The following events took place in a small, well-off town in Massachusetts, the summer before my last year of college. I was 23 at the time.
I think, generally, you might call me “oddly attractive,” or perhaps “unique” in my looks. I’ve had success with women over the course of my life. On average, during college, I probably hooked up with five or six girls a year. It seems to go, as far as I can tell, that a majority of women are uninterested in me or find me unattractive, while a smaller subset of women, for some reason or another, are very drawn to me. I’ve wondered why that is on a few occasions, but over the course of the summer three years ago, I didn’t have to think about it once. There must have been some magical two-month window where the stars aligned and I was, for whatever reason, either very attractive, or very lucky. Maybe I was just the right weight. Maybe my depression levels gave me just the right amount of apathy. For whatever reason, I fucked or hooked up with a dozen or more women, many of whom I’d never met before, in the span of two months.