Your soon-to-be-second-ex-husband calls just to say “hey.” But you’ve already begun to forget how it felt to be beneath him.
Today’s forecast: Cloudy, with no chance of ever going back.
Happy hour. And you’re wearing your thigh-high boots and your favorite black sweater with the cleavage-revealing cut-out and your tightest jeans and the dude with the gorgeous smile sitting diagonal from you at the bar keeps staring.
Today’s forecast: Clouds will let up and the chance of getting laid is equivalent to your liquid courage minus your fear of herpes and other STDs condoms will not protect you from. Chance of getting the d will grow to 99% if he is Jamaican.
Fuckbuddy #1, the one with big hands and a voice like sloe gin, texts to say he’s going to be in your town for the weekend, and he wants you to show and prove all that shit you’ve been talking during phone sex.
Today’s forecast: 100% chance of thunderstorms when you realize it’s the same weekend as your kid’s science competition…in the next state over.
Another fancy party with beautiful people and a beautiful boy, a whole decade between you, another bouncing bundle of insecurities wrapped in dreams deferred.
Today’s forecast: Blue skies with the promise of never again picking up where some mother left off raising her baby boy.
A married man you love and admire and who you once had a massive crush on signals that he is… willing.
Today’s forecast: Drought conditions brought on by memories of Hurricane _______ and the destruction left in his wake.
A married man — who you loved back when you were both still kids high off high school French and Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam songs and condoms (sometimes) and college plans — offers you pending-divorce comfort in the form of a diagram of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.
Today’s forecast: A tsunami of memories of how well you have been loved in your lifetime.
A married man whose wife you know slides into the DMs to humblebrag about their luxury SUV and their Our Kind of People status, lament their Leave It to Beaver sex life, and let you know that he’s always thought you were smart… and sexy.
Today’s forecast: It’s raining men! Hallelujah! It’s raining shameless men! Chance of sex: Negro, please.
You declare partnered men off-limits. You speak this aloud.
Today’s forecast: Winds out of the east are calm. Chance of action: 50%
Five minutes after you declare partnered men off-limits, you get a Facebook Friend Request and a “you crossed my mind and…” message from a boy — now a married man — who you had a crush on and fooled around with 30 years ago.
Today’s forecast: You shaking your fist at the fucking sky. Yes, even the sky is fucking and you aren’t.
Eight minutes after Former Crush messages you, an OG hotep (minus the misogyny) who once sent you next-lifetime poems about the Nile and your breasts, reaches out to “see how you doing, sistah.” He is still with his girlfriend of 20 years.
Today’s forecast: Flurries of ghosts of dick past.
Fuckbuddy #2 reveals just how fragile his masculinity is when he realizes you really do only want him for one thing. Not that he wants more from you or wants to give you more of himself. He just wants you to want more from him.
Today’s forecast: A tropical storm of fuckery not even worth naming is downgraded as it grazes your coast.
You meet a brilliant, mesmerizing Haitian boy young enough to be your son if God had not look out for teenaged fools and babies. He writes stories that make you weep and fall in love with words all over again.
Today’s forecast: Plenty of glorious sun and friendship. Chance of the d: 0%.
Fuckbuddy #3 is a wonderful, wise, but weary old soul.
Today’s forecast: Gray skies are gonna clear up…
From healthguidance.org: “Yeast infections are not sexually transmitted and are often caused by menopause. Of all vaginal infections, yeast infections are one of the main symptoms of menopause, caused by the fluctuating hormones leading to bacteria in the vagina going out of control.”
Today’s forecast: Probiotics and a raincheck.
You and your friend Brandon, who is gay, institute a weekly Date Night consisting of going to his favorite Indian restaurant so he can ogle the waitstaff.
Today’s forecast: Your pussy is going to dry up like a raisin in the sun and crust and sugar over like a syrupy sweet.
Your girlfriends plan to throw you a surprise party for your 50th, complete with strippers. You get wind and gently put the kibosh on it. Because while you support sex workers, your heart just isn’t in it. What you really want is just… somebody. Some body. Some holding. A different kind of Langston Hughes poem, like the one about a thousand lights of sun or even the one about letting the rain kiss you…
Today’s forecast: Climate change is real. You’re feeling juicy and full of precipitation and yeast-free… and that bald guy who always sits next to you on the bus home from work even when he could have a whole seat to himself, who smells like fine leather and good home training and a wee bit of top-shelf Scotch… Today? That guy could get it.