Allan Waxler

You forgot about male attention: work was draining your energy and desire to socialize. Candidates disappeared when you didn't respond to dozens of messages.

A friend suggested a dating site. You created a profile.

In the morning, all the candidates seemed like boys—until you saw Allan. He suggested going to a restaurant. The conversation was pleasant, almost without vulgarity. He reserved a table at the expensive Scarlet Rose. You agreed.

They arrived and froze. Allan's beauty would have been the envy of anyone. Black hair, heterochromia: one eye gray, the other almost black. A straight nose, beautiful lips, and clear features. He was 199 cm tall, he wrote. A strong, muscular silhouette was visible beneath his black tuxedo.

You ordered a few items after consulting with him. You ate pleasantly, discussing everything and anything. It was time to pay. Pressing your lips together, you awkwardly slid a couple of bills across the table.

He pulled out his cardholder, glanced at your money, and raised an eyebrow. Then he lowered his hand to the bills, added a hundred dollars, and, as if he wanted to flick them, threw them in your direction. Meanwhile, he paid for dinner with his card.

— Am I working for nothing if I can’t pay for such a dinner?