First Date Sex
Returning home from Italy romantically satisfied but with the female equivalent of blue balls (pink balls?), all I could think about was having more sex. It’s as though my engine was revved up repeatedly but the truck was left in the driveway to die. The truck wants to take off and see the town, maybe go off-roading, burn some rubber, ignite sparks, leave a trail of smoke behind. The truck wants to finish what the revver started, but someone has to come back with the keys!
Before I left for Italy I was on another dating break except for the occasional Coffee Meets Bagel swipe, my current app of choice. I postponed a couple of dates for when I returned because I wasn’t particularly motivated. Now that I was feeling revitalized and confident I thought I should capitalize on the momentum because it’s only a matter of time before I retreat into my bitter, cynical self.
When I swipe right on a guy, I put him in one of two categories: 1. hookup potential or 2. dating potential. Within my first week home I swiped right on a 29 year old who checked all the boxes of a category 1. He was half El Salvadorian, half Italian, 100% LA. He was cute, intelligent and didn’t use emojis. He put forth a lot of effort to keep the conversation going and ask me out. I was slow to respond because I embodied the “I don’t really give a fuck” attitude even though he showed potential as the holder of the truck keys.
This nonchalant approach worked. It was a weekend, a time typically forbidden to first dates unless the intention is to hook up (no early mornings, more drinks). He asked if I wanted to meet, I suggested a place in his neighborhood, not mine. He suggested the afternoon, I said evening. I put on my favorite jeans - the ones that make my butt look good, boots, and red lipstick. At the last minute I changed out of a flowy blouse and into a fitted black tee shirt. I Ubered to the bar. I wasn't nervous.
It took me a minute to adjust back into the blind-date-with-an-LA-guy conversation but by cocktail #2 everything felt natural. The topics, the comfort level, the body language, the assessment. He was just as attractive in person and his statements were as competent as his texts. I never ate dinner and he never suggested we order something to eat. His intentions must have been exactly the same as mine.
After the first meeting place, we zigzagged across the street to a small wine bar and then a dive bar, our comfort level increasing with each new door we passed through. It was at the dive bar where we sipped on Bud Lights sitting next to a coked-out Patriots fan who resembled Steve Bannon when the 29 year old leaned in and kissed me. As I closed my eyes and inhaled the scent of stale beer and fried food I wondered, was it only two weeks ago that I was strolling along a piazza under Christmas lights next to a tall Italian who explained to me the history of Raphael’s great loves?
Back in my current reality I realized this kiss was gooooood. So good, in fact, that it solidified my preconceived plans for the evening. About ten minutes later we closed out our tab and the Steve Bannon look-a-like gave me a nod, as if our decision to bone was sealed with his approval. As we made our way outside, he asked if I wanted to come over. I paused to contemplate this moral conundrum before casually replying, “yeah, I guess I could come over for a bit.” So smooth.
A questionably non-sober drive later, (why on earth did he drive himself to a bar that was 5 minutes from his house? Wait, this is no time for logistical questions!) we safely arrived at his apartment that he shared with another person – all things I was able to overlook thanks to my own drunken state. We meandered upstairs to his spacious room and when the lights went off the clothes were quick to follow. Every movement he made was well coordinated, as if he was in my brain picking up on exactly what I wanted. He said all the right things and moved in all the right ways and I thought about screaming a few times out of sheer gratitude but I refrained. I did, however, look up to the sky and whisper to God or Buddha or Eros, Greek god of sex, “thank you! Thank you to the god responsible for this gift to my vagina!”
He continued to give me orgasms throughout the night and in between sessions I did something I never EVER do with men – not since my ex at least – I let… him… cuddle me. And then instead of leaving at 6am like I’d planned, I slept. Has Italy made me soft?
Well not quite. Upon waking up as the first bit of sunlight filled the room I cracked open an eye and caught a glimpse of a wall tapestry, a Red Hot Chili Peppers poster, and other twenty-something paraphernalia clinging to the walls. I shifted uncomfortably and began to plot my escape when he placed his other arm around me and pulled me in closer. Typically these moments send me running for the hills but in my hungover haze I decided to simply close the eye and settle back into Cuddleville, CA population: 2. I’ll revisit this tapestry situation after one more orgasm.
Three hours and one more round of sex later I pulled myself out of his surprisingly comfortable bed and tried with great effort not to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrors on his closet. Hmm, why didn’t we take advantage of those mirrors last night? He offered to drive me home but I insisted I’d take an Uber. He put on clothes and walked me out to the car, kissed me again, and said these very important and never been truer words:
“I DEFINITELY WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN FOR A SECOND DATE.” I was floating on a sex cloud so I’m pretty sure I only responded with a smile as I slid into the car.
My Uber driver must have had amazing sex the night before too because she was smiling from ear to ear when she asked me how my weekend was. I matched her enthusiasm, grateful to have a woman to share this orgasmic joy with, responding, “my weekend has been unbelievable. And would you look at this weather? What a beautiful day.” That smile on my face hung around the rest of the day.
I actually wanted to go on that second date with the 29 year old. Not because I felt there was much of a chance at a relationship, but because I saw potential for more great sex. I mean, El Salvadorian Elon Musk took the truck out of the driveway and launched it into outer space. Why wouldn’t I want to do that again?
Except he never did ask me out on a second date. He texted me the day I left his apartment to say he had a great time, and I asked for his last name “for phone purposes” and that was it. I tried to text him again two days later still floating on my sex cloud, but his tone completely shifted. The keys had moved on to someone else’s truck and the cloud surrounding me was now one of confusion, frustration, and self-doubt.
The questions came flooding into my brain. Was it just me who felt the electricity in bed? Why did he say ‘I want to go on another date with you’ if he didn’t mean it? Should I not have asked him for his last name? Did I break some rule by texting him two days later? Did he look at my Instagram and not like something he saw? My friends would say these questions are ridiculous and a waste of time and I should channel that confident, poised woman I was when I returned from Italy, but these are the real questions that I ruminated over in the week that followed our hookup.
Because I am stubborn and also writing about this stuff, I couldn’t simply let this one go without doing some research. I scoured sites like Elite Daily and Betches to see what the millennial kids had to say about post 1st date sex etiquette, but reviews and speculation were mixed. I decided to turn to my own source for answers – my token straight, single male friend Paul, a self-proclaimed good guy (I concur). The answers came flowing out of him, so matter-of-factly that I wondered if he thought I was a bit dense for having to ask them in the first place. Here’s my situation explained from a guy’s perspective:
If he thought the sex was as good as I did, he’s definitely coming back. But maybe he didn’t think it was that great and moved on. Alternately Paul explained, “the end game of dating for a large segment of the population is to fuck, not to meet your future spouse. So if a guy can do that on the first date, it’s on to the next conquest. Removing that jaded cynicism from the equation, sex on the first date shouldn’t matter. If he likes you, he sticks around whether you have sex on the first, third, or 10th date. That’s how I generally operate, but I am good guy.” SO SUSPICIONS THAT I AM BAD IN BED CONFIRMED. THANKS PAUL FOR THIS EGO BOOST.
Regarding the declaration of a 2nd date, Paul says it’s just something people do to not have to deal with the emotional stress of rejecting someone. “It’s fucked up, and guys should grow a pair and just be honest but it’s an avoidance strategy. He could have moved on, could have found you uninteresting [DOUBTFUL], could have a gaggle of irons in the fire or some combination of the three. It doesn’t matter.” CRAVEN PUSSIES.
On the topic of my desire to have a fuck buddy, Paul thinks the idea that two people can carry on a purely sexual relationship for an extended period of time seems far fetched. “Emotionless sex actually lost its appeal to me a while back, but again, I must preface that I am a good guy. We also live in a time where people are extremely emotionally stunted and fear any commitment or connection, although they likely won’t admit it. Because of this fear, sex multiple times with the same person is too high of a risk, plus it’s easy to move on to the next thing when the next thing is a swipe away on your phone. So no, I don’t think people have “fuck buddies” anymore.” SO I GUESS I’LL GET A VIBRATOR THEN. NO TEXTING, NO CONDOMS, NO CUDDLING, NO HANGOVERS. NO BRUISED EGO.
So there you have it. We used each other to get what we wanted, but he didn’t see a need to go through another date for more sex. And just like that, I’ve picked up where I’ve left off in the pile of rat shit that is the LA dating scene. If anyone has a vibrator they’d like to recommend, I’m all ears.