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The Hot Sex Prospect
A guy with whom you have physical and sexual chemistry, despite not being mentally, emotionally, or intellectually attracted to him. You don’t really want to sit through a whole dinner conversation with this guy and hear about his hopes and his dreams and the way his parents met—although you’d be more than happy to grab a late- night drink…
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I met the fabulous guy I’m currently dating at a party. My third party of this particular (Thursday) night, actually. Pizza and beer with the girls in the Village, followed by karaoke in Koreatown, all to prepare for a work party I wasn’t too excited about. The work party ended up being wilder than expected, and, to my surprise, I discovered a cute co-worker I had never noticed before. He was hanging out near the dance floor, and, as the 90s rap mix blasted, I realized this white boy from Wisconsin was rapping along to every word. And not just the overplayed top 40 hits. Wu Tang. Method Man. I was smitten.
So we started to chat, and spent the rest of the night joking, dancing, and eventually making out. I took him home with me, and here’s the part I’ll never tell my mother: I slept with him. Then, I let him sleep over. He found me on Facebook on Friday, and asked me out on Saturday. Several months later, we’re planning our first vacation, and have yet to hit any major obstacles.
The part that would really kill my mom is that all my relationships have started this way. Well, sometimes I meet the individual in question more than three hours before sleeping with them. And I’m not always three screwdrivers in when I meet them. That said, I’ve never hesitated to hook up with someone I was into, and it’s always worked out surprisingly well, despite the fact that everything we’ve ever been told emphatically assures us that happy endings never follow from, well, happy endings.
Here’s my two cents.
If he doesn’t text you back, he’s probably:
- Away from his phone.
- Fell asleep.
- Writing drafts of the perfect text.
- Having a rough time in the bathroom.
- On the phone with his stock broker.
- Making handmade Christmas ornaments for his Etsy store.
- Cleaning out his DVR.
- Crafting a haiku for you.
- Picking out an engagement ring.
- Helping his mom with the yard work.
- Eating a Reuben sandwich.
- Dancing like nobody’s watching.
- Going through some “stuff.”
- Attending high tea.
- Practicing with the NY Giants.
- Winning at online poker.
- Talking to a Cam Girl.
- Eating cheese wiz.
- Folding laundry.
- Gabbing on the phone with a gal pal.
- Living his life imitating art.
- Doing pilates.
- Saving a kitten from a tree.
- DEAD.
Those are the only possible reasons he hasn’t texted you back.
I really didn’t mean to fall in love with my husband. Don’t get me wrong – I was looking for Mr. Right. I just didn’t think the random fling I had when I was 21 would be it.
It all began a couple of Thanksgivings ago while I was escaping my 9-5 job one weekend in Park City, Utah with my best friend Megan, when she informed me that 12 very cute and very single foreign men were renting the house directly across the street from hers. Since it was Turkey Day, we had the perfect excuse to knock on their door and get to know them. Within minutes, I began an intense eye- “love making” session with a dashing Australian guy named Paul.
The next night we decided to all go out. Since I was young and single, I did what any normal American girl would do – I made out with Paul on the dance floor until last call.
And then I went home with him.
Having an older sister who is eight years my senior meant I had big dreams about high school. My sister was – and still is – beautiful, popular, athletic, smart and cool. Always with a boyfriend and a perm, she was everything I wanted to be. High school was going to be amazing, because her high school experience was going to be my high school experience.
I’d meet my first real boyfriend. We’d fall in love, talk on the phone, drive around in his car, have sex and breakup before college. I would accomplish this all while attending classes, sporting events and prom. High school was when it was all going to happen for me.
Then I was in high school and I woke up.
I started at a new school my freshman year of high school and, as if that wasn’t hard enough, it was an all-girls Catholic high school. I’m sorry but how was I ever going to meet my boyfriend at an ALL GIRLS CATHOLIC high school. We didn’t even have the cute uniforms. Think poly-blend jumpers sitting at the top of the knee and not super short kilts, a la Britney.
All of my high school dreams were shattered. I would never make out at school, you know, in the secret make out room where my not boyfriend Boyfriend would hide me away from his friends and then publicly declare us a couple once I had finally written him off. My So-Called Life taught me that this was romantic. I now know, it’s mental abuse, and just a real dick thing to do.
I quickly realized that I was screwed and would not be getting screwed anytime soon.
After the sweet, old-as-dirt nuns finished our two-day orientation, I finally got to meet my homeroom and Algebra 1 teacher, Mr. Lorenz.
Forgive me Father; I was hot for teacher.
I was in Barstow, CA on a commercial shoot that required the crew staying on site, overnight. It was the first time since I started work in the film industry back in June that I would be on set with my dad. I wanted to work hard, prove myself a kick @ss professional young woman, and bring great honor to my producer father.
But I also wanted to fit in and, you know, make new friends and stuff.
So when the coordinator on the job said the crew would be meeting for margaritas in the Barstow Motel bar, I feigned my concern about “drinking the night before an early call” for all of about a minute and a half before he “twisted my arm” into joining the party. I wore my super rad The Amazing Spider-Man sweatshirt, wide-framed geek glasses and had a small handful of party-time facial expressions on the ready. In short, I was feeling puh-retty fly.
And boy did this crew love to drink. It was on in the Barstow Motel bar.
A few years ago I lived in this small beautiful beach town in central California. I worked a lot and I played a lot and had one of those jobs which required me to wear a suit every day. That meant the men I worked with were in suits too. It was an ideal situation for me.
Each morning, and a couple times each afternoon, Z would pass my office. I would stare at his masculine form and gorgeous face on a daily basis, and always looked forward to his deep sexy voice saying “Hey Nicky” as he’d wave at me outside the window of my office and then go about his business. He was super tall, Hawaiian, and just perfectly yummy. He was 100% MAN and had this “island” accent too, which didn’t hurt let me tell you.
I was now officially on the prowl. I have never pursued a man who 1) I lived next too, AKA a neighbor (you don’t shit where you eat kids, trust me), 2) a friend had slept with, because I’m not so into sloppy seconds, or 3) I worked with. I was all for breaking one of my rules for Z though, with his irresistible caramel colored skin and deep blue eyes.
I’m disoriented and tongue-clumsy. My mouth cannot form sentences and I’m muted by my own confusion as I fall into invisible melancholy. What day is it? Where am I? What is this I’m feeling? I try to please everyone and the result is always disappointment and failure, to myself and the to lot of them.
I can’t commit. I can’t make promises. I can’t listen so instead I feel. I feel wildly and loudly and I feel between my legs and wet against my neck and I feel it whisper into my ear.
He says so many things but I can’t listen so instead, I feel. Urges, wants, obsessions, sins, flesh. I can feel it all and I swallow it whole as I take him, all of him, into my throat, into my body, into that place where my heart should be, but it’s not. It’s not there anymore well, not much of it really. A void, a scab, some scar tissue maybe. Nothing worth wanting.
If you ask me, going out to a bar with your best pals on a weekend night is the one of the greatest gambles to take. Most of the time, it’s a real snoozefest, creep central, or just plain strange. But those glorious nights that lead to a random make out, an after-party at some record producer’s mansion in The Hills, or even just a phone number exchange turned flirtatious late-night text conversation make it worth the effort of trying. Those nights, no matter how few and far between, are what keep us going back out for more, despite how painful and diminishing it can be to your self-esteem.
So if you’re going to roll the dice this weekend at your local dive, pub, club, or any other plastic cup-serving establishment, here are some things to keep in mind to minimize the chance of having a bummer night, and increase the odds of finding yourself flirting with a mega babe.
My empowerment comes from various sources. Sometimes it conquers evil. Sometimes it has an intellectual or spiritual breakthrough. My empowerment sometimes seeps through my pores, releasing the toxins of my bad decisions. I inhale and exhale smoke and though I’m killing myself, I am in that instant, stronger.
I’m officially off those anti-depressants now. I lasted six whole months with them. Six whole tear-free, stress-free, unassuming, perfectly shallow, I-feel-better-than-ever months. But anti-depressants are just like liposuction. The weight is still there. You haven’t really lost it. You haven’t really gone through the process of losing the weight and feeling new again and earning it. It’s fake. The whole thing was. Though I’m not going to be one to knock the drugs that helped me. They served their purpose and stood with me through a hard time and they worked… very well.
But see, I’m not a pill person and I don’t do well with prolonged happiness all at once. I prefer my good times to be genuine and for my bad times to feel like something. I never want to be a person who just goes through the motions, of life. I figure we only have one life. Well, depending on whom we speak with that fact could vary, but really, the only thing we can be certain of just like I’m certain you’re sitting there, reading this, is that we are alive. I also feel like that’s a lot to wrap my head around so I’m going to stop while I’m ahead.
Now that I have established that I am alive, what am I going to do about it? I’ve taken some time to think about how I’d answer this question and when I finally figured it out, only one word came to mind. Love. I just want to love and be in love and feel love as much as I can while I’m alive. And of course, being the sort of woman that I am, I like to indulge in love through sex.
I had already parked the car, touched up my lipstick and applied lotion to my legs when I realized I was planted directly across the street from my ex-boyfriend’s house. He lives right off the boulevard near popular bars and restaurants and one in particular was the decided location of my first date with a much older gentleman.
I quickly hopped out of the car and scooted my way down the damp street in my five inch stilettos and inappropriately short red dress and prayed I would not run into him. Even if I did, I was too busy to bother as I was already in a tremendous hurry. I’d rushed home from work and went straight to friend’s house for a quick cig and a game of catch up, then headed back home to throw on a cocktail dress and sexy panties and, somehow, I’d made it to dinner by eight o’clock, sharp.
I met Eddie at a bar in Hollywood during the final Celtics vs. Lakers game. I was certainly not at my best, though I rarely am when watching basketball. It’s probably the only time that I am not man hunting. Instead, I am watching the game and cannot be disturbed aside from the occasional shit talking or celebratory high five.
Through all the cheering and shot taking, I couldn’t help but notice Eddie pull up on his motorcycle outside of the bar. He was tall, extremely muscular, and had this ashy blond hair… and he was covered in tattoos. I suddenly became very aware of the fact that I was wearing sweat pants with “Lakers” written across the legs, a gold tank top, a purple zip-up sweatshirt and obnoxious Laker flip flops that I purchased during the finals the year before. Not exactly the epitome of sexy.
However, I wasn’t about to let this guy go. He was quite possibly the most beautiful man that I had ever set eyes on. I decided to give it a shot, so as he was dismounting, I went outside for a cigarette. When I saw him up close, all I could think of was “Oh my God, it’s Jordan Catalano,” (yes, that’s a My So Called Life reference youngsters).
We struck up a conversation (yes men, it’s that easy) and I gave him my number. I didn’t really think he would use it, but to my surprise, I received a call from him three days later. He told me that when I walked away, he became mesmerized by my ass and had been thinking about it for days. He asked if I was busy and suggested I come over. A casual encounter? Ok! I laughed and told him that my place was probably a lot nicer than his and suggested that he come to me. To my surprise, he called my bluff and said “I don’t think so. Just come over.”
Sex is an odd activity at times. Many different things can happen as a result of one night filled with good sex. Sometimes they’re good things, sometimes bad, and sometimes they’re just sad. That’s why I am reluctant to call this a One Night Stand story. I just haven’t come to terms with it yet. I’m still sad.
I’ve never been one to fear bad sex. There is no manual. No right or wrong way to do it. Everyone is different and we all have our preferences. The odds of finding someone with identical sexual desires and tastes is nearly impossible.
Recently I slept with a very kind guy. Smart, yet introverted, and not the most socially well adjusted guy. But really, those are my types. I like the guys whose exteriors appear cold or standoffish but who, when you get to know them, are wonderful one on one. The attention they give you is genuine because they don’t know how to be fake.