The 1950s

The year is 1950, and at the junior high sock hop, you meet a man named Jimmy Jones. He has his hair coiffed and buys you a root beer at the local penny shop. You think that he’s your dream come true. After all, he’s a football star, got a real sweet ride, and best of all, is only casually racist.

After he pleads with you for several months, you finally decide to have 1950s sex. It’s terrible because female sexuality is still a myth. He never calls you again, and you find out from his mom that he got drafted into the Korean War. You wait for him, but when he returns, he ignores you.

The 1960s

It’s a new decade and you’re a feminist wearing pants. Birth control just became legal, and you meet a man named John Jones who is in total support of second-wave feminism. What a catch! You listen to The Rolling Stones together and you think you’re going to fall in love.

After several weeks of pleading, you decide to have 1960s sex. It’s fine because at least this time you can rest easy knowing you won’t have to drop out of college to support a baby. He’s super smart and tells you he needs to focus on joining the new space program. You hope his oxygen suit breaks on the moon and set your sights on bedding John Lennon.

The 1970s

Disco is king and Watergate is queen. You’re jamming to Michael Jackson’s debut hit on your walkman when you meet the grooviest man in town. His name is Jerry Jones and he’s anti-war, what a keeper!

You have 1970s sex pretty quickly because love is free and you catch 40 STDs. You hook up twice, then ask him a personal question and you never see him or his giant van again. You fall in love with a drug dealer.

The 1980s

American Psycho awakened something weird in your sexual discovery, but you push that off for now. Besides, it’s the '80s and you’ve got a coke addiction. You’re the one ghosting every man because party girls don’t date, duh. People are dying but you still end up partying every day for a year, like a fucked up version of The Notebook. You don’t learn anyone’s names. You’re into rough sex too, thanks, Patrick Bateman!

The 1990s

Your jeans? Huge. Your shirts? bigger. Your ego? Small. You think Kurt Cobain is the peak of boyfriend material because you’ve got some stuff to work out, but therapy won’t be normalized for several years. Instead, you use a giant cell phone to call your boyfriend, Bryce. He’s in a metal band that apparently has a song written about you, though you can’t understand anything they say. Bryce doesn’t just stop picking up your phone calls, he cheats on you with some girl named Mandi who wears butterfly hair clips.

The 2000s

Paris Hilton isn’t getting ghosted, but you sure are. Words like “SLUT” and “BITCH” and “DADDY'S GIRL” are on every piece of hot pink clothing, and while you embrace this reclamation of shame, you also are pretty sensitive.

You meet a guy who goes by just “Mick” and you two have great 2000s-era sex (you’re such a Samantha!) but he never calls you again. You hook up with him after bumping into each other at a club. You later get married to an accountant named Chris who’s fine but has an annoying brother. Fine.

The 2010s

You match with a guy on Tinder. You go on three weird dates before you decide that his personality isn’t going to get any better. You have decent and mutually beneficial 2010's sex. You realize four days later that he never texted you again. No follow up. You didn’t care before, but now that he doesn’t care, you care a lot. You post a selfie on your story that he views but doesn’t reply.

He tries to slide in the DMs a year later when he has a girlfriend. Yikes. His name was something Irish and boring, you don’t really remember.

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