First Date
Marley Quinn
First Date
by Marley Quinn
Copyright Information
First Date
by Marley Quinn
© 2025 Marley Quinn
All rights reserved.
Author: Marley Quinn
Contact details: marleyquinn.reformist760@passinbox.com
Twitter/X: marleyquinn2000
Book cover, illustration: Marley Quinn
Editing, proofreading: Marley Quinn
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Table of Contents
Copyright Information
Table of Contents
Matched
Svetlana
Land of Pussies
One Million Dollars
Strong Man
Hard Decision
Uncle
Champagne
Also by Marley Quinn
Matched
When I got the notification from the app that I’d been matched with Svetlana, I thought I’d won the lottery.
Based on her photos, she was a solid 10 out of 10, with a gorgeous face and long, blonde hair. Scrolling through her pics, she looked like one of those Instagram influencers, you know, the kind you see always jetting off to Dubai and getting big-named brand deals.
In fact, she was so hot that I immediately assumed I was being catfished. I mean, why would a girl that good-looking swipe right on me?
I’m not saying I’m the ugliest guy who ever walked the planet or something, but I was just some dopey sophomore at college who struggled to put on weight or get a haircut that didn’t look like something my mom had done around the kitchen table.
Nonetheless, my pulse was racing as I sent her that first text message. I was in agony as I debated what kind of tone to strike. Should I be cheerful and enthusiastic? Or is laid-back and cool the way to go? Or maybe I should just go ahead and assume it was a mistake on her part and apologize for wasting her time.
In the end, this is what I went with:
Hey, glad to see we matched. I’d love to meet up with you on Saturday if you’re free.
My heart was triphammering when I pressed “send,” and then I settled in for the long wait to get a reply, if I got one at all. But just an hour or so later, she wrote me back, saying:
You take me to dinner
Wow! Now that was direct. In fact, it was so direct that I almost didn’t know how to respond. Most of the time, you’ve got to ease into the subject of meeting up, and then I usually suggest something like a coffee shop just to keep it low key. But hey, for a girl as hot as Svetlana, I was definitely ready to splurge and go straight for a dinner date.
I still kept thinking it had to be some kind of crossed wires situation on her end. Who knows? Maybe her friend had commandeered her phone and they were all having a laugh at my expense.
But if she did want to meet up, then at least I knew I wasn’t being catfished. If she showed up, of course. These days, even girls who are 5s and 6s will ghost you.
After a whole lot more debate, I finally sent her this text:
Jose Pepper’s at 8 o′clock work for you?
Again, my nerves were frazzled as I paced around my dorm room, waiting to see what her reply would be. Jose Pepper’s wasn’t exactly the fanciest restaurant in town, but it was the only place I could afford. I was already up to my neck in student debt as it was, and my folks weren’t doing so well ever since the factory where my dad worked got shut down.
So you can imagine I just about had a heart attack when Svetlana replied just ten minutes later, saying:
Yes
And that was it. That’s all I knew going into our first date other than the stuff on her profile, which, as I said, made her look like one of those hot party girls I could only dream about.
As the rest of the week went by, I was in agony. I kept alternating between giddy hope that I was going to hook up with the gorgeous young woman in the photos and feeling this pit of despair in my stomach that I was somehow being played.
I’m no math guy, but I estimated the chances of her being both a) real and b) actually showing up at less than one percent.
Even if those were her real photos, and even if this wasn’t all some big joke or a scam, she was probably getting hit on fifty times a day by cooler guys than me, so why in the world would she come out on Saturday night to get a free meal at some chain Mexican restaurant?
It wasn’t like we’d engaged in witty banter and formed an emotional connection over text messages, that’s for sure.
I’d heard of guys who had game, who could strike up a conversation with women on the apps and get them all excited to meet up face-to-face. But that wasn’t me, especially not when Svetlana and I had barely exchanged four sentences.
Trying to assuage my fears, I told my friend Billy about getting matched with Svetlana. He just laughed and told me I was an idiot, that she was probably some online scammer trapped in some slave camp in Myanmar who got daily beatings if they couldn’t meet their daily quota of extracting money from foolish Westerners.
I told him that she hadn’t asked me for any money, but he just told me to wait because suddenly something would “come up” and then I’d get some sob story about how she’d had her purse stolen or whatever.
That left me sleepless, tossing and turning all night as I scrolled through the internet, reading about similar situations other guys had been through.
Other parts of the internet stressed that you had to confirm and then reconfirm meet-ups these days because otherwise, people would just plain old forget.
I thought about texting Svetlana and asking her something like, “So, we’re still on for Saturday night, right?” but then I decided not to, to let the fates decide. If I was really meant to be matched with a hottie like her, then it would happen. If not, I’d just go back to my boring old life.
Then my fevered imagination began worrying about even more elaborate scenarios. Like, what if she did show up, but the whole thing was part of some influencer stunt to get footage for her followers?
Like, what if she was just there so she could film me and laugh at my pathetic ass during her live stream, or something like that?
Svetlana
Or maybe Svetlana was just some actor, and a producer was going to jump out from behind a potted plant and tell me I was an unwitting contestant on some reality show?
And then I’d have to sign an NDA promising not to tell anyone, and they’d buy me off with a couple of hundred bucks, and since I was too poor to turn them down, I’d have to swallow my pride and sit there while my classmates watched the clip of me getting humiliated online.
Then an even more perverse thought occurred to me, which ended up making me chew my fingernails right to the quick.
What if Svetlana was very real, and she showed up to our date, but the reason she was so eager to meet up with me was because she was using photos of herself from 30 years ago, and now she was some middle-aged hag, trying to score a free meal?
Or even worse, she was both a fat old lady and had some kind of sick fetish for young guys, and she was going to put the moves on me after stuffing her face with jalapeno poppers and refried beans?
Frankly, I was a wreck by the time Saturday came around. I felt like a condemned man going to the gallows as I took a shower and combed my hair, eventually going with an ironed polo shirt and some khakis.
I was still hanging onto the tiniest sliver of hope that things would go well, but mostly, I was steeling myself to get punished in one way or another.
I’ve always been a punctual guy. That’s just how I was raised, so I got to the restaurant a full fifteen minutes early. Jose Pepper’s doesn’t take reservations, so I wanted to get a table, which wasn’t too much of a problem as the place was only half full.
The waiter came by and asked me if I was ready to order. To calm my nerves, I ordered a basket of nachos and a soda, but my stomach was so jumpy that I couldn’t eat a bite when the food arrived.
Instead, I just sat there and took tiny sips of my drink as my eyes kept flickering between the entrance of the restaurant and looking around to see if there were any camera crew lying in wait to ambush me.
Eight o’clock came and went without any sign of Svetlana. I checked my phone a hundred times, but there were no messages from her either. I began resigning myself to the fact that she wasn’t going to show.
Whether that was due to malice, forgetfulness or something else, it didn’t really matter. A girl like that would never want to date me, so I was the idiot for thinking that there was any chance whatsoever for her to take time out of her glamorous life to sit down across the table in some shitty restaurant with me.
And then, like the waters of the Red Sea parting, a miracle happened. Svetlana strutted into the restaurant, looking exactly like her photos, maybe even hotter.
Even crazier, she had on a gorgeous red dress, a million times too fancy for a place like Jose Pepper's, and she was all made up right down to a flashy necklace and bracelets.
I honestly thought I was hallucinating as I stood up and waved to get her attention. At first, she didn’t see me, but then she came bounding over to my table, taking a seat with a little grunt.
I wanted to reach out and touch her arm to make sure she was real, but I didn’t dare. Instead, I picked up the menu like I was just studying it for the first time while casting sideways glances at her, drinking in her loveliness in all its glory.
Finally, I forced myself to quit being a coward and say something to her. I had to cough for a minute to clear my throat, which had become tight and constricted, but then I turned to her.
“Hi there,” I said. “You look very lovely.”
“Yes, yes,” said Svetlana with a dismissive wave of her hand, looking almost angry.
I guess I should’ve known from her name that she was foreign, but I was genuinely surprised to hear her speak with an accent. I wondered where she was from, but I didn’t want to pry, so I forced my racing mind to try and come up with something a little more conversational.
“Um, have you been here before?” I said, immediately feeling like an idiot for asking such a dumb question. “Because, um, I can make some recommendations, if you like.”
“You are man. You decide,” said Svetlana, looking directly at me for the first time.
Her eyes were a kind of mix between gray and hazel, seeming to swirl and blend even as I regarded her. Her skin was flawless, and her nose was this cute little button thing which excellently contrasted her much more womanly figure. She was a knockout, a goddess, and that’s when it occurred to me that she might be trans.
Not that I have anything against LGBTQ people, of course. I’m a big believer in supporting their rights, and you’ll never catch me saying a bad word about them.
But if I'm being honest, I wasn't sure I could handle finding out that she had a penis tucked away somewhere underneath that smoking hot dress of hers.
Or maybe I could. It was hard to say. Looking at her, she certainly seemed like a woman. Sure, she wasn’t cutesy and giggly like some girls, but I was getting a strong female vibe from her.
Her tits certainly looked spectacular, the top halves of which were on fine display. Maybe in the dark, if I kept my eyes closed, I could keep on pretending she was a woman. I mean, a biological one.
Trans women are women, after all.
Right?