Night Boogie: A Tale About Casual Sex
It turns out that after sex, I go home, add another tally mark to my ever growing portfolio of men and then make crude remarks about your sexual behavior and/or body to all my friends and probably some strangers. You're just a number, I mean really, what kind of asshole tries to make a relationship out of something so casual?
In my perfect world men wonít expect that women want a relationship. What the hell is up with that? I understand that the stigma society assocites with a wanton woman is sub-par, but really get a fucking life. Just because Iíve had some sort of sexual relationship with you does not mean that I want to bare your children in a perfect sort of white-picket fenced world. In my head, the perfect fantasy is probably pretty generic, but it doesnít end with odd calls or e-mails where a guy tries to describe that his job, degree, family, intelligence, or psychiatric problems hinder the furthering of said ďrelationship.Ē At what point do I bring up the fact that I want a relationship? Probably never. I donít even think I got the memo that there is "relationship potential". In fact, I know I didnít get that memo because I was probably too busy being plastered and trying to put my hands down your pants.
Letís say, for the sake of fantasy, I meet you in a bar. I am drinking and dancing around. I am having the time of my life. Youíre around somewhere, watching me. I canít tell. I donít really care. I am doing an incredible amount of shots and everyone in my vicinity is high fiving me. I am a hero. Everyone loves me. I turn around and youíre standing there. We have an awkward moment and you say very matter of fact, ďWhy donít we go back to my place and I fuck you really hard?Ē
Jesus, why donít we? Then you take me back to your place and fuck me with the might of Zeus. Then we high five, and do it again. Rinse & repeat. Until I pass out. Then you wake me up in the morning. We go at it again for old time sake. I make a horribly bad joke about death, cancer, AIDS, various STDS, or bestiality. We laugh. I get dressed. I leave. You never bother me about my number, going out ever again, or to ask if I had fun time. If I had fun, youíll know it. If I want to see you again, Iíll mention it. If I want you to call me I will carve my number into your chest or something. Trust me on that. Iíll let you know.
This way, we can avoid the sort of precious conversation that happens a couple days down the line where you have to ďbreak it to meĒ that you donít want a relationship and you hope I can go on with my life. I know it might come as a blow to your ego, but itís not gonna shatter my world. It turns out that after sex, I go home, add another tally mark to my ever growing portfolio of men and then make crude remarks about your sexual behavior and/or body to all my friends and probably some strangers. Youíre just a number, I mean really, what kind of asshole tries to make a relationship out of something so casual?
On the same note, if I happen to run into you again, I wonít acknowledge you. Iíll hit on your friends. Iíll probably go home with one of them. I wonít want relationships with them either. If what I want is a relationship, I wouldnít spend my waking hours getting drunker than Robert Downey Jr. and going home with whichever alpha-male has the balls to tell me that Iím going home with him. Iíd be going to church and baking pies. But I donít go to church and I donít bake pies. I get drunk and fuck. And Iím proud of it.