Before unemployment, I was a fake. Working in PR, I hated wearing blazers, gossiping about celebrities and didn’t find pleasure abusing buzz words in client meetings. On first dates, the conversation dropped when I explained that my job was to make corporate brands sound like relatable human beings via pre-approved social media content and Internet slang. I didn’t care much for explaining client-centricity, hashtag days and geo-targeted Facebook ads. And my dates didn’t care to listen either (everyone knows that PR is the anti-boner of the dating world, unless there’s free shit involved). As anticipated, the conversation led to sex in a room with Motown records and incense sticks that burned.

But now I’m dating with integrity. Now I’m hungry, hustling and a little more vulnerable than I used to be. My dates can smell it from a mile away. They see me, unemployed and exposed, and they want to nurture me back to health like a street pigeon with a broken wing. It’s part of my sex appeal, no bullshit to hide my Error 505 flaws. I’m not pretending to have it all together anymore because I’m far from it. I’m a mess, and I haven’t washed my hair in three days. Love me, baby.

Sharing Is Caring

Being unemployed has forced me to be selfless. Dating isn’t a distraction anymore, it’s a hobby. I’ve got more time to put more into whomever I’m currently seeing. I mean, it took me this long to figure out who exactly I am (TBD), so now I can focus on someone else for a change.

It’s taken me a while, but I think I’m ready to share things besides my appetizers or thoughts on Adele’s new album. I’m tired of listening to myself talk. It’s not about me anymore. It’s about them, and I’m ready to add notes in my iPhone about food preferences, allergies and things that are important to them. (Add Note: Max likes vintage mopeds, his best friend is Jacob and he listens to Caribou.) It’s the little things, you know.

It’s Not About Getting Free Dinners

Shame on you. I mean, if they offer to buy me a taco, I’ll eat it. But morally, I’m opposed to dating for the purpose of free food. Like, what am I, a grazing cow with fake eyelashes? No thanks, I can still afford eggs and butter. Plus, I’ve got plenty of almonds, leftover Indian food and coffee to keep me farting and burping for the foreseeable future. Food is not the end goal here – sex and philosophical pillow talk is. So stop reading this if you think I’m going to give you a bag of sneaky tricks to make your date pay for a Spanish sausage plate at Bar Isabel or $25 cocktails. You’re an asshole. Be ashamed of yourself.

Good Conversation > Basic Table Manners

When I was employed, I made excuses for men with bad taste. I rationalized his boring sensibility, terrible taste in music and over-sized jeans for stuff I considered important, like social skills and being a gentleman. If he held the door open for me, I’d go on a few more dates with him. Now my bullshit radar is on fire. Being unemployed, I already have too much time, and I’m not interested in filling it with someone who shaves his chest or jerks off to Blue Jays.

I’ve learned I’d much rather have a conversation about Andy Warhol’s weird relationship to Basquiat than bitch about first world problems over craft beer. Don’t bother holding the door for me. If you can talk to me about existential angst and fulfilment, I’ll give you a blow job on the first date. Just kidding. I won’t. Maybe. I don’t know. Funny how unemployment makes dating seem so black and white.

The Unemployment Orgasm

It’s more intense than the employed orgasm, because there’s a 99% chance that I’ll burst out crying after he cums. I’m not proud of it, but I’ve had to hold the tears back a few times and it’s strange to feel so emotionally messy when I should be slapping his ass. The truth is that now I need some post-coital Mclovin’; I can’t help but cling to him like I want to suck his soul out. Unemployment sex is about finding protection and security in someone else’s arms. I haven’t had any complaints yet, and I’m still adjusting to this new side of needy Sarah. I’m wounded and soul searching, and if they can’t hold me for ten minutes after we fuck then I’m not wasting my time with him.

I’m not fucking around anymore; I need emotional security beyond a hand job. I mean, hand jobs are fun and all, but I lose my rings all the time and I want to be with someone who will text me and tell me I left my ring at their place. It means they care, and I appreciate it. I’m through with suave, mature guys with exposed brick apartments. It’s a front with nothing behind it, and I needed to hit the rock bottom of unemployment to understand that.

Now that I’m in the sweet spot of my pretentious twenties, I’ve taken on dating as a side project while I figure out how to make a living writing about Drake, over-priced cocktails and social faux pas. Dating isn’t a game, it’s a hobby. It’s not about the sex, it’s about the details that make a person a person, like the way they tie their sneakers, get wild-eyed about espresso or can’t stand seafood because a traumatic childhood thing. Unemployment has made me see that I’m an emotional basket case with no direction. Date me: I’m hungry, hustling and very unemployed.