Hipster Dave was a pretty, pretty hipster. I met him the night of my best friend’s birthday, the night after I fucked Danny. I must admit that I did a terrible job orgasm budgeting because I erroneously assumed it was a fuck-free night. As if my doing a terrible job orgasm budgeting is worthy of confessional status.
But this time it really wasn’t my fault!
Fucking Danny after actively postponing getting off all day was such a disappointment that the next day, at the faintest sign of horniness, I vowed not to put myself through that delayed gratification bullshit again. Not only did I get off immediately upon wanting to, I got off again with no regard for my refractory period. I know you’re thinking girls don’t have refractory periods, but I do. I have to wait a minute until my arousal level abates or else it’s just uncomfortable and I get sore but can’t orgasm. It seriously only takes a minute at most for me to get back to the plateau phase of arousal—the point at which I can start up again—if it’s only after orgasm number one. It’s thereby ridiculous that I abuse my refractory period. But I’m impatient. Especially when it comes to orgasms.
When I abuse my refractory period, I have to forcibly get myself off. Since my vaginal tension doesn’t increase itself without time to refuel, my whole body must be implicated in the process. I tense every muscle in the surrounding region. When I’m finally done, I’m down for the count—wiped out. For the next few days, every muscle in my legs is sore, and I’m incapable of walking like a normal person. Obviously not worth it in exchange for not having to wait an entire minute to start up again. But, like I said, I’m impatient, and sometimes I like getting it over with for a while. Preventing the possibility of persistence. Like sewing one’s pockets together but for compulsive masturbators.
I knew I had done myself a disservice, but I didn’t think it was super maladaptive because I didn’t realize I would have the opportunity or desire to get laid that night. It was my best friend’s birthday; I thought we would hang out, stay up super late, etc.
But we go to this bar and eventually most of our friends leave. It is just the two of us and our friend Hans. From across the room I see this guy who is sitting alone and he’s super cute. We smile at each other and every few minutes I glance back and check him out. I have my friends verify that he’s cute and I decide to approach him. He’s alone which makes this task much easier. It’s not like I have to interrupt a conversation. I don’t have his friends evaluating me. There is no easy way out. The best part of approaching a guy who is at a bar alone is you have an automatic conversation starter.
He was at the bar alone because he knows the bartender. They are both from Idaho. He was with other friends earlier in the evening but they went home. I told him he looked lonely and asked him if he wanted to join me and my friends at our table. He said yes, he would join us after he got a drink. I shot him a killer smile and walked back to my table. When he approached our table, I knew it was a done deal. I barely talked to him all night. I asked him a few basic questions about himself and attempted to incorporate him into our conversation every so often out of sheer politeness. Days later, Hans told me he was impressed by the pick-up: the fact that I barely talked to the guy, that there was no overt communication about where the night was ending yet it was mutually understood.
Picking up guys is easy. Guys are easy. Practically all you have to do is point and indicate that you want a guy, and he is yours. I rarely get rejected. On the rare occasion that I do, who cares? Not I. It’s barely even rejection; simply a lack of interest. I don’t take it personally because he isn’t even a person to me at that point.
Here is the thing about talking to strangers before you have sex with them: I like to keep the conversation minimal as talking is often a deal breaker but almost never a deal maker. There are plenty of times I’ve discovered people are so repulsive or dumb that I can’t stomach having sex with them regardless of how good looking they are. How many times has someone wowed me with their wit and charm to the point where it successfully increased their value as a short-term mate? Such qualities matter little in terms of short-term mate value.
By the time I bedded Hipster Dave, here is the sum total of information I had acquired about him: Hipster Dave is from Idaho, moved to New York a few months ago after graduating from state college, lives in a converted warehouse (which he calls a loft) in Bushwick (which he calls East Williamsburg), plays the guitar (which he calls a guitar, duh), and has a temporary job working at a temporary stand (which he calls a market).
Hipster Dave was a pretty, pretty hipster. From the minute I laid eyes upon him, I wanted to wrap him up in tissue paper and carry him home in my purse. In fact, I wanted to carry him home in my pocket, but I did not have a pocket. So I settled.
I left at the same time as my friends, and he followed us out. There was no conversation. He kissed me as we were walking to the subway station and it was understood that he was going to be mine for the night. Captive. This was confirmed when my best friend and we decided to share a taxi and I indicated two stops.