One Night Stands: Holiday Edition

A return to being single means a return to casual sex, if one is to get laid at all. D2 and I did not date for very long, but it was the first time in years that I was in a monogamous relationship/getting sex regularly. And it was good sex. He got off on getting me off, so that always happened first and foremost. A lady can't ask for too much more (except, you know, regular phones calls and text messages). And it sucks to lose that.

What have I been doing since? Well, first up was the night before Christmas Eve. Like a genius, I decided to stay out until 4 a.m. with a close friend. As we left a bar in Lincoln Park and began looking for cabs, we ran into a guy I'd slept with before. I have seen him around my neighborhood (significantly west of LP) a few times but I primarily know him from a bad-choices 4 a.m. bar in Humboldt Park. He is known as "The Clapper" because he gets drunk, sometimes takes his shirt off in the bar, and always ruins the music by loudly clapping along at a very fast tempo. It's awful. The first time we ever made out, I was "taking one for the team" in an attempt to stop his clapping. No one was impressed with this amazing and novel idea, by the way.

So let's just say that, when I hook up with this guy, it is never one of my finer moments.

He offered to share the cab he and a friend had just hailed. He started holding  my hand after we dropped the friend off. I don't think he was as drunk as he's been every other time I've met him, because he actually conversed with me like a normal and decent person, and did not clap once. He lives a few blocks away from me and told the cabbie to just drop him at my place. I invited him in. We drank wine.

The sex was okay, but he also decided that he needed to harshly bite and SLAP my breasts. The first time he slapped them, I (appropriately, I think) exclaimed, "WHAT THE FUCK?!" He looked confused and asked, "You don't like that?" Really, dude? Is boob-slapping something you just do? Or do you maybe ask a girl if she likes it rough, first? He tried that shit again and I shot him down. We had hazy, unmemorable sex. He snuck out while I was "sleeping" (i.e. pretending to sleep and waiting for him to leave so I could go get a glass of water in peace). My breasts hurt for days. Though I got my period a few days later so that probably contributed to the ache.

Then came New Years Eve. I honestly wasn't looking for action that night. I mean, I'm always kind of looking for action. But I was just ready to go out and get drunk with some of my favorite ladies. We hit three bars, drank too much (I also tried 4 Loko for the first time and I truly think it heightened my inebriation because I actually didn't drink a ton that night), I fell down and skinned my knee. It was a great time. 

We were ending the evening at a late-night bar when I met John. A common enough name that I don't feel at all bad about using it. Honestly, I remember: entering the bar. Taking several blurry pictures of their decorations. Ordering a specialty martini (drunk -- I am more a whiskey, wine and beer broad). Spilling half the martini on my chair. Then it's blurry and suddenly, I'm saying goodbye to my friends while waiting for a cab with John. Thus, I have absolutely no recollection of actually meeting the guy.

I know we went back to my place and I brought a Solo cup of wine into my room with us, which we almost immediately knocked over while making out. We had sex for a bit and then stopped because he had to pee. Fade to black.

My next memory is of the type I've experienced only a few times. I awoke and, with my eyes still closed, briefly wondered who and where I was. Still with my eyes closed, I became aware that I was on the wrong side of my bed, which I was sharing with someone else. I figured he was probably a real asshole if I couldn't even remember meeting him (supposing that my judgement must have been pretty compromised at the end of the night).

I opened my eyes to find a slightly older man. Good looking, full head of hair. He kissed me and we got back to business. This time, we didn't finish because he was too thirsty.

We got some water and began talking. He was not a creep. He was actually pretty smart and funny. Very political -- very far left on the political spectrum, which was sexy. We talked about music and politics and I was very turned on by it all.

After this post-coital getting to know one another, we had sex once more (and actually completed the act). He stayed and chatted a bit more before my ever-increasing hangover and his approaching work engagement brought an end to our afternoon together. 

He told me he wanted to take me to see a documentary he'd referenced and we exchanged numbers. Now, it is my belief that a one-night stand between adults should end honestly and absolutely no false promises need to be made. I'm a grown woman and can handle the aftermath of an honest-to-god one night stand. He was ten years older than me. So I figured, you know, he really wanted to take me out.

So I was briefly in love with this witty, smart, charming man who was going to take me to a motherfucking documentary like some kind of proper person and not the degenerates I usually wind up in love with.

When he hadn't called a week later, I fell into a crushing depression. That lasted a few days.

Then I realized I'd made a horribly rookie mistake in believing him. But I was vulnerable. In the wake of the depressingly uneventful end of my relationship with D2, I was hoping to immediately meet the man I should be with. I had not really thought of D2 in terms of his potential as "the one"* but I had to know that someone who was better suited for the position exists out there.

Well, I guess it's not John. I may have to actually date to find someone, and not just meet a dude at a bar during a 3:30 a.m. blackout.

Next up, I will tell you of the pisser and the sad southern boy.

*I do not believe in "the one" but am using it here as someone I would accept as my "one," i.e. the person I could commit to very long-term, or possibly marry

Well. Hello There.

Ah, to begin a blog and promptly forget about it. Or not really forget about it – just have nothing much to write because I was involved with one man and felt that blogging about our sex life was in poor taste.

Well, that is over now and I deem it appropriate blog material. This particular fellow was of the type I gravitate toward: an angry, misanthropic white man. However, he was less angry and misanthropic than the guy I dated two and a half years ago. So I consider this a step up.

What do these white guys have to be so angry about?! You’ve got me. Their essential issue with the world seems to be that people are stupid. Now, I know that I am intelligent. I would wager that I am smarter than both of these men. But they are of moderate intelligence and they see and hear people doing and saying dumb stuff, and it pisses them off. Whoa, does it piss them off.

The first guy, D1 (both having names that begin with D), would do some pretty idiotic things himself, though. He wound up in jail – and according to him, this was maybe the 15^th time he’d been thrown in the clink, or whatever the degenerates are calling it these days – for driving on a suspended license. Which he knew about. What the hell? But of course, his ire was then directed at the law and law enforcement. Not at his own damn self for breaking a law of which he was entirely aware.

Because, essentially, he felt he was super special. He would make fun of hipsters who thought they were unique like snowflakes, but he obviously felt that he was above everything. The law, everyone we came into contact with, the world in general. Also, he was adopted and I think this contributed to the anger issues. And I have a strange, deep and stupid love for adopted men.

Why do I fall for guys like this? Well, I maintain a rather positive outlook but approach life with a fair amount of skepticism and a large amount of sarcasm. So I think that they are drawn to the sarcasm, mistaking it for a shared disdain of... everything. And, on my side, I want so badly to be the little ray of sunshine that puts a smile on the face of this perpetual Donny Downer. It’s like how girls want to be the one that changes a bad boy. I want to be the single person in a bitter man’s life who a) he doesn’t think is a moron, and b) makes him happy. It should be noted that D1 not only referred to his mother as an idiot, but told me that, at her birthday dinner, she informed him quite seriously that he was a real asshole. He is her only child. I should have run far, far away when he revealed that.

Obviously, my attempts to brighten the mysteriously dark life of a misanthrope do not work. Initially, I think that at least sex will cheer them up. And sometimes it does. D1 was a big cuddler, which I found baffling. He’d pull me close after sex and tuck my head under his chin and say, “sometimes I think this is nearly my favorite part.” God, I wish I had that on video so I could broadcast it to the world.  

But the next day, it was back to talking shit and being unhappy. The unhappiness seems intentional. I was never Facebook friends with D1 because, as much as I adored him, I was also completely intimidated by him and never made a first move. He didn’t request me, so I didn’t request him. Honestly, though we dated an entire summer, I’m not sure he knew my last name. 


D2 – the recent break-up – asked for my full name after maybe one date and immediately requested me on Facebook, which I thought was kind of jumping the gun, but also found flattering. Now I had access to his innermost thoughts via status updates! And now I saw just how much he reveled in his anger. “FML” was used once or twice, and he is 31 years old. That term is for teenagers who have not yet mastered how to properly express (and, often, for the sake of appearances, repress or at least stifle) their emotions. One of his latest statuses: Last year my new years resolution was to be more hate filled. I think I accomplished that. So this year, my resolution is to be more vengeful.   


This one actually scared me slightly, as it came about a week and a half after I broke up with him. 

What happened with these two relationships? Well, I don’t really know. It seems I do not have what it takes to keep a perpetually dissatisfied man... satisfied. D1 became hard to pin down and eventually stopped calling me, standing me up on my birthday. I got drunk and cried in several different bar bathrooms that evening. It was lovely. 

D2 also stopped calling. After making several romantic yet practical gestures of affection – picking me up at the airport, buying me a toothbrush for his place, cleaning his apartment top to bottom due to my cat allergy – we made it official, and he promptly became a total suckfest of a boyfriend. When I realized that I was the one always texting him, I stopped doing so in order to see how long it would take before he contacted me. We did not talk for three weeks. I’m the one who eventually broke down and asked him whether this was a break-up. He was wondering the same thing. Really? Wow. The evident lack of interest was astounding. This was really the ultimate in ambivalence. 

But I told him he could have another chance. Then he proceeded to still not contact me for several days. 

When I broke up with him via text a few days before Christmas – cruel, but appropriate punishment, in my estimation – he claimed he had sent me a text the day before and it had not gone through. I am usually rather gullible but even I did not believe that.  

So that is the short-ish version of my absence. Luckily, I did not really see myself marrying this man or willingly bearing his little malcontents, so I’m not exactly heartbroken. But as a pretty perpetually single woman, the utter failure of this attempt at being a girlfriend – my inability to get even my boyfriend to call me – give me the sads a bit.  

Luckily, this means I can discuss the (pretty hot) sex we had. And the subsequent sex I’ve had with others. I’m back in the saddle again (if by “the saddle” we mean engaging in casual sex at irregular intervals). And I just started the school term so I’ll be writing to procrastinate.