ONS: Safe Sex, Unprotected Emotions

One of many Hurricane Sandy Experiences

Troll.me

NEW YORK CITY––“It’s a storm party! You have to come” she declared. I agreed as my family, 800 miles away, blew up my phone imploring me to evacuate. On a whim, there I was in the middle of 23^rd Street (literally), faring strong winds and drizzle to get to the neighborhood bar.

We revelled in drunken debauchery and cheered when the lights went out, continuing to drink in candlelight until last call. Attempting to bed the cute  Slashy (Actor slash Model slash bartender), I followed them home. Instead of a comfy bed, I found myself in the midst of UES rich kids ranting about nothing in particular. I had entered a strange party with foreign archetypes. I stumbled over where introductions flowed on the couch. My first drunken impression: Girl, funny looking–named after my favorite childhood toy; Boy, CUTE; sour faced  (read: doesn’t like me) redhead named after Jesus’ mommy.

In a room red with hazy weed smoke, the credentials of Cute Boy are told. They spill out of Girl's mouth in an attempt to get him laid. There’s chemistry: I don’t consider the 3 White Russians, 3 Whiskey and Cokes, and 2 beers I’d guzzled down at the bar. Feeling inappropriately comfortable, I told him my life story, basically. I was dying for him to shrink me despite the fact that he’s a grad student in Cognitive Psych not psychoanalytic. Attraction and all of it’s messiness feels much more natural while inebriated: words lack calculation, interest always palpable. He boldly asked me to accompany him home. Confidence is really all it takes. I asked spitfire questions about where he lived and with whom #safetyfirst. “Do you want to stay here?” He asked. Acknowledging that I didn't, I waited by the door.

New York was pitch black and powerless in the streets. It was 4AM. I incoherently told him the minutiae of my days. He lived in Warhol Factory kind loft, grandiose and glitzy. He soon after arrival flashed bedroom eyes. When we kissed, it was clear how much shorter than me he was. In the bedroom, a storm of rain boots and clothes were shed. My impending pleasure wasn't overshadowed by my self-doubt due to the alcohol.

"Don't drunkenly accompany strangers home if you don't plan on sleeping with them."

...But I punk'd out. I was menstruatin' and told him that I wanted to, “… you know, hangg ouuut. I don’t just wanna have sex.” Don't drunkenly accompany strangers home if you don't plan on sleeping with them. I continued, “I mean, if I wasn’t on my period, I’d totalllly have sex with you, but I don’t want it to be weird. Sorry… ” He countered that he’s not the type to just have sex, he’s not like that. I believed him, but I believe everyone. It’s my style to put out as soon as possible, kind of a Feminist Litmus Test. In bed, I’d never felt so comfortable. I expect dirty talk (thanks, porn), but he was dead silent. I told him how good he felt, attempting to initiate. “Good,” he said. I felt awkward, but this is what happens when strangers fall into bed. He was so good, at everything. After a dry romp, he smiled giving me an arm to curl into. I hesitantly accepted as this is how love happens, with tenderness.

When the light streamed through the bedroom window, I was sober. Praying that when I opened my eyes, he wasn't grotesque. Surprised by his beauty, I watched him sleep as lovers do. His eyelashes spanned the top of his cheek bone where the sun beamed. Like a Roman cupid, his naked compact body was twisted in the sheets. Being painfully awake, I wondered if I should leave. What are The Rules of this kind of thing?! He touched me affectionately, cuddled me all night so maybe he wanted to see me again? I’ve learned since then that feigning intimacy is EZ if you put your heart into it. Confused as to what to do, I wandered back to bed and into his arms.

He woke up and kissed my forehead. “I want to have sex with you,” he whispered. I’m slightly offended there’s no modifier; I need to know how badly. You know, the degree to which I’m wanted. I imagined: very badly and proceeded. I removed my tampon in front of him, he was unfazed. We’d reached relationship level intimacy: PERIOD SEX. And away we went after some non-verbal position negotiation, a condom, and a towel placement Re: logistics. It stopped abruptly. With closed eyes, he apologized. Claiming, “It’s been awhile. I’m really sorry.” I bit his shoulder to somehow reassure him. I then lingered… and lingered like a clinger. In my head, I imagined what it’d be like to date a shorter man and hyphenated our last names. He asked for my number flashing Jesus’ smile. I was in love instantaneously without restraint. The words of a Format song rang true:

“Suddenly between sheets and eyelids, I remember why I don’t do this. I fall in love far too quickly, I never want her to forget me.”

"You're not on Facebook? WHY?!" He asked in the morning small talk. I replied, “It’s not the platform, it’s the people.” Incredible! The smartest thing I’d said in 7 hours. He began sending emails on his iPhone, speaking of his impending appointments. I didn't realize until later that this was my queue to leave. “Well, I’ve got to pretend to get my life together now,” he said ejecting himself from bed and further away from my fantasies. My heart broke a little like indigestion you can’t burp out, but I knew I didn't have the right. In fantasy land, there would have been pancakes and inside jokes, future dates set. He traced my jawline with his fingers. I was chatty putting on my rain boots, his tolerance waning. He kissed me at the front door. “I’ll see you soon,” he said. Didn't wanna leave, but I was happy. I embarked on what could only have been the proudest Walk of Shame, beaming from ear to ear, my underwear stuffed into my jacket pockets. This was winning.

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"I embarked on what could only have been the proudest Walk of Shame, underwear stuffed into my pockets. This was winning."

Will he or won’t he call? This is always the call. Next time, I'll be taking the digits. I sat around in glory and stupidity. Leaving the bar a few nights later, trying to rebound, I wondered if it was crazy territory to ring his bell, I remembered where he lived. I asked a mustachioed woman at a 24-hr joint; her advice leading me home alone. I took my laundry to the mat next door to his place a few mornings later. It is the closest to my apartment, but I hoped he’d magically stop in or pass bye.



After three days, forget him. On the fourth night he texted. Hoping it was a booty call, I over-analyzed and shaved. I played it cool, waiting the obligatory 10+ minutes to respond but really, I couldn't come up with a quirky response. I suggested Round 2 and was promptly denied: “Oh shit! I wish, but I can’t tonight. Sorry.” Ego foul. I rationalized that men can refuse sex as well. I initiated texting days later (it is the 21^st century after all). Play by play: he’s hungover, election night had come and gone, I repeated a joke he had made and did not remember. I felt insignificant. I was happy we’d spoken, but anticipated the next tete-`a-tete. To hyperbolize the situation: he had a life and I didn’t, this was crystal-clear #losing. I applied to several internships in the coming days and attended club meetings to compensate. I replied to OkCupid messages in hopes of forming a rebound list.

Three days passed, I called, no answer. Feeling like That Crazy Girl at this point, I told him so the following night and reminded him that he was the one who broke ONS protocol by making contact. The rejection came in a way that only the 21^st century could dole out.

THE text message: And in addition [to his business], you have no web presence…. Work on your SEO

EDIT: I googled him. He’s an aspring comedian having written for MTV and various sites with a strong “web presence.” Guess he spends a lot of time working on his SEO. I soon after fell out of my trance and it was on to the next...