At our core we’re all just a bunch of filthy animals. It’s true. We live in a civilized society, most of us have strong parental figures, role models, and morals. All of that is valid. But, as is a college tradition as rooted in collegiate lore as tailgates and fraternity life: we love to have sex. In fairness, it’s not like we didn’t love it before college, it was just a lot more difficult in the back of cars, silently while sharing a wall with a sibling, and fearing for the well being of our near virgin genitalia in the basement of her father’s house. Then all of a sudden we grab a diploma and a sense of freedom never thought possible, a place of our own to do essentially whatever we want within the confines of the law and general decency. So, we, meaning both genders, every once in a while go out, let go of inhibition and resort to our base biology: having sex with people we hardly know.
Here is a real life play by play of the one night stand:
You’re wavering between “taking it slow” with an 8 a.m. discussion class in the morning and throwing care to the wind as the Cuervo starts flowing. After an hour or so you’ve managed to somewhat hold it together, but that fucker you can’t believe got a bid beside you is ranting about the greatness that is his deity Kanye West. You’re essentially overcome with rage as your Total Frat playlist has been usurped by the mechanical sounds of Yeezus, an album the the twat in esparadillas claims you “simply don’t understand.” Considering introducing your loafer to his unsuspecting sphincter, you instead take solace in the general disdain towards the stereo pirate, indulging heavily in further libations with your trusted brothers.
By the time you consider leaving for the bar, you can’t tell Amy Schumer from Adriana Lima. In other words, odds of fucking have increased exponentially, along with definite morning humiliation.
You’re not really a dancer, so you continue hammering drinks until that song you hoped they’d play comes on. You’re inventing dance moves that showcase your supposed charm and ability to be self deprecating, while in reality you think you’re the revival of Michael Jackson in the flesh, attracting a crowd of your assumed admirers. Then you see her, the blonde hard 9 giving you that face that says “come fuck my tits.” Either that or she’s got a cleft pallet. Either way you’re moving in with a couple friends to her mid-level posse, a shrewd move for a man more concerned with instant gratification than long term, as you assume their questionable appearance and outward attraction to you (in your own mind, at least) essentially guarantees a good night. At least you’ll get a good jerk out of it.
You’re lining up shots while wondering how much small talk is ethically required before suggesting a no pants dance back at your place, when she shoves her tongue down your throat. In the moment, you think this is hot. You’re partially chubbed at the bar wondering if now is the moment when she says:
“I want to see your place.”
The Trip Home
You’re praying the Uber app is functioning and a kind middle easterner is camped in his Honda nearby for a quick jaunt home. In the street lights you start to realize the rampant imperfections of your temporary love, but have reached the point of no return. She, in fairness, is likely thinking the same about you, as her exploratory hands reveal body hair and misplaced fat deposits your “relaxed” fit chinos and country club polo conveniently masked.
The car arrives, you’re in the backseat going full speed ahead like the beginning of a Bang Bus video on the Hub. Hands all over each other and wild, grotesque “kissing” that has our 4.9 star friend in the front seat sweating like a Green Card review. You arrive home, wondering if perhaps you had cock blocked yourself with the loss of your keys. Rifling through your pockets as she becomes “cold” and outwardly annoyed, the back left pocket holds the literal key to the one nighter.
The Build Up
This is an interesting situation I will address in a full column, but how does one gauge how the fuck to act once you’re inside? Not of her, but your apartment, I mean. You met at the bar, you’re dry humping in a strange man’s mid sized sedan, you should just get right to it, right?
To be a gentleman you offer her a drink, she accepts and you’re worried you’ve just delayed yourself into a blue balled hell of bad tv and not so subtle suggestions she should leave. You walk back from your bar tending exhibition of vodka mixed with flat soda and relief washes over you in an awesome wave as she puts it to the side and returns to the sloppy antics that traumatized your Uber driver.
It’s gotten to the point of undressing and you’re both moments from immense disappointment. She’s praying you at least have some semblance of an athlete’s physique, or at least look like you used to be one. You’re asking whatever Deity you subscribe to for small nipples, non existent hair, and a lack of visible cottage cheese. More on that later.
She pops her bra off after you struggle immensely, probably making her wonder if you’re a virgin or 15 years old. Maybe both. You awkwardly pull away from kissing to get a good look at the sweater knockers, and as you make eye contact, your gut hanging over your belt, and her oblong cabbages looking more like a cow’s utter than silicon fun bags, you promptly close your eyes and begin the imagination game, not to be concerned with an awful Benedict Cumberbatch film.
Once you actually get to the business, more than likely things will be immensely disappointing for both parties. You’ll try to do several things she won’t let you, then you’ll get nervous and end up missionary’ing for as long as you can stay hard. The entire time you’ll be thinking of past sexual experiences, Victoria’s Secret models, and that incredible porno you just watched to combat the assorted substances pulsing through, and wilting, your once mighty frock.
She’s expecting a bunch of shit you simply can’t provide, and will react to your dwindling blood flow in one of two ways: 1. Anger and sadness, masking her own insecurity with disdain for your worthless dick. 2. Something incredibly freaky and reprehensible for a one night encounter. If option two still doesn’t raise your flag pole, she will revert strongly to option one.
You’ll both fake an orgasm, with yours the more obvious as you gallop towards the bathroom to throw out the empty rubber.
Realistically, more times than not, she wants back in her own bed and is disgusted by your continued presence, so you both look for a good excuse to send her home. Early class, a spontaneously planned parental visit, even a feigned illness can do the trick. She will pretend to care, but in reality, she’ll be more relieved than she will be a month from now when the pregnancy test shows one little red line instead of two.
You end up on Instagram wondering how much shit your boys will give you for this, looking at marginally attractive photos in a sea of sadness, and justifying your encounter as a “six or a seven.” She, back in the same Uber, is likely doing the same. You wake up in the morning waiting for a text, call, or assault of humiliation relating to your inebriated state and questionable sexual prowess from a fellow brother, which will undoubtedly occur.
You swear never to drink tequila again, and that the one night stand would be forgotten, never to be revisited.
Until, of course, you’re headed out again, back on her Instagram justifying the “are you out” text you just sent..
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