I wish I could explain this away with a simple and exhaustive explanation like, “I was horny and he was there,” or even, “I liked him.” But, no.
I was not horny. In fact, I was especially unhorny. The previous night I had tortured myself to the point where I was like, “I NEVER WANT TO GET OFF AGAIN!!!” Unfortunately, such sentiments never last more than 24 hours.
I did not like him. Upon meeting him I thought, “I would never touch someone whose eyebrows are so far apart, someone who gets his eyebrows done and has such a shitty job done on them.” Minutes later, I learned of his distaste for Bill Maher, which I find personally offensive, and of his propensity for tivo-ing The Hills and football, which I find baffling along the same lines as W’s reelection.
I met up with friends at a bar and had a little drink in me already. I just came from a show, had a good conversation, and was feeling pretty elated. Many of my friends had already paired-up in conversation for the night. When the boy arrived–let’s call him Chaz, because the fake name matches his overdone eyebrows, cheesy smile, and cheap cologne–I had little intention of wasting my vigor and charm on him. After his friend bought me a drink, I smiled a lot and obliged him. I considered Chaz a warm-up, if anything.
The way my best friend describes the progression–what happened in those next twenty minutes, how I got inadvertently hooked–is I felt like I was winning the conversation. I realized how much more beautiful, intelligent, and enchanting I was than he, and I was roped in by the power of my own charisma. I schooled him, and the fact that he was making me look good, could take it, and was even into, made me want him–want myself to be elevated by him. I can’t tell you what I won, exactly. We were not having a debate. Perhaps the topic was slightly more intellectual than our previous one about reality TV, but to give you an impression of the level of discourse, on our cab ride home we discussed which late-night show host is the funniest (isn’t the obviously conclusion that none of them are funny and, therefore, it is a moot point?). All I remember is flirting incessantly and shamelessly and thinking how bold and clever I was. I got him exactly where I wanted him; he was shocked at my forwardness and flattered that I would direct it at him. I was ready to laugh off his suggestion that we continue our “conversation” elsewhere. Prepared so say, “Oh Chaz, I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression. Tomorrow I absolutely must wake up to study for my biopsych final.” But I get into my zone of sexual bravado and I’m gone; I buy into my own bullshit–my fake life of being self-assured, carefree, and relentless. In my real life I’m shy, awkward, and reserved, but with sex I own guys and since it’s all a game of egos, no one gets hurt. I feel like I’m not actually being judged because it’s my fake, game self. No self-consciousness necessary. It’s all about hooking the guy and falling so deeply in love with my careless and carefree self, at least, for long enough so I don’t break character and start laughing.
I’m sick of being cerebral and physically grounded, deliberate, the brain-in-a-vat friend. Dumb slutiness, here I come–Whee!
I’m not sure what happened in between leaving the bar and getting a cab together. He suggested that I follow him and his friends to another bar, and I told him that I would follow them out, but I planned to direct myself toward the subway to go home. I assumed he would try to take a detour with me, on the way to the other bar, but I was unaware that I would agree to it. I remember not being interested upon leaving the bar. Then half an hour later, by the time we actually got a cab after standing outside in the freezing cold, I was once again not interested, but it was too late. Not that I feel like I am physically obligated to guys, but I had emotionally committed to myself, allowed myself to do a dumb thing. In case you wonder about the decision-making factors that go into Genie’s dumb ideas, I will let you in on two:
I am at this critical juncture in my sexual development. Okay, I will drop the bullshit. There is this thing called a sexual number, and mine happens to be quite high. I thought I reduced it, when I was in a year- to two-year-long relationship, in terms of number of partners per time span. As in, my proportion of partners had gone down. But apparently I am a huge fucking whore and my number is still exorbitantly high for a girl my age (who lost her virginity so late), and it’s so easy to rack up numbers quickly (childhood friends visiting, one-night stands who unexpectedly move to the city, things that you think will become something but don’t). I’m seriously more mature than this, at least, that is what my friends try to convince me. And I know I’m too good to buy into this and to think that I would ever seriously want to be with someone who would judge me according to something as petty, one-dimensional, and ultimately unrevealing as numbers. But I’m worried. At this juncture, I was nearing one of those critical numbers, if we live in a society where we count things by tens. In terms of age, 18, 21, and 25 are critical. But in terms of sex numbers, it’s all about the tens. This guy would complete a set for me, an era. And not to sound like I’m getting soft, but I remember who each mark of ten was–that’s almost how I punctuate my sexual portfolio–and I’d like to at least, well, like the men who fill those spots, rather than see them as page-fillers. I convinced myself at 2:30 in the morning, while waiting in the freezing cold for a cab with a guy who emanated cigarettes and cologne, that numbers don’t matter. It was arbitrary which number he was to become, and just like it doesn’t matter who the first person you slept with is, it doesn’t matter who the _0th person you slept with is. The position has no special meaning nor does the experience have any bearing on the potential of future sexual encounters, i.e., meaningless experiences don’t preclude you from having meaningful encounters in the future. I believe my logic. But it doesn’t justify fucking him, regardless of which serial position he was about to acquire in my portfolio.
The second factor in my decision making was more detail-specific, and relates to the later part of this story. He “convinced” me that I should go home with him, after I explained that I needed to study for my biopsych test the next day and he “impressed” me with the fact that he was some kind of neurobio major and knows what cyclic GMP is and how it plays a role in both gustation and vision. His apartment was halfway in between the bar and my apartment, and it wasn’t like I was going to bed immediately, so it made sense to make a stop of sorts. But then I pulled the old bait-and-switch and told him that I would feel more comfortable waking up next to my biopsych book, so, being the diligent student that I am, I could commence studying first thing in the morning after waking up next to his stale-cologne-and-cigarette-scented self and presumably some drippy, used condoms. Little did Chaz know, I go out of my way to locate sexual encounters at my place, so, if all else fails, and it is bound to, I am conveniently within reaching distance of my box of sex toys. Not to mention, a lot comes out of me, like a lot, and I like to have no inhibitions about cumming all over the place; this is most easily achieved in my own apartment with my own adult collection of towels (according to my friends, you are not a real adult until you have your own linen closet). Chaz was confused as to why we would go out of our way to go to my place, but he saw past my selfishness and right into my vagina.