Sex in Public #2

By Ms. Downtown

Along with godliness and chastity, patience falls under the heading of, “virtues I’ll probably never have.” I can’t study for more than an hour without needing a break, I can’t listen to someone who doesn’t agree with me for more than a few minutes, and I definitely can’t wait until the third date to have sex like someone classy would. Most of the time I avoid first-date fucking by doing it before an actual date even occurs, although I realize I’m squeezing by on a technicality there.

It was in late December that I began to realize my insatiability had become a problem; after leaving Motorcycle Guy’s apartment, where we’d had actually pretty fantastic first-, second- and third-time sex, he chivalrously put me in a cab home when I insisted I couldn’t stay the night; the moment the door to the taxi shut between us, I replied to a booty text from the Journalist, another guy I’d never hooked up with before, and turned the cab around to get laid at his house. After these encounters, I woke up early, walked home still wrecked in my (successful!) fuck-me boots, and passed out in my own bed.

Soon after a running-showering-laundry interlude undeserving of elaboration, I had introductory coffee and hooked up with the Polyamorist, who I had just met, and then had dinner and lovely goodbye sex with K, my faithful regular, before he flew home for winter break. On the way home, I thought about calling the Juicebox and arranging a rendezvous, just because fucking five people in one day would totally make me a rock star, but the only thing that stopped me was exhaustion. Apparently rock stars have much more sexual endurance than I do. I have such prissily mundane preferences for going to bed early and eating enough vegetables.

But even if I’m not as insatiable as I thought I’d be—choosing sleep over sex is a dead giveaway that I’m a lightweight—I still sometimes think of myself as the Magellan of cock, ready to explore and map out everyone I know into a mental sex database. After all, if this is the decade in which I’m entitled to make mistakes, I should probably be making them with a vengeance. I recently told the very wise Chiquita Lopez that what I liked about having sex with people was discovering so much about them. She responded, pragmatically, that you don’t really learn anything useful about them at all; in fact, all you learn is what they’re like in bed. So I had to reanalyze and determined that what I actually liked was learning something that not everyone else knows. A guy’s best friend may know almost all his personal information and life plans, but only the small club of ex-girlfriends and casual encounters will, even if they don’t know his last name, know that he’s obsessed with vibrators, has a penchant for pretending you’re his sister, or would rather get a hand job than fuck (who gives hand jobs after high school anyway?).

The impatient quest to explore everyone is enhanced, though, when I’ve been having a dry spell, as I was last week—K and I were on the outs, the Journalist was being evasive, and I was bored by the other options. Even short bouts of celibacy are enough to drive me over the edge. If I were stuck on a desert island with my immediate family, after a month I’d probably be debating whether to fuck my brother or my father. In short, I needed some new blood.

The truth is, I’ve been on a rampage lately, consuming and destroying everything in my path like an emotional Godzilla, and selfishly neglecting my friends and social convention in the process. So it was no surprise that I ignored even my own long-term sexual satisfaction in favor of an unremarkable but immediate adventure. I’m usually all about savoring the sexual tension, but when desperate I’ll ditch the slow burn in a heartbeat in favor of instant gratification.

As the party wound down last Friday, after a full glass of straight cachaça and several hours of bootyshaking, my better judgment plummeted to its death. I had been invited by a boy from my seminar last semester; I’d often see him at our neighborhood bars, and despite my normal penchant for dark and mysterious types, I was smitten by his impish Aryan features. Even though he was gregarious approaching on unacceptable frattiness, I added Blondie to my mental To-Do list. Blondie’s roommate, on the other hand, seemed more withdrawn, but after several debates about Indian literature and the merits of DC music venues, his intimidating vocabulary and earnest, almost pretentious hipsterness started to work their magic on me. After a while, I started to see a future with Roommate involving long talks about books we both loved, foreign films, and listening to indie rock with huge headphones on.

Of course, it was getting late, and Roommate wasn’t making a move, so I didn’t expect much more than the kiss on the cheek that I received when I said my goodbyes. I gave my best bedroom eyes for one gratuitous second, but then got nervous and decided to wait him out another time. I wasn’t quite sure he was interested, or even straight; complimenting my outfit, after all, can mean many things. Blondie, though, decided my leaving was inappropriate: “no, no, no…you need to help me kill the keg,” he explained. I looked him up and down, wondering whether he was actually talking about beer; I didn’t want to hang around drinking a beverage I don’t even like when I could be asleep in my own bed in ten minutes. I went with my instincts and told my friends to leave me behind. Luckily, he didn’t expect me to drink anything else; it only took a minute of evaluative eye contact before we retired upstairs “to smoke.” Even before we got naked, I realized I was almost certainly blowing my chance with Roommate; I was still coherent on the outcome of my imminent actions. But I was too horny and anxious to check off a new conquest that I didn’t consider the potential rewards of waiting a week or so until someone prospectively awesome was actually up for it.

Now that I’m totally sober and satiated, I’ve figured out that I can’t develop patience on my own, especially if alcohol is involved. The lesson for readers, of course, is that getting laid ultimately comes down to who asks. But the lesson I learned was to know when my virtues are lacking and think of a substitution to prevent social gaffes. In this situation, if I know I’ll be gagging for it that evening, I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands before I even go out. It was a minor success the following night, but an update on whether this method satisfies the craving long term will be forthcoming.

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