The Launch
It started last Thursday night, in the nook of a wine bar near my house. I was on my way back from a palatable but slightly boring crypto event, not quite ready to call it a night. I got lucky. Soon, I was sitting at the bar, sipping a mezcal Negroni with Andres and his friend. They were from Puerto Rico, visiting Mexico City for the weekend only.
As we joked in Spanglish about my embarrassingly terrible sense of geography, I got a good look at him. Andres had jet black hair, and round black glasses, and a black mustache. He looked like he belonged in a hip, punk record store in Bushwick. The smoky aroma of burning candles, and their flickering orange glow, kindled a warm, gentle energy in the room.
I had been going around town complaining to everyone for months that I was “as dry as a desert”. Yet now I was sitting in Andres’s presence, this handsome 34-year-old man with a mischievous gaze. I found myself flicking my hair and giggling (in a way that annoyed me) as he compared me to Shiv Roy from “Succession”. I bathed in his attention. It must have been my blonde bob haircut. I posed, resting my chin on my hand, and batting my eyes at him. I felt like a fraud, testing out the rusty tricks of my old trade in real time. Even though he was sitting right next to me, Andres seemed so unreachable. They were on their way to a concert. A couple flirtatious jokes later and we made plans to meet up in the same place tomorrow. We didn’t exchange numbers. I made some excuses about having to send emails at 10pm on a Thursday, and we parted ways.
The Bumpy Lift Off
The next day, Friday, was the full moon. It was just what my writing teacher had prophesied. I had to use the energy of the moon and let go of “whatever wasn’t serving me.” By this the universe meant my celibacy, or so I interpreted. I was going to wear my trendiest, most colorful suit, look like an absolute hot badass, and get my way with Andres.
That evening, I set off to the wine bar again, looking as fabulous as I hoped I could feel. I had quietly mentioned my plans to get with him to all of my friends, except one. And this is where I made a terrible mistake. I invited my beautiful Colombian female friend, Isa, to join me. The paradox of female friendship gets complicated. My beautiful female friends are also cool and interesting people that I want to hang out with. But the problem then is that every guy I introduce them to also wants to f**k them.
When we finally got back to the wine bar, my god, I could feel that Andres was attracted to Isa. I could feel myself searing in silent jealousy. He was supposed to be mine. And now he was asking her all kinds of suggestive questions.
“What do you do for a living? Do you have a boyfriend?” Andres muttered to her in Spanish. I found myself steering the conversation back into English and Spanglish, like the drunk driver of a runaway train, trying to regain control. My Spanish is good, but not good enough to compete with the incredible Isa for the man of my fast-f*****g dreams.
As the night went on, Andres seemed like a puppy lost in a park. He kept saying things like,
“Where should we go next? You know this city better than I do.”
All I could think about was that I didn’t want to be responsible for chaperoning him and his dude friends around the city. I imagined Andres had a very controlling mother or past girlfriends. He wanted someone else to make all the decisions. One of my ex-boyfriends had a sergeant-like mother and had also wanted me to be his mother and make all his life decisions for him too. So I wasn’t having any of it. It was a big turn off. But because I’m an opinionated woman with a bristly personality, as far as first impressions go, I seem to fit that part.
I found myself growing quieter at the table. Andres decided on the bar we’d go to next. I grew quieter and quieter still, as our group banded together down the street. Isa and Andres walked together, while I chatted to Andres’s friends and tried to play it cool. It was a vicious cycle. I was internalizing my own inferiority.
“Excuse me,” I said, leaving the group at the next bar. I went to the bathroom. I locked the door and looked at myself in the mirror. I saw the tight, velvet straps of my thin tank top. I saw my cleavage and my bare arms above the colors of my patterned suit.
“Come on, Tash,” I wrangled myself, “You can do this! He’d be stupid not to get with you.”
I kept muttering to myself, as I returned to the table. Isa and Andres were sitting next to each other. I sat down, stuck yet again in a conversation with Andres’s perfectly charming friend. I tried to laugh. I tried to crack jokes and just seem like the funnest girl in the whole of Mexico City.
“My Uber is here,” Isa said at last. I noticed the way Andres was looking at her, and I grit my teeth. I had to make a move.
“Want to come check out my place?” I asked him, biting my lip suggestively, “I’d rather not walk home alone.”
Andres smiled at me a little, with a glint of surprise in his eye. Then he nodded emphatically. I glanced over at his friends.
“We’ll go check out that club,” they muttered quickly.
The Landing
It was strange walking back to my house together. We were speaking Spanglish, but when we switched to just English or Spanish, small things were getting tripped up and lost in translation. I tried to keep the conversation flowing as we weaved through the darkened streets. We both knew what we were doing. That much was clear. And yet, I felt so awkward about it. What if Andres stopped at my front door and went back to hang out with his friends? What if he took one look at my giant triangle of pubic hair and thought nope?
Time was of the essence. Andres was leaving for Puerto Rico on Sunday, so we had a maximum of two nights together. Back at my house, I turned on the light and got us a glass of water each. I found myself nervously rearranging my piles of stuff. Like my backpack and clothes that had been on my couch, and a blanket and some papers and other inanimate crap. Anything to distract me in the moment from whatever we were about to do.
Andres sat down. I sat next to him, leaning in. Then s**t got weird. I can’t remember how it came up, but we started talking about him doing something to impress me.
“What would I need to do?” he said.
“It depends on how well you perform,” I replied.
“Well, what do I need to do to perform?”
It was jarring. Andres was so attractive, and yet the sexy talk was like jamming two pieces of Lego together that were never supposed to fit. Rather than continue it any longer, I kissed him. We quickly turned over, ripping off our clothes, severing the anticipation that had built in the 30 hours since we had first laid eyes on each other. We rushed to peel back all the layers, with no idea of what we might do once we got there. I found myself naked within the first few minutes. Making out on a couch in a suit, it turns out, isn’t that comfortable. Once my suit was off, well, I was barely wearing anything.
In the scratchy light of my living room, we saw each other in full flesh. I felt like I had unwrapped some unwanted gifts. Was it disappointment? Trickiness? Complexity? Of course, I wanted him to f**k me. Soon enough, I was lying naked on my couch. And he was eating me out quite handsomely. And all I was thinking was: Am I really all that attracted to men? Why are we doing this? I know nothing about this man. I barely know his first name.
The Learnings
With casual sex, it’s all the physical. And don’t get me wrong, the physical can be hot. With Andres that Friday night, it definitely was. But once the basic surprise and anticipation of the physical is out of the way, it begs far deeper, different questions.
First of all, I was reminded that having sex with someone who I have no emotional connection to is no fun at all. A one-night stand such as this is like eating a delicious meal without getting any of the flavor. Sure, you’re hungry, you’re starving even, you’re going to eat it all and it looks super appetizing on the plate. And it will fill you up. But when you put it in your mouth, you don’t taste anything. You don’t taste the meat’s juices or the moist succulence of the potatoes, dripping in gravy. Instead, the potatoes are bland, and the vegetables are falling apart and aren’t crispy at all. There’s no salt.
Secondly, once I realized that the meal I had sat down to eat was completely tasteless, I started to think to myself: What do I really want? Don’t I want to have sex with someone I love? Don’t I want to have sex with someone I know? Don’t I want to be dominated? Don’t I want to be able to look this person in the eye while they’re f*****g me, and actually feel a naughty affection towards to the soul that’s staring back? Yes, is the answer. Yes to all of the above.
Thirdly, I can make bad choices in the heat of the moment. I didn’t have a condom in my house. Andres didn’t bring one. And so I found myself, yet again, thankfully still protected against pregnancy with my IUD, but otherwise employing all manner of recklessness. I was throwing the dice with my body once again. STD or no STD? Be careful not to land on red, that’ll give you gonorhoea. I’ve had a women’s health podcast for five years. I know too much better than this. And yet I chose the heat of the moment. And I did it potentially with a person who doesn’t respect women’s bodies. I mean, Andres seemed like a nice enough dude. But he didn’t protest once I’d accepted my fate, and I sat down on top of him. He slid inside of me. What were we going to do? Not put his p in my v given that this was probably our only chance? Our one night ever to try it on with each other?
I brought my vibrator out at least. I made us use it, until I came twice. The historical orgasm gap is one inch closer to being closed. But that hardly seems worth it, considering that all of a sudden, in the presence of an attractive man, I am so willing to abandon every boundary and emotion and feeling for the sake of five minutes of bliss.
As a woman these days, I’m lucky that I get to do whatever f*****g I want to. Yet I am still left without an answer to that question. F*****g, but at what cost? Without that emotional connection, a person could be naked and lying on top of me, thrusting himself into me even, and yet I can still feel that we’re a million miles apart. Is it the shattering vacuousness of lust? The underwhelm of doing it just to get it out of our systems? Surely we are working towards a world of better, more intimate, more pleasurable sex.
In that case, we’ll probably have to stay at it for a little while. Stick around for another hour, another day or two, another week. At least longer than a weekend.
P.S. Note to self: Always pee after sex. You forgot about that for a hot second.
