin off at doggy daycare. I have a long day ahead. Work then class with a couple of tequila shots in my stomach still lingering.

4:00pm hits and it’s almost time to leave for class.

Still on for tonight? My phone lights up.

Well, fuck. I have a date tonight…and I have zero time to go home and fix myself. Lol. Welp, ugly face and ugly backpack it is. What’s that saying? If they can’t handle you at your worst, then they certainly don’t deserve you at your best. Sure, let’s go with that.

I really actually don’t want to go on this date. Not in the slightest. I’m tired, hungover, a three-hour class awaits and did I mention I’m hungover?

I decide to give the dude a chance because, well, I owe it to myself… I think. This guy was very much into me via text and maybe it would be nice to go out with a guy who wasn’t in it for one thing.

Yeeep, I’m showin’ up looking like I’ve seen better days. Class ends and I call my Uber.

Fast forward through the date, I’m not into it at all. Like, really. I want to leave but he’s so damn polite and won’t stop ordering Narragansetts as I’m nursing my first Blood Orange Ale. I stick it out an hour and half. He’s really into it and I’m bored as fuck. He’s nice! Really really nice!!!! But that’s, like, it.

I’ve decided “nice” isn’t enough for me anymore.

I wait for his final sip and interject before he can order another one. It’s getting late! I should go! He looks disappointed.

We leave the bar and head up to M Street. Well, this was fun! I’m lying. I’ll text you when I’m home! I’m lying again.

I lean in for a hug and suddenly his tongue is down my throat.

Fuck my life, speaks my internal monologue.

He texts me three times that night. I want to respond the next day because I feel bad, but I don’t.

At least I don’t have my read receipts on.


A week later I go on a great date. Like, truly fantastic. I’m a sucker for first dates at bars with games because I typically always beat the guy which is satisfying in itself, but it also gives us something to focus on outside of small talk.

We grab beers and watch football. He’s not a fan of my Brady jersey, but also doesn’t let that be the topic of the entire date (TAKE NOTES MEN!!!). I beat him at giant Connect Four and foosball. Yaaas, Beth. 

The conversation only becomes stale once or twice over the course of our 5-hour date. We bar hob and grab tacos, suddenly resorting to liquor instead of beer. Oops.

It’s last call, guys, can I get you anything else?

We laugh. We should probably go. 

Now…this is a goodbye kiss I don’t mind.

I haven’t answered his text since last Monday. Good on ya, Beth.


It’s weird to think of my life with a steady boyfriend. I laugh as I type that because it sounds semi-pathetic but it’s the damn truth!

Being single is fun, and a hoe-phase every once in a while isn’t so bad. Going on dates can be fun or a total doozy, but the ebbs and flows of being relationship-less is entertaining in itself.

Maybe my hoe-phase is me low-key searching for intimacy in all the wrong places. It’s not that I hate first dates, I guess I’m looking for less of a first date-y feel and more of a well, not first date-y feel. I don’t really know what that looks like, but I’ll know when I find it.

I hope to come to a point where I’m so confident that I can confront people with my real feelings and not care if its ~cool~ or ~chill~. Can we make feelings cool again?


Well, folks. That’s my love life as of late. I’d say it’s rather average for the single twenty-something. Not greaaaaat, but there’s also no narcissistic men involved, so that’s good too. *thumbs up emoji*

Until next time.

X, Beth

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