One. Night stand.

There is a rhythmic knocking above me: Back and forth, high and low. Intermittent melodies varying in pace and tempo. The beatings begin again. Sex. I want it to stop.

I had sex this weekend. A few times. With a few people. I can’t say I felt great about the encounters. At the end of a wild night, after a long day of intoxication, I am left with a surging desire for affection. I am left in need of a woman’s love, their body in my arms, on my body.

On Friday night I… barely remember anything really. But what I am trying to remember is how I met this girl. Not sure where I was. I remember this cute blonde girl with wet matted hair. Cold and shivering from skinny-dipping, she announced to a group of us that she was going back to her room, adding that her date was passed out somewhere. My friend looked at me and raised his eyebrows with a devilish smirk. Presumingly, I told her that sounded awesome and that we should go and proceeded to walk out the door, gesturing her to follow. She followed unobjectionably.

We walked through the parking lots, running into other drunken bands with similar agendas, until we found her villa. She looked through the windows of a random car and I followed with curiosity. It was her date, passed out. This meant we were safe to occupy her room. We walked up some stairs into her villa where the last few drunks were filing out. The rainbow disco lights and music were pumping to an empty room. A few people were huddled outside on the porch smoking reefer. We laid on her bed and I began to undress. I had not spoken more than ten sentences to this girl. She laid down and we turned our gaze toward each other. I remember getting close to her and stroking her cheek. She was laying still. I asked how she was feeling. She responded that she felt like I did this to every girl. I was taken aback for a second. Did I do this to every girl? Was this behavior that automatic and cold? I asked why she thought that and she said she barely knew me. I asked her what she wanted to know. She shrugged. I then gave her a five minute life summary, making sure to exclude all the crude details that would prompt necessary questioning. I then asked for her autobiographical account. I can’t recall it for anything in the world. At that point she untensed and reached out to me. I pulled her close and we began making out. I got naked. She got naked. A tingling surge of euphoria swept over me and I remembered how amazing human touch is.

We continued groping for some time, massaging and kissing and feeling. She told me she wasn’t on birth control. I pulled away and gasped in horror. But only weak horror. I had no condom. This meant no sex. But she wanted sex. badly. She volunteered to… yea. I did not object. She did until I was done. Completely. Tired but still hungry for affection, we laid for a few minutes until she asked if we could have sex. Against my best judgment, I agreed with zeal. I felt like I owed it to her. So we had sex until I was numb and she was exhausted with pleasure. We cuddled up and I continued kissing her. I’m not sure what I asked, but she told me that our encounter was unreal, that it wasn’t going to last beyond tonight. I asked why she thought that. She told me it was too good, that I was doing everything right. For a moment, I smirked with satisfaction. I responded that I just wanted to love and be loved. psh. Which was true, but I ignored how that mentality might affect girls.

Now…When I am with a girl, I imagine that they are the woman of my dreams, and for the night we are together, they are. I kiss them and touch them and love them like I have been waiting for them my entire life. Now, I do not like getting my hopes dashed. I like being realistic. This may sound messed up, but the girls I sleep with the first night… or second or any initial meeting, I will never be with. Something happens to a relationship when the first memories of them involve physical pleasure. Everything else from then on causes me to look at them in this physical context. A pleasure context. It taints and inhibits the growth of any deeper feelings that possibly could or would develop. I realize that this is the pinnacle of my feeling. So when I have sex with a girl, a one night stand, I indulge in that pinnacle, that climax of desire, and share it with them. Sometimes I think this leads them on, but on some level I feel like they know the situation at hand. In my mind I almost owe it to them. I want them to feel special. They are. Its just the situation. Anyway. Enough of that.

Around 5 in the morning I stir into consciousness. My senses are heightened. The girl next to me turns and whispers in my ear, "There’s someone in our bed." Alarmed I access my last memories. When I fell asleep there was two of us, now there are three. I sit up and lean over her for an inspection. It’s a dude. I’m naked. Shes naked. there is a dude in bed. It occurs to me that it could be her date. I ask her if it is. She inspects and confirms. I lay back down for a moment and ask her when he got into bed. She didn’t know. We talked and I kissed her. On the forehead, the cheek, the neck, the lips. I told her I thought it would be wise if i left and asked if she agreed. Looking at me with sad sullen eyes, she hesitated for a moment before nodding. I slipped out of bed, dressed myself, and kissed her. She said told me I was going to forget her. I told her to stop being silly, that I couldn’t forget her. I was still drunk. I walked out of that room and reflected on my behavior. I remember when girls use to fuck me. I would get attached. They would run. I hated those feelings. Now I’m the antagonist. Why, mike?

The next day I saw her on the beach. The party was raging. From behind my glasses I would catch her staring in my direction as I laughed loudly with friends. At one point i sat down next to her and had a cheap conversation. It was awkward. I didn’t really know her. At this stage we should have been at pick up lines, but we both knew an intimacy that went far beyond that cheap talk. We avoided it, however. I hated that feeling. She appeared either drunk or sad. Or ashamed. Either way, I felt terrible. I sought to escape that feeling and abandoned the conversation.

One thought on “One. Night stand.”

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