33 - Oral Delays

How are you with punctuality?

I’m generally committed to it—just not particularly successful. One of the many reasons I fit in so well in France. Here, no one really expects you to be on time—or so I thought.

Turns out, stereotypes don’t stop at Tinder dates. And since my date knew he was meeting a German woman, he arrived super punctual. I, on the other hand, was more… southern French punctual—but with fair warning. One doesn’t want to be impolite, just fashionably delayed. 

His reply to my voice note, though, left me speechless: “No problem at all. For every 15 minutes you’re late, you owe me a blowjob.” I laughed, assuming it was a joke. But no—he greeted me with a look at his watch and said, perfectly serious, “Twenty-two minutes—that's two blowjobs.” Charming. Like a reminder from the tax office, only far more personal. Still, an interesting icebreaker.

Honestly, that rule could save marriages—or at least spare couples from the third round of therapy, the pottery class, or those tragic tango lessons. Imagine it: set a time, and for every quarter-hour one partner is late, they owe the other oral sex. I’m not sure anyone would actually arrive faster, but delays would suddenly get a lot more exciting. And understanding for the dawdling partner would skyrocket.

“Go ahead, try on dress number five—I've got nothing else to do… except fall behind on my oral obligations.”

“Take your time reading the fifth sports analysis on the loo—just wash your hands afterward. I’ll be waiting on the dining table.”

Because in the end, all a marriage really needs is mutual understanding and good compromise. Since the gentleman in question wasn’t tested, our date took place on a park bench, and I only learned about the rule while already being late; therefore, there was no chance of implementing it. We had a pleasant afternoon, an entertaining back-and-forth—but no spark. Which was fine. At least it wasn’t a waste of my time. After all, I hadn’t been the one waiting.

The absurd part came later. We texted sporadically afterward, until one day he sent me a link—asking me to donate toward his birthday wish: a day in a recording studio. That was… a new level of odd.

Who does that?

First, ask strange women for blowjobs—then for money?

For a moment, I almost felt like a man: not considered a person, but as a potential investor—preferably silent, preferably opinion-free. Objectified again—not sexually this time, but financially. Same wrongness, different packaging. Whether it’s about breasts or gross profit—the principle remains the same.

And so, I went from being a blowjob creditor to a funding refuser—because, frankly, I just couldn’t find the fourth pair of shoes worth trying on.