Sarah Merate Sex Dating ❤️

About Naples

Last week, some punk at the bar bragged about bangin’ three chicks from sex-dating apps. Three! In a week! I’m sittin’ there, sippin’ my whiskey, thinkin’, “Boy, you’re a walkin’ STD.” He’s all proud, I’m all disgusted. “I can still feel your presence,” that’s what the guy in “Her” says to his AI. Me? I feel the presence of idiots everywhere. Sex-dating’s a cesspool—folks lyin’ about height, weight, everythin’. One gal said she was “athletic,” showed up lookin’ like a potato sack. Pissed me off.

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So, I finally get my coffee, and I’m feeling all fancy, right? I stroll down to Piazza della Libertà, and it’s packed. Like, what’s up with that? I thought Merate was supposed to be chill. But nah, it’s like a mini Times Square. I’m dodging people left and right, and then BAM! I bump into this old lady. I’m like, “Sorry, nonna!” She just glares at me like I stole her last cookie. I mean, c’mon, lady, it was an accident!

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