I get horny. I have needs, damn it. And thank God I live in a town that practically falls over itself to give you plenty of options to satisfy those needs. You don’t even have to travel that far. Or anywhere for that matter (but I have issues having strangers in my house. Sure you can fuck my brains out, but what if you try to steal my laptop?)
So – let’s set the scene – bar, rock show, Subway when it’s their “Two For One” Dinner Special. We’re eyeing each other, we’re being coy, then someone makes a first move (mine usually involves shaking an empty can of PBR in their face and shouting, “I’m drinking top shelf tonight!”) Then it evolves from there – yelling monosyllabic crap about nothing over loud music, singing (if there’s music to sing to, or you’re just a weirdo), eventual dancing, butt slapping, bro-hugs that linger, jean-belt-loop-grabbing, and the piece de resistance, “uh, hey, um…can I get a ride home? I’m too drunk to drive.”
Now it gets good, right? (unless he/she/it is too drunk to do ANYTHING.) You go back to their place, the clothes fly off, you re-enact various climactic scenes from rom-coms, throwing each other around, knocking over errant vases and end tables in your immaculate apartment in Notting Hill (sorry, lost myself for a moment.) Then it’s sexy time. Sexy sex sex sex. And hot damn, it better be good!
OK it’s done. We’re done, right? Yes? You sure? Yes, it’s done, stick a fork in me, it’s done. Get up, get dressed, and leave. Did you hear me, young lady?!?! Get! UP!
But…I’m so tired. And now my buzz is wearing off to a dull roar. I just wanna sleep. And…OK here’s the thing, I have to confess: I really, really like morning sex. Love it, in fact. You get the default hard-on, it’s sooo much better than an alarm clock, and it can really start your day off with a bang. I will put up with snoring, with weird kinky requests, with disgusting hovels of studio apartments in a shady section of town for it. BUT it never ever happens with One-Night Stan!!! (and if I start getting comments like “oh it happens to me all the time! I’m having morning-after sex with One Night Stan right now as I’m writing this!” you’re all getting BANNED.) Instead, this is what happens:
I wake up, forget where the fuck I am/how I got there, have a mini stroke, then remember and take a deep breath. Then I roll over, half-way lift one crusty, mascara-liner smeared eye and look next to me, shrug, spoon and snuggle. But it’s not the dude from the night before. The one who was all, “wow, you’re so sexy and beautiful, that was amazing, you felt so damn good, I could do this for HOURS” has been replaced with a cold fish, laying on his back, stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling. Like “A Beautiful Mind” or some shit. And so I start my moves, rubbing up against him like an alley cat in heat, using my fingers to trace the entire text of the Bill of Rights on his lower navel and genitals, and he’s still lying there like a coma victim. Then it comes: “Yeah, I’m out of condoms.” “I have to be across town at 11.” “I gotta help my buddy move.” (Wow, at 7AM on a Sunday? That’s dedication, my friend.) I had a guy friend confess that he would either call his cell phone from his land line and claim to his One Night Stacy that work just called and he had to go in, or worse, he would get dressed, see her off, drive around the block and then go back to bed.
OK so now I’ve been given my walking papers, and it’s awkward. I only have myself to blame, as now I have to get dressed in the cold light of the morning, my pale pimply ass trying to shove into panties, stumbling around, having the most retarded, sober conversation of my entire life – you’ve had better conversations with a homeless guy while waiting for the bus – “So, did you say last night you grew up in Minnesota?” “No, Milwaukee.” “Oh.” No numbers exchanged, no “see you around.” I’m just shown the door, then the back of it. And as I stumble to where I think I parked my car in my ridiculous club platform heels, fishnets and leopard-print micro mini that is not exactly fitting in this suburban neighborhood, I’m cursing what’s-his-name and muttering that when I’m RICH AND FAMOUS and SUPER SKINNY AND TAN he’s gonna be SORRY he kicked my ASS OUTTA THERE, he’ll realize what a fucking MORON he was, I’ll SHOW HIM.
But instead I think I best invent a little device that, as soon as I have sex, will zap me with electric shocks in three-second intervals until I run screaming from Stan’s apartment, return to my vehicle and head the hell home. Before the cold, cold light of the MORNING AFTER.