You'd think as women we'd take that as a clue that slutty behavior is never rewarded.
It always results in Death.
Or just sheer disappointment and embarrassment.
Which is pretty much the same thing.
I decided to be a slut.
Nay, I embraced it with the kind of style and grace, as though the film crew was behind me capturing my every move.
I was going to get laid.
I needed to get laid.
After the emotional roller coaster mind fuck disappointment traumatic news of the week-month-or two-I was ready for something different.
Someone different.
I just wanted someone else's tongue down my throat, let's be real.
Cue Tinder.
*Violins swell*Trumpets blare*
*Crescendo*Decrescendo*
(God, I'm a nerd).
And oh yo oh yo check this: tall, lanky, artsy nerd in town for just the week.
Swipe right.
And match!
Ding ding ding ding ding!
We have a penis!!
We were both so stoked to meet each other we changed our plans around so we could meet at 5.
Nobody has a date at 5:00pm on a Saturday except for maybe your Grandma.
I lived with my Grandma for a few years and I remember someone knocking on the door around 7 once and she frowned, "Who could be knocking at this hour? Don't get the door."
But we didn't care!
I think somehow we both knew we were gonna want more than just a couple hours to spend together.
And that was fucking adorable.
We decided to meet at this Mexican dive that always has a line because the food is so damn delicious.
And as I walked up I saw him already in line, head floating above everyone else's.
God, tall men are sexy.
My greatest love in my twenties was 5'6".
I don't know what the hell I was thinking.
So we talk and eat and drink.
And it's merry.
(Cuz tomorrow we're gonna die, again, the clues were smacking me in the face).
And he is far more charming than I was expecting.
And I suddenly start to feel.....I can't even say it because it's so out of character for me.....because I never give any fucks on any of these stupid dates.....but I felt, dare I say, NERVOUS.
I even told him just that.
"Your eyes are so intense, the way you're looking at me....it's unnerving."
He blinked his pale blue eyes peering back at me through his thick round spectacles.
'Would it help if I kissed you?'
I never, ever EVER want a guy to ask if he can kiss me but there was something so adorable and confident in the way he just assumed the thing I needed to calm my nerves wasn't another sangria but simply his mouth upon mine.
Mmmhmm.
Yep.
'Better?' He asked after, my eyes still slowly opening.
"Yes. Definitely better."
This is the secret to every good date:
(Are you listening, men? Cuz I'm giving the secret away right here.....
The secret to a good date is when the guy kisses you in the middle of it.
If he has to wait til the end of the date to kiss you, it wasn't a great date.
It might be a good date or an ok date or decent enough for you to agree to let him pay for your burger again, but the only way a first date is GREAT is when he has to kiss you sooner than later.
So. Fucking. HOT.
So we mosey on to the next venue.
A favorite bar of mine.
I may or may not have canoodled with another boy the last time I was there.
The bar used to be a brothel.
I can't help it.
It just speaks to the inner slut within.
(It also makes one of my favorite cocktails, with fig bourbon. It's to die. Again with the death. Mother fucker, I should have read the signs).
So we drink and we talk and he stares at me with his seductive eyes.
And I inform him that he can't come to my place.
(It's a fucking disaster. I'm working on it. Whatever. Moving on).
And since he's crashing on a friend's couch the remaining few days he's in town we can't go to his place.
What to do......what.....to.......do......
'We could get a motel,' he casually suggests.
"We could?" I exclaim in a way that's probably more on par with the level of excitement I'd express if someone told me they were taking me to Disneyland.
But I'm just an enthusiastic woman.
Especially where sex is involved.
(Oh did I say sex? Don't worry, this story definitely stays PG, just wait. Don't worry, Mom).
So we find a motel nearby and head on our merry little way.
(Ominous music plays in the background).
We get to my car and start making out and good lord, his kisses are like little start buttons on my body.
If we would have paused there--
We could have had a hot makeout sesh, like horny teenagers breaking curfew, and it would have been lovely and adorable.
But since my romantic comedy wasn't written by Cameron Crowe, we didn't stop there.
Instead we headed to the oh so classy motel to enact a scene that audiences would laugh at for decades to come.
Come.
Ha.
I don't want to talk about it.
So we check into the room, both admit we've never done this before & giggle as we scan the room.
Turn down the bed, the only thing they clean is the sheets, echoes through my mind, the text I'd read minutes before we got there.
Sluts should always have more experienced slutty friends to help them through the slutdom.
I throw down the comforter and hop on the bed.
(Again my level of excitement is always too closely resembling a five year old about to put on her first tiara, I really need to chill the fuck out).
But he crawls over me and starts kissing me again with those intoxicating kisses that stir up every cell dancing in my body.
'Are you gonna do what I tell you?' He whispers in my ear.
Oh. My. GOD.
How fucking hot is that?
Yes. Fuck yes.
And things progress and I am like tearing at the sheets.
'You can't have me yet,' he whispers in my other ear.
OHMYGOD.
My romantic comedy is having its soft porn moment (But don't worry, I told you it stays PG)--
Because shortly thereafter when all signs point to go time, he suddenly says, 'I don't think I can do this' and I reach down to get a read (like a doctor taking a pulse) and sure enough, NOTHING.
No pulse.
It's fucking dead.
Now, can we just take a moment and go back to the fact that I am chomping at the bit, salivating, ready to fucking break through a wall to get pounded and my co star is *cough* ahem--FEELING ABSOLUTELY NO HARD ON WHATSOEVER?!?!
How?
What?
I can't.
I don't even....
DO YOU LIKE FUCKING WOMEN???
DO YOU???
Before you ask, no he wasn't drunk.
It was much more fun than that.
He was feeling "too emotional."
Recent breakup.
First attempt at coitus.
Blah. Blah. Blah.
Jesus, I thought, is he gonna want to be held?
I'm not a heartless bitch so we talked and I was a sweetheart and he thanked me for "being so cool about this."
Of course internally I was playing out a scene where I stabbed him repeatedly.
But you know.
Always a lady.
Even when slutting it up.
Class.
All the way.
I graciously left while he stayed so he could "think things through"
--forehead bang against the wall, bang, bang, why does this happen to me, bang--And as I sighed a quiet sigh of relief while the door clicked behind me, I looked up and saw a greasy old guy leaning against the rail.
He leered.
Oh god, I thought. I have to walk past him to get to my car.
'Hey there,' he tried to say charmingly.
I bet he thinks I'm a prostitute, I thought.
Because this night wasn't already intensely disappointing let's have a creepy witness.
"Hello," I smiled back broadly because why the fuck not.
Let him think I'm a hooker.
I'd be a damn good one.
I saw. I came. I conquered.
Well.
I saw anyway.
And that.
I guess that was something.
At least I enjoyed kissing someone new.
But no more sex on the first date.
Men SUCK at it.
'It's too much pressure,' one of my guy friends told me. 'I won't do them anymore.'
One night stands.
And neither will I, sir.
Neither will I.
Because I'm not here for a damn cuddle.
Come on.
Seriously.
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