why i won’t trade with russia again, ever

I don’t want to be THAT person, but I’m not above it. And so I will.

I recently moved (duh. I wrote whole post about it, again) And while being in this new place for roughly 2.5 weeks. I have completely ended things with a boy I figured I would spend my whole life with AND I went on a date with someone new. (What can I say, I despise idle time.)

While I have written a completely separate post about how things ended with someone who previously has been so important to me, this is an article about why (under no circumstances, ever) I will never agree to a date with a Russian man (er, boy ex: fucboi) again.

First, he wasn’t a complete stranger. I want to preface with that. He was the doorman at the luxury hotel I was living in (just call me Eloise). Before the night we went out, we had plenty of nice encounters which I why I felt it okay for him to have my phone number. He wasn’t from a dating site; I didn’t swipe shit for this date.

What made me agree to having him come over was first and foremost, food. He offered to bring me over Russian food and vodka; to celebrate my new apartment. Anyone who knows me, I’ll agree to anything if food is involved (maybe not murder, but I’d probably help hide the body if Chipotle happens after). Secondly, I’m a whore (in the proverbial sense! Fuck.) for accents. Literally, any accent and I’m putty. It’s ridiculously embarrassing (+ at this point in my life, I should be over it). And the last reason I agreed, this guy has the most intense eyes. They are dark and broody and my oh my. I couldn’t. He was a trifecta of sexy and hot and he was bringing food. 

So here we are, in my bare ass minimum apartment, eating takeout lamb from the containers because I don’t even have fucking plates *eyeroll*. It’s always fun, a first date. Even if you’ve known the person. A date has a giddy sort of energy surrounding it. Will he kiss me? Is my laugh annoying? How great does my hair look right now? (followed by, is my flat iron still on? Or is that just me? Oops.) Anyway, so we are just low-key getting to know each other. Asking simple questions, nothing crazy. At this point in the evening, I’ve gathered that he is sweet, a little intense, and insanely hot.

The night is progressing, we move it out to my insane terrace that I am absolutely obsessed with. We are taking in the view and he wait for it, ASKS PERMISSION TO KISS ME *gush* in that accent that just melts me immediately. It was the cutest thing. I said yes, obviously. So we make out, and I think the night is going well. While still playing this, “get to know you game” he asks my birthday. I answer, and follow up with “when is yours?”

That my friends is when I find out he is TWENTY FUCKING ONE. I could have died in that moment right there. I was making out with a fetus. Sweet. Could it get any worse? Glad you asked. Because yes, yes it can.

I didn’t stop kissing him just because he was young. I stopped kissing him when he dropped a bomb that sounded a little like this, “I’m in to light choking.”

Fucking WHAT?! Uh, what? That is NOT something you drop on a first date. Or ever. Because that’s what psychos say before the fold you in to their trunk.

In sum, this experience brought light to my eyes the phrase “Never trust a Ruhsky” or whatever they say.

Oy vey.

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