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To paraphrase Ari Gold: we no longer live in a guy meets girl, courts her for years until they’re in love but can’t fuck her because “those were the times.” Today, sex plays out more like the pages of a misguided TFM column submission than a Jane Austen novel; an almost transactional momentary encounter between parties of largely varied emotional and practical knowledge of one another, outside of physical attraction.
There is a reason “hook up” apps like Tinder have become a near billion dollar sector of the economy, with sites like Ashley Madison and Seeking Arrangement openly advertising consequence free infidelity and prostitution; while Pornhub gets more daily hits than CNN, eBay, and Yahoo combined: Americans love to fuck.
So with this in mind, last weekend I found myself back on campus of my alma mater fresh out of a relationship with only one thing on my mind: a rebound young enough (but over 18) to bring shame to my reputation, but a lifetime of memories for my age discriminating frock.
I’m in what was my “old” (last year) stomping grounds with my newly minted alumni status and unchained libido like Andre Drummond scooping possible rebounds left and right. By last call I’ve got a sure thing; a junior sorority girl that I nearly took to formal (until my girlfriend found out) that’s looking more eager than Bill Cosby in the coma ward.
We head back to my hotel for a nightcap, and here I’d like to point out how fucking weird it is to be staying in a hotel, and working remotely for a day, in the college town you’ve called home for 4 years, it’s fucking brutal.
Anyway, we get to what was pretty unspectacular sex, and for once I am not just saying that from what I imagine to be the girl’s perspective. She kind of just laid there while I struggled to find my rhythm like I was attempting to dance sober.
But we are sort of friends, it ended in record time and she suggested another drink. Typically, I’d be ok with this with the idea of a much needed reboot before round two, but I had an early morning flight to catch and we were an episode of SportsCenter from sunrise.
But like any true gentleman, I begrudgingly obliged as my momentary post orgasm clarity began to fade. We’re having a drink, a little small talk, and I’m slipping closer to unconsciousness than back inside her when I realize it’s time for bed.
“Wanna watch a movie?”
She asks in what I had hoped was my imagination.
“Um, I would love to. But I take off at 9 I really need to get some rest, headed straight to the office when I land.”
She frowns and stands.
“Oh no worries, I get it.”
At this point, I’m convinced she’s going to collect her clothes, scattered across the room after our momentary attraction, but to my horror she does the opposite, taking my t-shirt off and jumping into my bed.
“I have English at 830 and the Professor’s a twat so can you wake me up when you leave?”
She pulls the comforter over herself.
“It’s kind of a drive and I have some prep work to do in the morning, it’ll probably be a really early morning for me.”
Please take a hint.
“That’s ok.” she says. “I can sleep through anything.”
I throw up the white flag, admitting my defeat as I cram myself into the queen sized bed with the nude intruder. The sleeping arrangements are a tighter squeeze than any of her holes and I’ve promised myself a cuddle request will necessitate purchasing a second room, when mercifully she falls asleep.
I spent the night horribly uncomfortable; unable to peacefully enjoy my drunken binge eating, subsequent bowel eruption, nor sleep inducing jerk. Instead of a 5-star slumber I would’ve gotten more rest in a refugee camp with the coed refusing to inhabit her university-provided housing just blocks away.
All of this got me thinking, do we really have to? It’s not like this is, or ever will be, any semblance of a relationship. I bought this girl a couple drinks and was near penetration before the elevator door opened, not exactly the start of a Nicholas Sparks novel, and yet here she is latched onto me like an 18th birthday tattoo you wish could wash off.
The other alternative is that gratingly uncomfortable “I have trouble sleeping” bullshit unless you are soulless and want to risk the backlash of a full-scale eviction. I tried that once sophomore year in the midst of near alcohol poisoning and had three, yes three, of her sisters call me out directly as an “asshole,” nearly getting balled in the process.
So instead of all this bullshit, let’s cut the remaining strings of this supposedly consequence-free encounter: if you know my preferred rubber before my last name, you’re sleeping elsewhere..