Catch up on the first seven chapters HERE.
New Year’s Eve
Did you spend your NYE on a corporate Zoom? No? This girl did. My company had a new product going live at exactly 12 a.m., so the only thing I watched drop was my last crumb of joy. Then again, a friend of mine went home with a Tinder rando who asked her to narrate depressing news headlines while he masturbated into a tube sock, so it’s all relative.
Anyway, every January, I pick a word that defines how I want to approach relationships for the next 12 months. 2021’s was “reciprocity,” which challenged me to end one-sided friendships and romances. Last year, it was “untethered,” freeing myself from expectations and commitments. This year, I’ve decided to go with “bold,” a call to more bravely and authentically pursue what I want.
And what I want is this: more sex but with fewer people. With an actual partner, perhaps? Is that a “bold” ask? Feels like it. And if it doesn’t work out, it is the Chinese zodiac Year of the Rabbit—and we all know I love my favorite vibrator.
Monday, 7 p.m.
Hot take: I still love the convenience of dating apps. Although I don’t love that Hinge keeps resurfacing Sean, the finance guy I dated who was spooked by my hilariously funny butt-plug video (it was a whole thing, remember?). I mean, come on. But I digress. With my new 2023 approach in mind, I match with Walker. He’s a 29-year-old philosophy major now in his last semester of business school. I guess mental masturbation doesn’t pay the bills.
Our banter is quick and clever. We’re contrasting his lifelong desire to go to Burning Man with my lifelong desire to avoid being in any desert climate and having to barter for basic necessities. “Want to FaceTime?” he asks. Damn. It seems I’ve already manifested “bold.” I run to the bathroom to throw on a little blush and mascara before my phone rings.
Team, Walker is really attractive and has the cutest shy little laugh. We end up talking for hours, bopping from one debate to the next. He asks, “Would you gift your future child the chance to be 10 percent smarter, taller, kinder, or happier than they would otherwise be?” prompting a lively nature versus nurture discussion. I don’t know if virtual sparks are a thing, but I’m receiving whatever vibes he’s sending.
Sunday, 7 p.m.
Okay, so Walker in person is kinda wonderful. We FaceTimed just about every day this week, making our first date feel more like a sixth. We get Thai at an incredible hole-in-the-wall spot and then go for a walk—on which he holds my hand. Talking to him still feels effortless. Sure, there may be a very light whiff of moral superiority hanging over his words, but he seems to genuinely enjoy when I push him to consider things differently. We part ways with a hug, leaving me wondering if he’s just here for the discourse.
A few minutes later, my phone buzzes. Probably a sweet text about how he wanted to kiss me and missed his chance—“Hey! I’m excited for our next date! In the meantime, here’s some content for you to read. Can’t wait to hear your thoughts.” I get his favorite short story, a long poem, and a book.Excuse me, is this homework? And is it weird that I’m kind of turned on by it?
Friday, 8:30 p.m.
Walker and I have now been on two more dates with—surprise, surprise—plenty of deep conversation and ZERO MAKE-OUTS. At one point, he goes on a particularly convincing anti-consumerist rant that almost inspires me to Marie Kondo all of my belongings. I change his name in my phone from “Walker” to “The Penniless Poet.”
As we wrap up yet another dinner of stimulating conversation sans physical stimulation, I jokingly ask, “So, was this a date or a book club?” “Is there a difference?” he responds. “Don’t all your book clubs end with make-outs?” He finally kisses me, running his hand down my back until it rests perfectly on my tailbone, using his fingertips to pull me in closer. If this is how book clubs end, I’d have joined one way sooner. My car arrives too quickly (why is an Uber only ever actually two minutes away when you least want it to be?) and we’re both left wanting more. At least, I am.
Sunday, 6 p.m.
We’re at his apartment for a cozy night in. And I am not exaggerating that I am stunned by his place. When I say this man lives a life of minimalism, I mean that monks have more material possessions. His closet is empty. He has just a few shirts and pants in his dresser. (Yes, I checked.) In contrast, I used to work at a top fashion brand and I live for a sale. “Let’s remember that 40 percent off a very large number is still a very large number,” my dad has been known to warn me when I’m shoe shopping.
I am nuzzling Walker’s chest as we watch a movie. He lifts my chin up and kisses me. All these deep conversations have really intensified our connection. It feels easy, natural, like we’ve done it a million times. So, yeah, I’m really into this guy, even if he thinks four pairs of boxers is the appropriate amount of underwear for a grown man to own.
Saturday, 10 a.m.
Walker invites me on a romantic retreat to his parents’ house just outside the city. Don’t worry—they’re out of town. (I also checked this, still scarred from that time the doctor I dated a while back surprise-introduced me to his entire family. *shudders*)
Having a car in New York City is the equivalent of owning at least another five pairs of boxers on the grown-man scale. Walker picks me up and we stop at a suburban grocery store on the way, laughing as we meander through the aisles. I’m feeling kind of shocked that it’s so early in the year and I’m already in the early stages of something that seems so promising. Because this is what I look for most in a partner—someone who makes even the most mundane tasks feel like an adventure.
We finally roll up to his parents’ house and it’s a...mansion? Palace?? Estate??? There’s an elevator and a basketball court. The entryway is full of family photos. His dad with President Obama. His dad with the Dalai Lama. WT-actual-F. I thought I was dating a nihilistic graduate student knee-deep in student debt, not the son of a seeming gazillionaire. “You know I have you saved in my phone as ‘The Penniless Poet,’ right?” I say, laughing.
I begin to realize that his minimalism may come from “rich person guilt,” like he’s trying to compensate for being randomly born into privilege. “This is why you’re supposed to google people, Zara,” my friend replies when I text her. But the truth is, this is why I don’t. I don’t care how good his family’s connections are. I only care about how good our connection is.
We make dinner and it’s fun. So fun. It’s like we’re playing house, and it’s sexy as hell. As I dry the last dish he washed, he reaches to pull my sweater-dress over my head, then leans in to kiss me. I get off the counter and lead him into the private elevator, leaving a trail of our clothes on the floor. I kneel down and start sucking his cock. Honestly, I love giving blow jobs. Probably because I’m damn good at it. Walker pulls me up, turns me around, and pushes me against the mirrored elevator walls to enter me from behind. Whoa. Our intercourse is definitely as intense as our discourse.
We have sex in the elevator, in his family’s private movie theater, in their game room complete with a plush 15-person couch pit. “Damn, you’re amazing,” Walker says, breathless.
The Weeks Before Valentine’s Day
And now we’re coming up on my least favorite moment in a new relationship: V-Day. Like Barbossa’s crew in Pirates of the Caribbean, I am eternally cursed. Do I really believe in curses? No. But I believe in data. And the trend line here is not great: There was my college love, the private equity bro in London, the pro baseball player. The man who spent a year convincing me to give him a second chance. The engineer who professed his love for me and promised a four-part romantic evening. The “Zara, you’re the girl of my dreams” lawyer. I could go on. Every single one of these relationships imploded right around—if not on—Valentine’s Day, leaving me stranded like the runner-up on The Bachelor.
Here Walker and I are. The conversations are engaging. The sex, now plentiful, is even better. It seems I’ve manifested my 2023 relationship goal really damn fast. Our “book club” of two meets three times a week, so I wouldn’t have time to date other people even if I wanted to. I don’t want to jinx it, but...could this finally be the partnership that breaks my V-Day curse?
*As always, all names have been changed.
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