Worst Boyfriend Ever Does Speed Dating on Molly

A Hyper-Consensual Nightmare.

By Worst Boyfriend Ever · May 18, 2026 · 11 min read

Last night I attended “The Feels - an IRL singles experience” in LA. I felt nothing at all.
It felt like socialization training for severe autistics, or the first step down into a very profitable cult. I spent $117 and one night of my limited time on Earth to be instructed to ask for Consent to place my hands on an aging female body, over and over again.
Founder Allie Hoffman, who has a Masters Degree in Spiritual Psychology from Columbia University, greeted me nervously at the door. She had described the event as “sold out” in an email blast earlier that day. The email stressed consent consent consent, in all lowercase, preparing us for the evening’s “touch points”:

This evening’s touch points (are slated to) include:

Your hand holding another hand
Your hand on someone’s heart space
Someone’s hand on your heart space
Someone’s hand on your heart space
Your back against someone else’s back
Your forehead to someone else’s forehead
A long-held hug

Plus an eerie warning:

“your stepping into the space acts as confirmation that you consent to this level of touch. there will be more opportunities to consent throughout the night. if any of the above doesn’t feel aligned to where you are right now - DM me.”

Consent consent consent consent. Like stepping into an experimental rehab program for previously-raped women and over-domesticated men.
I’m 27 and foolishly expected to meet some woman younger than myself. All I hear is that these speed-dating type events are overwhelmingly female and hurting for guys. So I thought there must be some age-appropriate pussy in store tonight. Nope. Forty bodies and not a soul younger than mine.

Event-runner Laura mogged every other woman there. Huge fucking tits. Tight red shirt tucked into farm girl jeans. She was in her 30s but so was every other girl. Which makes sense, I guess. You’re nearing the end of your fertility window, you need a mate, you’re finally ready to get SERIOUS, INTENTIONAL about dating, you’ve got a girlboss 9-5 and two dogs and a Tesla but there’s this dick-shaped hole you just can’t replace. A wretched old hag in all-black asked what brought me here and I puked out something half-authentic: “Because I felt like with my last girlfriend we were just playing house, and I’m looking for something different.” She softened her expression, relating to the idea of “playing house” in her twenties herself.

In a huge dark room with candles on the floor, a small bar served drinks and charcuterie next to a cul-de-sac of chairs. At 7:25 PM, Laura led the herd from the bar to the carpeted Play Space where we all stood around holding hands. She rearranged the human bodies so that men were standing next to women, odds and evens. She instructed us to sit on the floor and silently meditate for what must have been three to five minutes. Now reach out and give the hand to your left and to your right a “knowing squeeze.” The woman on my left squeezed me much harder than the one on my right. She was black. Laura then stepped around the room pairing people together. Men and women, because this was a heterosexual dating event, made up of Male Bodies and Females Bodies, which she made sure to apologize for: “Trust me, we HATE these terms too.”

Of course I was paired up with a guy. A bumbling Indian tech guy, his name was Shuby. He had just flown in from Germany. There were two more men than women and Laura, for-some-reason, determined we deserved each other. Maybe because we were the youngest in the room. We were mediated by the blonde female bartender, who just works here. I asked her “Can I have you instead?” She frowned. No.

Here’s how this autistic rodeo worked: we wavered back and forth between forced-connection interrogation sessions and free-roaming “play.” My first task: suffer through 3 minutes and 40 seconds of “eye gazing” with Shuby. Sitting face to face cross-legged on the floor. We stared into each other's souls, eyes twitching, feeling scammed out of connection with a woman. He looked tired. I must have looked tired too. Then we were directed to the huge overhead screen with these horribly generic questions: “What would you say is your relationship to Change?” “How do you feel about this relationship?” Resist the urge to stray into conversation and stay on-prompt. They were begging us to abandon specifics, information, the ingredients that actually make up peoples’ lives and instead indulge in fluffy nondescript therapy-speak which lends itself to this kind of empty exchange: “I appreciate your vulnerability and authenticity and the fact that you are showing up here with me. Thank you for saying that. I am intrigued to know more about your dating goals and the quality of your present experience.” Low calorie conversations. I felt like a panda at the zoo, unable to mate in captivity.

The women were mid, hopeful, nervous, the men seemed like the type of guys you’d imagine at a Swingers’ ball. Short, aging, balding, playful, black blazers and thick-rimmed specs. They looked at me with these painful forced smiles, as if I were fucking up their game.

After my gay eye contact session with Shuby, I was free from interacting with men for the rest of the night. Jazzy dance music played on the speakers and we were invited to roam around like zombies. Dance, bust a move, do something you’ve never done before, be brave, but of course, respect consent. The 75mg MDMA in my system enabled me to keep my eyes up, wading slowly through the room looking for anybody else with a pulse. Just about every other person was staring down at the floor, in their own zone, like we were in line at the airport.

“Stop! Now, male bodies in the room, find a female body and introduce yourself. Ask for her consent to pair.” I turned to the nearest woman standing alone. A pale homely blonde. “Would you like to be my female body?” She was nervous: “Sure.”

We exchanged more empty words and followed yet another prompt to sit on the floor, this time with our backs together. I leaned on her and then she leaned on me. It felt divine. Mostly because of the molly. She told me she just got a second dog. She must have been touch-starved too.

Reshuffle partners. Music, dancing, roaming, stop. I paired up with whichever female body happened to be closest to me. A UCLA writing professor. I told her I made a living on writing Substack and it blew her mind. She was the most nervous soul I touched all night. We were prompted to gaze into each others’ eyes and then place a hand on each others’ “heart space” with eyes closed. She had big tits in a thin bright top. I said “Fuck, I’m going to miss” and she laughed.

My final Connection Partner was the least nervous and most horny by far. At least 36 and 4’10, an obviously Jewish girl with glasses and the tiniest speck of a purple nose ring. She said she had been to “six or seven” of these before. We were instructed to engage in a long, nourishing, present Hug. She’s a gnome midget so she suggested she get up on the stage, raised two or three feet in the air, so our connection could feel more natural. Relishing the opportunity to get my face near some big Jewish naturals I obliged. She looked down at me, prompting me to say “Wow, it’s like you’re my nice tall boyfriend” which made her laugh.

I’m mentioning all the times I made these women laugh because it felt like throughout the entirety of the night there was nary a chuckle in the rest of the room. Rigid. No risks taken anywhere. But here with my squishy Jew friend Kimberly I had finally found somebody with a pulse. I squeezed her hard and she said “Oh you’re good at this” probably because I don’t believe in consent. She ran her fingers through my hair and I grabbed at her lower back. We thanked each other for the Super Authentic Physical Connection instead of answering the fourth prompt.

She would hang on me for the remainder of the night.

We all coalesced back into one final hand-holding circle in which Laura thanked us all for coming, and reminded us of “Level Two” – a more-expensive adventure, which was coming up right here on Friday. Despite all the negative I’ve recounted so far, the moment she teased a “Level Two” I felt compelled to come back and check it out. Not to see any of these people again, but to find out what the hell they’re doing on “Level Two.”

Laura surveyed around the room asking each human to give a word about how they’re feeling right now, after the experience. My word was “warm.” Kimberly’s word was “nourished” which I soon learned was not entirely true, as she seemed hungry for more nourishment from my male body, pulling me down beside her on a couch. It was now the time to socialize, collect phone numbers, find somebody to go home with, and she was directing my hand onto her thigh. She works in functional therapy, as an administrative assistant. This shocked me because she felt like the most articulate person I met there by far. I wanted to tell her–you’ll find what you’re looking for Kimberly, as long as you keep showing up to these things, and also lose a significant amount of weight.

She asked if I would consent to walking her back to her car. I patted Shuby on the back on my way out. He didn’t find a partner. I gave him my number, shuddering at the possibility that our gay eye contact session represented the deepest connection either of us made all night.

As we walked to her car I went cold. I knew I could direct her to my hotel room, and she would let me fuck her tonight. But I didn’t want to. I’ve fucked old pussy before and it’s not the same — the “younger men and older women” trend you may have read about in the New York Times is absolute utter and total miserable Cope. All the hot 21 year old girls are half-dating some lothario manipulator Peter Pan mother fucker like me, leaving your average frustrated chump to fight for the used-up scraps. Dating older women is like being gay, it’s for men who gave up.

We got to her car. It was a Tesla. I gave her another hug and kissed her on the cheek. It was bittersweet. She made me text her on my phone. Her name, so I would remember. I felt exponentially awful as I walked away. She texted me again in 15 minutes and I could not find it in me to respond. I had wasted her entire night. My circus act was done.

The whole shebang left me yearning for physical connection with a more viable sexual partner. I opened my phone and texted Erica. “Can I kidnap you? I want to see you now. I have a hotel room. Let me come pick you up.” She was nearly blacked-out drunk. She was about to leave for a party she didn’t really want to attend; she wanted me instead. I knew this, which is why she was my first choice. She said yes, come get me now. Just come. I’ll ditch my friends, I don’t care. Good girl.

I have been treating this girl as poorly as possible. Using her for her money, ridiculing her every chance I get, degrading her and not respecting her time, never asking for consent. Yet the love I receive feels ten times realer than anything that could be sparked at one of these Authentic Relating GoyCattle Workshops, I know. Passion is found unstructured, in the wild. I parked my van in her spot below her downtown apartment and swapped it for her electric Mercedes. She let me drive cause she’s got no license. Short black skirt, her thighs feel like butter. It’s lit-up with neon rainbow LEDs. She’s an idiot—21 years old. We ate Chik Fil A and I fucked her in my hotel room from behind and then we fell asleep. This is the most authentic kind of connection I can achieve.